No one in his right state of mind would ever do it. No one.

{{user}} was not just another man aboard the Walrus. He was indispensable-Flint’s most trusted captain at his side, his equal in battle and strategy. But more than that, far more dangerously so, he was the man James Flint sought in the quiet hours of the night. The one who knew him without the title, without the legend. The one who shared his bed, his plans, his silences.

Lover.

That truth alone was enough to make any insult a fatal mistake.

The crew had been drinking. Too much rum, too little sense. Laughter rang too loud across the deck, reckless and careless, blurring the line between familiarity and disrespect. It took only one man-one slurred remark thrown in {{user}}’s direction, sharp enough to cut.

James Flint saw red.

He did not remember crossing the deck. Only the impact—his fist colliding with flesh, the sudden silence that followed. The man hit the planks hard, blood at his mouth, eyes wide with regret that came far too late.

Flint stood over him, breathing hard.

“You will never,” he said coldly, voice carrying across the ship, “speak his name with anything but respect. Or you will lose more than your teeth.”

No one moved. No one spoke.

The storm passed quickly after that. — Later, the cabin was quiet save for the creak of the ship and the distant sea. {{user}} stood near the table, arms crossed, jaw tight. Flint closed the door behind them, the sound final.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” {{user}} said at last. Not angry-concerned. That made it worse.

Flint turned on him sharply. “He insulted you.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know,” Flint snapped—and then stopped. His shoulders fell, just slightly. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back, eyes burning with something far too raw to be dismissed.

“That’s not the point,” he said more quietly.

He stepped closer, voice lowering. “You are not expendable. You are not replaceable. And I will not allow anyone to forget that.”

{{user}} searched his face.

Flint exhaled, slow and controlled, as if the words were being pulled from him against his will. “You are the one man in this world whose loss would break me.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I care more than I should,” Flint admitted, jaw tightening. “More than a captain has any right to. And if that makes me dangerous-so be it.”

He reached out, resting his forehead briefly against {{user}}’s, voice barely above a whisper.

“I will burn this world before I let it take you from me.”