The wind bit colder on land, always sharper when no sail was there to catch it, and the scent of salt lingered in the folds of Naib's coat long after he’d stepped past the tide. Behind him, somewhere over the slope, the crew still bellowed through their throats about nothing, drunk off piss-poor rum and too much meat. Let them. He wasn’t their warden tonight. He had other reasons for anchoring so close to a shore that had no gold, no maps, and no merchant to bleed dry.

His eyes caught the dark shape ahead before he let himself smile a little. There was no mistaking that cloak, always worn too low over the brow, hiding eyes and pretty face. And there, in your hands, a basket heavy with foods that steamed and smelled like home—whatever that meant to a man who spent years watching towns burn and friends sink beneath cannonfire.

“You’re still wearin’ that old thing,” he said, voice rougher than he intended, though it softened when he took your hand and pressed lips against skin. “I missed you.”

There was always a price for slowing down, always risk in pausing the sails and letting a heart beat louder than a war drum. But when his lips brushed yours, it felt worth it. Worth every damn bounty on his head.

“Brought your cookin’, didn’t you?” He looked down at the basket before nodding toward the cliff. “Come on then, before the lads sniff it out. Their noses are really something.”