Free Safe Harbor by Laylah Hunter

Safe Harbor
     
     
    T HE sky over the port is a flat, pale gray as the Diamond eases into the harbor. For now, the weather’s holding, but it’ll probably turn to snow tonight. Most of the crew are excited about getting in; the Diamond is registered out of Boston, so a lot of them are coming home.
    Technically, Blake is one of that number, but he doesn’t share the excitement. There hasn’t been anything here for him for years. He goes through the motions of tying up lines, furling sails, doing his part to bring the ship in, but he doesn’t have the heart for the other men’s laughter and teasing. They’re mostly packed already and go piling off the ship, joking and jostling each other, while Blake ducks back below decks to finally pack his bag.
    This is the first time he’s been home for Christmas since he was sixteen, and he’s not looking forward to facing it. Too many memories of those easier years, when Dad was still alive, and when things weren’t so damn complicated with his best friend. When Blake hadn’t realized yet that he wanted things Tom would never be willing to entertain. They were inseparable back then, having snowball fights in the street, tumbling flushed and freezing into Tom’s grandmother’s kitchen for hot cocoa afterward, tramping along behind Blake’s father on the quest to cut down the perfect tree. It’s always lonely coming back to town, but Christmas is the worst.
    Brooding alone on the ship won’t pass the time any better than going into town and finding a room, though. Blake shoulders his bag, tugs on a cap, and climbs up on deck to go face his fate.
    Gulls wheel overhead, screeching, on the lookout for the leavings of the fishing boats. The harbor is busy, cargo being loaded and unloaded, business still moving on Christmas Eve. Laden carts creak as they wobble away from the docks, horses plodding along stoically with their burdens. Haphazard piles of snow from the last storm have been shoveled out of the way to sit heaped in corners. Somewhere in the distance, barely audible, it sounds like someone is caroling. Blake sets foot on the gangplank and makes himself take the first step.
    He’s halfway down the plank when he realizes there’s someone waving to him from the dock. Someone bundled up against the chill, tall and black-haired, with a bright green scarf fluttering as he waves frantically. Blake misses a step.
    Then he recovers, and he’s rushing down the gangplank before he can think twice. “ Tom ?”
    “Welcome home!” Tom calls. His cheeks are pink with the cold, he’s grinning like a fool, and if he was good-looking at sixteen, then he’s stunning at twenty-three, broad shouldered and strong jawed. “You made it in time!”
    “How did you know I would be—” Blake starts. Tom hugs him before he can get any further, crushing the wind out of him and nearly stealing his balance.
    “You’re home in time for Christmas,” Tom says, sounding so happy, so relieved , that Blake doesn’t even know how to respond. “I’ve been on pins and needles for the last week hoping you’d make it, you know.” He pulls back far enough to get a good look at Blake, still holding him by the shoulders as if he thinks Blake might run given the chance. Blake tries not to fidget under the intensity of his regard. The last time they saw each other, the sun hadn’t yet darkened Blake’s complexion nor bleached his hair from honey to straw, and he’d had a fair bit of baby fat to his cheeks that hard sailing has burned away. “Sailing certainly seems to agree with you,” Tom says at last. “You’ll want a shave, though, I imagine.”
    Blake swallows hard, finding his voice. “You’ve been waiting for me to come back?”
    Something pained flits across Tom’s face for an instant. “For ages,” he says gently, before he recovers his bluster. “You can’t just walk out on being a fellow’s best friend, you know!”
    “Oh.” Blake has to look down. “I—I’m sorry for