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"It's not bad out here," Dean admits. Chris has the boat anchored in the placid harbor; beyond is the unknowable expanse of the Atlantic.
"Your gift for understatement strikes again." Chris is lying sprawled with his head in Dean's lap, eyes closed. His hair is loose, shining like filigreed gold. No self-respecting man should ever have hair like that. Dean's absolutely not running slow, gentle fingers through it.
"Told you it'd be nice," Chris adds.
If Dean's other hand finds Chris's, like that isn't totally gay, no one has to know but them and the vastness of water and sky.