Page 72 of Swept Away

“You calling me soft?” he says.

I’m getting good at knowing when Zeke is joking about something that matters. He does it all the time, like how he throws around the wordstupidwhen he’s talking about himself.

“You know,” I say, moving again, “I didn’t know soft men existed. Not really. Not until you. The world is full of hard edges—we don’t need any more of that. So yeah. Maybe I’m calling you soft.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, but I know he’s smiling.

In the end, I do fall. The last couple of rungs seem so impossible I just tumble down the ladder into a heap and lie on the concrete, bruised, my muscles trembling, my shoulders shaking with either sobs or laughter—I couldn’t say which. Zeke stands over me, a hand outstretched. When I don’t have the strength to reach up to him, he bends down and takes me in his arms. I immediately wriggle, trying to get loose.

“Zeke! Your wound! I’ll be too heavy!”

He rolls his eyes and says nothing, just carrying me with steady steps toward the emergency exit.

“I am taking you to bed,” he says, and the words send a shiver of heat running through me. He pauses midstep. “For rest. Not sex. In case that needs saying after that kiss.”

Could I…? Maybe I could…?

“No,” Zeke says, laughing at my expression as he shoves the door open with his shoulder. “Your body has been through way too much today. You need rest.”

There issomuch we need to talk about, and there’s no way I should be having sex with Zeke—it’s no more sensible an idea than it was a week ago. But…God, that kiss. Thatkiss.

Zeke smiles just enough to show his crossed front teeth. “I’m lying you down in the first bed I see, and I bet you are going to fall straight to sleep. OK, no, not one of those beds,” he says, jerking a head toward the infirmary door. “Too horror movie. And not that bed,” he says, when we reach the first bedroom. This one looks eerily lived-in—the duvet is thrown back as though its occupant just stepped out to use the bathroom. “Same problem. Just hold tight.”

“You shouldreallyput me down,” I say weakly.

“You weigh next to nothing,” he says. “And I am extremely strong.”

“I don’t weigh next to nothing,” I tell him, and saying it makes me realize that I haven’t thought about my body this way for days. Perhaps it’s the lack of a full-length mirror, or perhaps it’s the fact that there have been significantly more important things to worry about. “You’ve lost blood, you’re exhausted, you’ve not eaten, Iknowyour wound’s hurting…You’re not exactly at full strength, Zeke.”

“And I wasn’t actually particularly strong to begin with,” Zeke says, laughing at himself. I know so few men who do that—it’s one of the ways he seems much older than he really is. “I’m not going to lie, my legs are wrecked after going up and down that ladder.”

“Put me down,” I say, kicking my feet as we approach the stairs.

“Can’t,” Zeke says, voice strained and thick with laughter. “Got a point to prove.”

“What point?” I say, still kicking. “Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’s problematic.”

“Really?” Zeke says. “Thank God for that.” He sets me down on my feet and leans against the wall. Then he pulls me toward him. “To be clear, I think your body’s perfect,” he says. “It was the day I met you, and it is right now.”

“It’s changed a fair bit in that time,” I say dryly, leaning into him, bringing my hand to my hip to show him what I mean. “The lost-at-sea crash diet.”

“It’s still yours,” Zeke says. “So: perfect.”

I close my eyes and press my face into his chest as he gets his breath back. His heartbeat slows against my cheek.

“Have you fallen asleep?” he asks after a while.

I make a sound that is intended to be a no, but isn’t particularly convincing.

“Come on,” Zeke says. He presses a single, open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder, bared beneath the loose neck of my jumper, and it makes the hairs rise on my arms. “Let’s just get you to bed.”

We finally settle on a room that is only “medium creepy,” according to Zeke. As I climb into one of the bunk beds, Zeke moves to leave, but I grab his arm. He looks down at me, his face shadowy in the low evening light.

“Stay,” I whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Stay.”

---