She came to your cell barefoot.

Again.

The soft patter of her steps echoed before you saw her—the only sound in that prison more terrifying than chains. You looked up, expecting the whip, the questions, the venom. But tonight, Gloriosa wore no crown, no weapons. Just her loose robe and hair tied in a careless knot. And eyes that still refused to hate you.

“I don’t know why I keep coming here,” she said, standing outside the iron bars like she was the one behind them.

You shrugged, wrists chained to the wall. “Maybe you’re hoping I’ll finally break and beg.”

She smiled—tired, wistful, but not cruel. “No. I think I just wanted to hear your voice.”

That was new. So were the bowls of warm food, the clean cloth for your shoulder wound, the way she sat closer each night. For a woman raised to believe men were monsters, Gloriosa was doing a terrible job pretending you still were one.

Weeks had passed since your crew’s defeat. You’d stormed Amazon Lily with ambition, treasure maps, and way too much pride. Now your men were healing in separate cells, and you were her personal prisoner, her occasional confidant, her… what? You didn’t dare name it. But something about the way she touched your bruised ribs last night—like she was angry the world had hurt you before she could—left a mark deeper than her knives.

Tonight, she opened the cell.

“Walk,” she said simply.

You followed her through moonlit halls, past the slumbering warriors and watchtowers, out into the open jungle. You thought she might kill you here. Or kiss you. Maybe both.

Instead, she led you to a hot spring hidden between cliffs, steam rising like breath from the earth.

“You’re free tomorrow,” she said quietly, staring into the water.

You didn’t move. “Just like that?”

“I told the council you’re no threat. That you were only here for food, not blood.” Her jaw clenched. “I told them you made me laugh. That you reminded me that not all men are pieces of shit.”

“I knew my charm would work on you, milady." you asked, stepping closer.

She turned then, finally looking at you. “I take back what i just said. You're a piece of shit."

You didn’t plan to touch her. But when her fingers brushed your face, everything you swore you'd never feel—guilt, longing, hope—collapsed into the space between your lips and hers.

That night, you weren’t pirate or prisoner. She wasn’t empress or enemy. She was just Gloriosa. And for once, you were just a man who hadn’t come to conquer, but to stay.

You left the next morning with your crew, the ship waiting at the shore.

She watched in silence from the cliffs, arms crossed over her chest, lips still swollen from goodbye.

You didn’t look back. Not until the sails had caught wind and the jungle faded from view.

A year passed before you returned.

With gold. With stories. With stupid gifts you knew she'd mock. And with a heart that ached when you stepped onto her room.

She was thinner. Pale. Struggling to breathe. Laying down on her bed. But her eyes lit up when she saw you. And next to her was a toddler girl with your nose and her glare.

“I named her Lilika,” Gloriosa whispered, hand shaking as she touched yours. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I thought it was the baby. I thought it would pass. But I…”

You hugged her before she finished.

“Love sickness,” she said into your shoulder. “It’s real. I can’t breathe when you’re gone.”

So you stayed a while. Held your daughter. Kissed the bruises beneath Gloriosa’s stubborn pride. Then you left again—this time not as a pirate, but as a man chasing an antidote.

You visit every month. Bringing medicines, stories, ridiculous trinkets.

Each time, Gloriosa rolls her eyes and says she doesn’t need you.

But her arms never let go. Not until they have to.