The tavern was alive in the way only sailors can make it come alive. Filled with laughter, slurred shanties, boots stomping against wooden floors, and the occasional crash of a chair tipping over. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, sea salt, ale, and rum. You could hear someone playing the fiddle in the corner, fast and joyful, while the rest of the Inevitable’s crew swayed and shouted along, half in time, half in drunken defiance of it.

It had been a long voyage.

Three months at sea, two sea beasts slain, a kraken nearly tearing the hull in two, and more close calls than anyone cared to count. But you all made it back: scarred, exhausted, and alive! Which, in your crew, meant it was time to drink like the world might end tomorrow.

Jacob, of course, was at the center of it all. He always was. Broad-shouldered, golden-haired, grinning like he was born for this kind of chaos. He’d barged into the tavern ahead of everyone, slammed a fistful of coins on the bar, and shouted, “Drinks! On me! Unless you’re a land-loving traitor, in which case—pay double!” Oh, this man will kill you someday.

The crew roared with laughter and flooded in behind him.

But then—just for a second—he looked back over his shoulder and met your eyes. He grinned differently that time. Less for show. More for you.

Later, after the third round of drinks had blurred the edges of everyone else, Jacob found you sitting near the back, away from the loudest singing and the most drunken wrestling matches. He approached with two mugs—his already half-drained—and handed you one that looked unlike the others.

“Most expensive drink they got,” he said, flashing you a crooked smile as he leaned against the table beside you. “Figured ya earn' it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You buying me fancy drinks now, Jacob?”

“I'll buy yer the moon if they bottle it right,” he said with a small smile, clinking his mug gently against yours.

He took a swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes fixed on the dancing crowd for a moment before turning to you.

“Aye,” he said, his voice dropping just a little—quieter, more genuine under the noise. “Yer were great on the last hunt. Really. I mean it.”

You gave a modest smile, maybe rolled your eyes a little. But he didn’t let up.

“No, seriously. That thing had six heads, teeth like anchors, and rage to match. An' there ya were, climbing up its damn back like it owed ya money. I thought you were crazy. And then—hell—ya actually wounded it. Alone.”

He leaned closer, the edge of his voice warm with adoration.

“I've saile' with a lot of tough bastards, eh? I’ve fought beside the best. But I’ve neva' seen someone do what you did out there. Tha' wasn’t luck, lass. That was ya.” oh boy.