That earned a small chuckle, quiet and rough, and something about it—the way his eyes softened even through the pain—I let out a breath and relaxed a bit.
I lowered his pant leg carefully, and my fingers lingered against his calf a beat longer than necessary. His eyes caught mine; I didn’t look away.
“You shouldn’t walk on that much,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
“I’ll manage.”
He reached for the railing, already pushing himself upright.
“Callan—”
“I’ll live, Sloane, not the worst injury I’ve ever had.”
I stood with him, close enough that my shoulder pressed against his arm; he didn’t pull away. For a moment his hand found the small of my back—steadying himself, or something else—and the warmth of his palm through my damp shirt sent a current of warmth straight through me.
Then he let go.
Jeff walked over from the wheelhouse, wiping his hands on a rag.
“How bad?”
“Sloane says I’ll live,” Callan said.
Jeff looked at the swollen ankle and grunted. “Lucky you didn’t break it jumping off that wall.”
“Lucky I didn’t get eaten,” Callan muttered.
Ethan leaned against the railing nearby, still watching the water with nervous eyes.
Callan’s expression shifted, the brief lightness draining out of him.
“Jeff.”
Jeff looked over. “Yeah?”
Callan grabbed the railing and straightened, keeping the weight off his bad ankle. Something in his voice had changed—gone quiet and deliberate—and it pulled the attention of everyone on deck.
“The dock pump.”
Jeff rubbed his beard. “Yeah, we definitely need fuel.”
Callan’s grip tightened on the railing.
Jeff noticed the shift.
“When we head north,” Callan said slowly, his gaze drifting toward the open water, “I’m worried we might be sailing straight into worse.”
The wind whipped across the deck.
Jeff folded his arms. “You think the whole coast looks like that parking lot?”
Callan shrugged, but there wasn’t anything casual about it.
“I don’t know.”
Ethan shifted. “So, what do we do?”
Callan looked at Jeff. Then he tapped the map table through the open wheelhouse door.