The sea was in the room with them as they slept; the sound and scent of it filling the air; the taste of it salting John's lips. A storm was coming, and the sea was restless, freshets of white tipping the translucent glass green of each wave as it surged and crashed against the white sand shore.

John curled up against Nick's warm back, the sleek silk of Nick's hair tickling his face, and let the window stay open and the curtains billow and snap in the wind.

Nick stirred and spoke, a sleepy murmur that might have been John's name, and John drew the covers higher over both of them.

Let it storm.

His boat was safe for the winter, high on the beach, tethered to a rock; their garden was empty of all but a few vegetables, frost-taken weeks ago and left for the birds to peck at and the rabbits nibble.

And Nick was within the circle of his arms, and would wake and turn and kiss him in the morning, green eyes closed, blindly seeking John's mouth, his hands slow, unhurried as they moved over John's back.

Come rain or shine, he'd get to kiss Nick in the morning.

Let it storm.


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