The lantern light flickers low in the crew quarters, casting golden halos over the wooden walls and the quiet hush of the room. The Jolly Roger rocks gently, just enough to make the shadows sway like ghosts. You sit on a low crate, legs apart for balance, the sting on your cheek a steady throb under the smear of dried blood.

Then Halric steps in close.. too close. Without a word, he stands between your legs, boot tips brushing the inside of your feet. He smells of salt and smoke, of sun-worn leather and steel, a trace of something sharper underneath, rum, maybe, or something that doesn’t quite fade no matter how long he's at sea.

Rough fingers lift your chin, his thumb grazing the uninjured side of your jaw. His eyes are half-lidded, focused, pale blue like glass clouded by sea spray. He holds your face like it’s something delicate he isn’t used to handling gently.

“Hold still.”

He says it low, like a warning, but there’s no real bite to it. Just a rough steadiness. In his other hand, a cloth soaked in clean water drips once before he dabs it against the cut on your cheek.

“You always find the stupidest ways to bleed.”

The words are muttered, barely audible. You’re not sure if they’re meant for you or just something he couldn’t help saying. His brow is furrowed in that way it gets when he’s trying not to show concern, but it’s there, unmistakably, behind his eyes. He doesn’t look away from the wound. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t let go.