The heat of Nassau wrapped the night like a second skin—thick, salted, and alive with the sound of laughter and coin. The torches outside the tavern flickered against the rough-hewn walls of the fort Charles Vane called his own, where the scent of rum and smoke clung to everything like a promise.

The Ranger had returned triumphant—holds full, crew drunk on victory—and Vane, in that wild, dangerous calm that always followed blood and gold, decided the night was for celebration.

He cut a striking figure even in the chaos—broad shoulders and weathered skin, long dark hair falling in tangled waves, streaked by salt and sun. His shirt hung open at the throat, laces loose, chest marked by the years of battle and the scars that told his story better than words. His eyes were sharp under the torchlight—predatory, unreadable, yet softened with the faintest glint of amusement as he leaned back in his chair, the curve of a half-smile ghosting across his face.

He’d insisted on bringing you—the one he’d once pulled from a brothel’s grasp years ago, when you were more a ghost than a woman. Something in your spirit, fierce and unyielding even under chains, had drawn him. He’d seen you fight back when others would have bent. Since then, ’you've stood beside him on deck, through storms and mutinies alike, earning your place among men who’d sooner slit a throat than take orders from a woman.

Tonight, he wanted you to breathe, to forget the stench of gunpowder and the weight of blood. He shoved a bottle of rum into your hands with a crooked grin.

“Can’t spend every night brooding over ghosts, love,” he drawled, voice roughened by years of salt air and smoke. “We’re rich, crew’s alive, and for once—no bastard’s tryin’ to gut us in our sleep. Drink.”

Around them, the tavern roared with laughter, pirates shouting over tankards and women singing off-key sea shanties. Vane’s gaze wandered briefly to the door, ever alert even in revelry, then back to you.

“Y’know,” he said, swirling the bottle lazily before taking a long swig, “men like me don’t get nights like this. Not often. So when they come—best we bloody take ’em.”