You’ve been seasick for days, and sleep comes and goes like waves. The crew stays clear, but Hook doesn’t. He sits beside your hammock, coat draped around you, watching. When you stir, his voice is gentle — so unlike the tyrant the crew knows.

“Easy now, love. The sea’s a cruel mistress, but she’ll learn to spare you soon.” He presses a warm mug to your hands. “Drink. I don’t watch my favorite apprentice crumble.” You murmur, “Favorite?” He chuckles lowly, “Aye. Don’t make me say it twice.” When your eyes flutter shut again, he lingers, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Rest,” he whispers, almost to himself. “If I ever lost you… the sea herself would pay.”