You call him Captain, like everyone else. It’s safe that way. But one night, the stars are bright, and the deck is quiet. Hook turns to you, eyes glimmering like the edge of a blade.

“Say my name.” You blink. “Captain—” He interrupts, voice low, dangerous, “Not that one.” You hesitate. His smirk widens. “James,” you whisper. Something flickers behind his eyes — something softer, something he buries quick. He steps closer, his hook tracing the air near your cheek. “Only you,” he murmurs, “only you get to say that. Remember it.”