Peter had eyes like a Labrador or a golden retriever. Big gentle eyes framed by girlish lashes. He could never harden them. Not at sea, not at home. Even in his anger and his worry, his eyes were brown sugar. Warm and syrupy and readable. Those same eyes had looked back at him since they were boys—since he’d hardly known he could be a boy—and he knew the hurt splintered behind them.
