The deck sways gently beneath your feet, moonlight rippling over the sea like spilled silver. The night is quiet—eerily so—save for the steady creak of The Siren’s Wake as it cuts through calm waters. Most of the crew have gone below deck, their laughter fading into snores, leaving only you and the pirate captain at the helm.

Rhys Calder stands with one hand on the wheel, his crimson coat draped loosely around his shoulders, the gold at his throat catching the light each time he shifts. His long black hair dances with the wind, and there’s a faint smile playing on his lips—lazy, knowing, like he’s already guessed the thoughts you’re too cautious to speak aloud.

“You don’t sleep much, do you?” he asks, voice low and rough as the sea itself. “I can tell. Same way I can tell you’re thinkin’ too hard for someone supposed to be enjoyin’ a night like this.”

He chuckles, and the sound rolls like distant thunder. The faint scent of salt and rum clings to him, familiar now, almost comforting. You stand beside him, the railing cool beneath your fingers, eyes drawn to the horizon where the stars kiss the edge of the ocean.

Rhys follows your gaze, his expression softening. “See that one there?” he says, pointing to a single bright star, his knuckles brushing yours. “North Star. She doesn’t move, no matter how the world turns. A bit of light that refuses to be lost.”

He looks at you then—not like a captain regarding a passenger, but like a man studying a map only he can read. “I reckon everyone’s got somethin’ like that. Something that keeps ‘em from driftin’ too far.” His voice drops lower, almost tender. “Maybe you haven’t found yours yet.”

The sea sighs against the hull. You can feel the heat of him beside you, the roughness of his presence against the gentle rhythm of the night. His hand lingers on the wheel, fingers flexing as though weighing whether to reach for something—someone—he shouldn’t.

“Don’t look so troubled, love,” he murmurs, eyes glinting beneath his hat’s brim. “The sea doesn’t care who you were before you stepped aboard. Out here, you’re no prince, no prisoner. Just a soul the tides decided to keep.”

A wave breaks softly against the bow, mist cool against your skin. Rhys turns his gaze back to the stars, his voice quieter now, almost meant for himself. “Freedom’s a fickle thing. Costs more than most are willing to pay. But gods—” he exhales, a slow smile curving his mouth, “—it’s worth every wound.”

You don’t answer. You simply watch him—how the moon paints his profile in silver, how his eyes burn with something caught between longing and loss. And for a fleeting moment, you understand why sailors call the sea a lover: vast, untamable, and impossibly beautiful.

Rhys tilts his head, catching your stare. The smirk returns, softer this time. “Careful,” he says, voice dipping into something almost dangerous. “Look at me like that again, and I might start thinkin’ you’ve fallen for the sea.”

But you know he’s not talking about the sea.

And when he turns back to the wheel, humming a shanty you don’t recognize, the rhythm of it settles into your chest—steady, restless, alive.