Chapter 19 Between the Waves and the Door
The door shut behind me with a solid thud.
The storm picked up again, but in the cabin it felt farther away in here. Not gone. Never gone. But muted. Like it had been pushed back instead of clawing at my throat.
Warmth settled into the room. Lemon oil. Wax. Dry wood. It hit me all at once. My teeth started chattering before I could stop them. I wrapped my arms tight around myself, but the cold had already sunk in deep, crawling under my skin.
Something hit me.
A towel smacked straight into my face.
Rough. Dry.
“Dry off,” he said.
When did Fisk get in here? His voice sounded different in here. Lower. Worn thin at the edges.
“And change.”
I looked up just as the shirt landed on the bed.
His.
Too big. Heavy linen, softened with wear. I hesitated. He turned away before I could say anything, arms folding across his chest as he faced the wall like it suddenly mattered more than I did.
That—more than anything—caught me off guard. He was giving me privacy.
I peeled the soaked fabric from my skin, biting back a wince as cold air touched places the rain had numbed. The towel scraped over my arms, my legs, dragged through my hair until my skin prickled.
When I pulled his shirt over my head, it fell almost to my thighs.
Warm.
And it smelled like him. Not salt. Not sweat. Something rich like woodsmoke. Clean air after rain. I stilled for half a second longer than I should have.
Then cleared my throat. “Done.”
He turned. And paused. Brief. So brief I almost missed it. But his gaze caught—dropped, tracked the way the shirt swallowed me whole, the damp strands of hair clinging to my neck, the bare stretch of my legs.
His jaw tightened.
He moved. Too quickly. Like he’d noticed something he shouldn’t have. He crouched by the chair I had been sleeping on, reaching behind it, dragging out a bottle. A clatter of empties followed, glass knocking against glass.
He glanced at them.
Then at me.
One brow lifted.
“Storm wasn’t the only thing keeping you up.”
Heat crept up my neck. I shrugged, dropping onto the edge of the cot.
“Didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t.”
He set the empties aside, quieter this time.
“Just means I should’ve offered sooner.”
That landed somewhere strange in my chest. He poured the rum. Slid a glass toward me. Our fingers brushed. It shouldn’t have been anything. It wasn’t nothing. The feeling shot up my arm before I could stop it.
“Drink,” he said.
I did.
It burned all the way down, sharp and smoky, chasing the last of the cold out of my lungs. When I lowered the glass, he was watching me. Not like a captain. Not like I was a problem to solve.
I shifted under it.
“So,” I said, because the silence was starting to feel too loud, “do you drag all your crew into your room during storms, or am I special?”
His mouth twitched.
“Depends. You planning on jumping overboard?”
“I didn’t jump.”
“You were thinking about it.”
My chin lifted. “You don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I do.”
He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out. Relaxed—but not careless. Never careless.“You look at the water like it’s calling you.”
My grip tightened on the glass.
“And you look at it like it listens,” I shot back. That earned me something. A real smile.Brief. Gone too fast.
“Sometimes it does.”
The ship rolled again. This time I didn’t fight it as hard. I let it happen. He noticed. Of course he did.
“Breathe,” he said.
I huffed. “I am breathing.”
“Not like that.”
He leaned forward.
Closer.
“Do what I do.”
And then he showed me. Slow inhale. Controlled hold. Long exhale. I watched his chest rise. Then fall. Watched how steady he made it look. Then, I copied him.
In.
Hold.
Out.
The first time was uneven. The second steadied. By the third, the shaking in my hands eased. I opened my eyes. He was still there. Closer than before.
“How—” I started.
“Picked it up,” he said. “Long time ago.”
I studied him. The scars. The control he wore like armor.
“From being chained in a hold?” I Joked.
His gaze flicked to mine. Sharp. Then softened.
“Something like that.” Silence settled again.
Different this time.
Thicker.
I shifted on the chair, his shirt sliding against my skin. “Are you staying?”
The question came out softer than I meant it to. His eyes dropped to me again. There it was. That pause. That flicker of something he wasn’t saying.
“Storm’s not done,” he said.
An answer. Not the one I asked for. I nodded anyway.
He moved to the window, bracing one hand against the frame as he looked out into the dark. Lantern light traced along his shoulders, catching the movement beneath damp fabric.
Unbreakable, I thought.
And then wondered what it would take to prove that wrong.
I curled onto the chair, pulling the blanket up, my fingers brushing the ring at my chest.
The ship rocked. The storm muttered. And still—he stayed. I watched him longer than I should have. The line of his back. The way he never fully relaxed. Always guarding.
“For someone who says storms are easy,” I murmured, sleep pulling at me, “you don’t look very relaxed.”
He didn’t turn.
“No,” he said quietly. “But you do.”
My lips curved, faint.
“That’s because you’re here.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Stupid rum making me admit things. The room stilled. Even the storm seemed to hesitate.
He turned then.
Slow.
Looked at me like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. I didn’t take it back. I wouldn’t lie and say it wasn’t true. Neither of us looked away. A silent dare for someone to speak. Something shifted.
“Get some sleep, Sirianna,” he said finally, voice lower now.
But he didn’t look away. And I didn’t close my eyes right away either.
When I finally did, it was with the steady presence of him in the room. The quiet scrape of his boot when the ship shifted. The low rhythm of his breathing cutting through the storm.
The last thing I saw was him—half-shadow, half-light—standing between me and the door like he expected the sea itself to come knocking.
It didn’t.
Not tonight.