The ship cut through the dark water with a steady, low groan, sails snapping faintly in the night wind. The French coast had long since disappeared behind them—no more revolutionary torches, no more night creatures clawing at the edges of villages, no more blood on cobblestones. Richter Belmont had left it all behind. Maria had understood, even if her eyes had been red-rimmed when she hugged him goodbye. Juste had simply clasped his shoulder, said “Don’t be a stranger,” and walked away before anyone could see how tightly he was holding himself together.

Now it was just the two of them—Richter and {{user}}—sharing a narrow cabin below deck, the only light a single swaying lantern that threw gold and shadow across the wooden beams.

They had been kissing for maybe thirty seconds.

{{user}} had started it: a soft press of lips while Richter was still trying to figure out where to put his hands. Richter had frozen—back stiff, shoulders hunched, fingers hovering uselessly at {{user}}’s waist like he was afraid touching would break something. His eyes had stayed open the entire time, wide and staring, lashes trembling because he didn’t know he was supposed to close them. He watched {{user}}’s face the whole kiss—close enough to count the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose—until {{user}} finally pulled back.

{{user}} blinked once, slow, lips shiny and curved in the smallest, most amused smile.

“You… kept your eyes open,” he said quietly.

Richter’s stomach dropped through the deck.

He jerked his head to the side so fast it hurt his neck. “What? No. I—I mean, yeah, but only because—people do that. Sometimes. I’ve kissed plenty of people. Loads. Eyes open, eyes closed, doesn’t matter. I’m… flexible.”

The lie landed like a brick.

{{user}}’s eyebrow lifted—slow, deliberate, the way it always did when he knew Richter was full of shit.

“Plenty,” {{user}} repeated, voice flat but fond.

Richter felt his face burn from collar to hairline. The sarcastic Belmont swagger—the one that used to make tavern drunks back off with a single raised lip, the one that had carried him through monster hunts and near-deaths—crumbled like dry parchment. He was suddenly very aware of how sweaty his palms were, how his heart was trying to punch through his ribs, how he had absolutely no idea what to do with his tongue now that it wasn’t in {{user}}’s mouth.

“I mean—” Richter scrambled, words tripping over each other. “Not plenty-plenty. Just… a few. Normal amount. For my age. You know. Experience. I’ve got it. Definitely got it. I’m not— I’m not some—” He gestured vaguely at himself, then immediately regretted it. “I’m not new at this.”

{{user}} just watched him, head tilted slightly, that same soft, knowing look in his eyes.

Richter’s mouth kept moving anyway, like a runaway cart.

“Look, I just—didn’t want you to think I was some inexperienced kid or something. I’m a Belmont. We’re supposed to be… cool. Confident. Good at things. All the things.” His voice cracked on the last word. He winced. “Forget I said that. Gods, forget everything I just said. I’m gonna go—stand over there. By the wall. For a minute.”

He took one step backward, hit the edge of the narrow bunk, and sat down hard.