Page 31 of A Christmas Harbor

“And where will you stay?”

“Dunno yet.” David’s words slurred into a full yawn. “I’ll get a short-term rental. The key is to find something affordable before state legislators arrive. Things get a little nuts around Annapolis every year during session.”

“Hmm.” Paul traced the outline of the right dolphinfish on David’s chest, then cleared his throat. “Or, once I find an apartment, you could stay with me. Just through the winter. If you want.”

David froze, waiting for the fear that would make him push Paul away and retreat to the safety of seclusion.

“I did it again, didn’t I?” Paul said. “I’m not trying to shoehorn us into a relationship. I just want to help. Never mind. Dumb idea.”

“No, it’s very practical.” David rubbed his own head to help him think. Why wasn’t he rejecting the notion out of hand? Why was this man different?

Only time would tell.

“How about this?” David said. “You hang out here for the next week, help me winterize the boat. Then after New Year’s, I’ll come stay with you until March—but only if you can still stand the sight of me.”

Paul relaxed in his arms. “Great. And that goes both ways. So come January second, if we haven’t drowned each other out of acute exasperation, we’ll temporarily shack up. For convenience’s sake, of course.”

“Of course. And between now and then we’ll do daily status reports to see if we’re still on board with the whole concept.”

“Good idea,” Paul said. “No hard feelings if one of us wants more space.”

“Obviously.”

Paul’s breathing grew long and deep, but he spoke again just as David was drifting off. “Hey. Check it out.”

David opened his eyes and looked where Paul was pointing. A few feet above them, the berth’s single small window was now translucent with sleet. Ice crystals refracted the boat’s Christmas lights while the thin layer of liquid smeared the colors. “Pretty,” he said, stating the obvious.

“It’s like one of the Impressionists took up stained-glassmaking.”

David turned over to press his lips to Paul’s shoulder. “I love the way you see the world.”

“Thanks.”

“Now go to sleep.”

Paul gave a soft laugh. “Aye-aye, sir.”

* * *

David woke to a brighter-than-average morning. Something was different.

He rolled over. Paul was curled like a comma facing him, one arm looped up beneath his pillow, hugging it to his head.

It should have felt odd to see someone else in his berth, but this was the opposite of odd. It was as if David had just now noticed his mattress had come with a Paul-shaped space to fill.

The little window above their heads glowed with morning sunshine—a sight he hadn’t taken for granted since the first day he’d stepped aboard a sub—but the light was fuzzy instead of clear. Maybe that’s what had pinged his awareness when he’d woken up.

He found his glasses inside the cupboard above his pillow, then put them on.

The sun was shining through a coat of snow.

He gently shook Paul’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

“Hmm?” Paul opened his eyes, then his lips curved into a lazy smile. “Hey there. You look cute in glasses.” He rubbed his forehead. “What time is it?”

“It’s morning. Let’s go outside before it melts.”

“Before the ice melts?” Paul looked up at the window and gasped. “It snowed!”

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