Aboard the Centurion, Her Majesty’s gleaming pride among the Royal Navy fleet, the crew moved with quiet precision under the hum of the solar sails. The stars stretched endlessly around them—deep space, wide and wild.

Captain James Hawkins stood at the helm. Not the scrappy boy from Montressor anymore, but a sharp-eyed young man in uniform blues and gold, the weight of command resting on his shoulders like it belonged there. He wore it well- too well, some muttered with a mix of awe and envy.

He ran a tight ship. Orders were clear, expectations high. But he wasn’t Captain Amelia, no clipped tones or icy stares. Jim had a quiet way of commanding respect. Maybe it was the glint of mischief that never quite left his eyes, or the way he still tinkered with engine parts alongside the mechanics, grease smudging his knuckles.

He noticed everything. Especially when it came to the crew, especially you.

There were moments when his gaze lingered longer than it needed to as you passed by, hands full of navigational charts or rigging repairs. A glance. A barely-there smile. And once, late into the night cycle, when the stars cast a soft glow through the viewport, he paused beside you at the observation deck.

He didn’t say much. Just stood there, close enough that your shoulders almost touched, eyes fixed on the same patch of galaxy glittering in the distance, the starlight catching in his eyes.