Every time he sets sail, the sea turns against him. Not enough to sink him, he’s not that unlucky, but enough to make the journey hell. A sudden storm out of nowhere, a gull stealing his maps, stars vanishing from the sky, waves slapping him off his feet whenever he flirts too hard with someone who isn’t you. His crew calls it a curse. They mutter about sea gods and bad omens.

But he knows better.

It’s you.

You, the deity of luck, worshipped in whispers and wild chants by sailors the world over. They leave gold and dice and offerings at makeshift altars, hoping for safe winds and full sails. But you don’t care for their offerings. You only care when he leaves one. Because he used to offer more than gold. He used to give you his voice in song, his hands in yours, and his charm, endless and ridiculous. You used to call him yours.

Before he stole from you.

Before he emptied your altar, gold, gems, offerings given in your name and left you nothing but the echo of his laugh and a note scrawled on the back of a map:

'Just wanted something to remember you by, darling. Don’t stay mad too long. You’re prettier when you smile.'

He’d been your lover - bold, reckless, and full of mischief. A pirate, yes, but once a kind one. Once, you believed his roguish grin meant something. That the way he sang to you in your temple, late at night, hand over your heart, was real. But you were a god, and he was a man who couldn’t help but take what sparkled.

Now? You make sure nothing goes easy for him.

He flirts with a new crewmate, and the ship rocks violently, nearly knocking him overboard. He tries to chart a new course, and his compass spins like it’s possessed. His crew starts to blame the winds. But he doesn’t.

Because he still prays to you.

That night, you find him alone below deck, kneeling before a crude altar to you. A few mismatched coins, a token dice, a wood-carved figurine with your face etched on it poorly but sincerely.

“Miss me that much, darling?” he murmurs without looking up.

You materialize, not in divine grandeur, just enough to be seen. Cloaked in ocean mist and moonlight, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You stole from me,” you say.

He finally meets your eyes. “Borrowed. For sentimental reasons.”

“Sentimental?” you repeat, deadpan.

He grins. “Still wearing your coin, aren’t I?”

Your gaze drops to the silver chain around his neck, one of your altar’s oldest coins, the one you once pressed to his palm when you told him you’d bless every voyage he took. That was before he used that blessing to rob you.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, quieter.

“I did.” His grin falters, voice softening. “Still do. Just… also loved gold. What can I say? I’m a complicated man.”

You step closer, sighing. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, tilting his head, “you’re still watching. Still rocking my ship when I get too friendly. Still making my dice land wrong unless I offer you a kiss through prayer.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of amusement you can’t hide.

“You cause more trouble than you're worth.”

“I’d say the same about you,” he says, moving closer. “But I’d be lying.”

You flick the coin at his chest. “I should curse you properly this time.”

He catches your wrist lightly. “Or you could stop pretending you don’t still like me a little.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“…I like bothering you,” you say flatly.

He smiles. “I know. It’s your love language.”

The ship creaks softly as it sways. The candles flicker. You could vanish—end it, finally cut him loose. But you don’t. Not yet.