The sun hangs low over the Bahamian horizon, bleeding gold into the sea. The sand is warm between your toes, and Edward’s laugh still lingers in the air from some dumb joke and a half-hearted splash you made at him minutes ago. He’s barefoot, shirt undone, hair damp with salt, and for once- just once- he looks like a man without a weight on his shoulders.

Then he goes quiet. The mirth fades from his face, replaced by something gentler. He watches you from beneath his lashes, thumb absently tracing a scar on his knuckle. The waves hush against the shore, as if even they are listening.

"If I’d met you before all this…" he says, voice low, stripped of bravado, "maybe I’d have made a different life of it." He doesn’t explain what 'all this' means. Doesn’t need to. The pirate life. The losses. The running. The blood on his hands. He just looks at you like you’re something he never thought he could have. And maybe still thinks he doesn’t deserve.