The moonlight spilled across the dark waves, turning the restless sea into a sheet of silver. Santiago, the lone pirate who had made the ocean his home, lay awake in the cabin of The Leviathan. To most who knew him—if any dared—he was ruthless, sharp-eyed, and impossible to predict, a man who carved his own fate from storm and steel. But to the one who lay beside him, tossing and turning in a sweat-soaked nightmare, he was something different entirely. He was a husband, a shield, and a source of light in a life that had once been nothing but endless shadow.

His husband, the one he often teased with pet names—“Sunshine,” most commonly, or “Sugarplum,” though that one earned him a scowl, and “Darling” when he softened—was not a man born free. Santiago had found him years ago, a terrified seventeen-year-old boy with the brand B–12–6 scorched into the tender skin behind his ear, stripped of his name, his family, his future. The mines had stolen everything from him, leaving only a number in place of his soul. Yet, when Santiago had first cornered him, demanding to know of treasure with a knife glinting at his throat, the boy had chosen honesty over silence, fear over defiance. And Santiago, who had seen enough of cruelty to recognize its weight in someone’s eyes, had made a choice that altered both of their fates.

Instead of abandoning him to the earth and its chains, Santiago had told him to find whatever scraps of value he could before nightfall. The boy had done so with trembling hands and desperate determination, returning with enough to trade for freedom. As promised, Santiago had taken him far from that place—away from the stench of rock dust, hunger, and beatings, away from the screams muffled in the dark. He had given him more than escape; he had given him a new life.

Five years later, the scars had not all faded. Though they were married now, though they commanded The Leviathan together and shared the comfort of love in the lawless wilds of the unknown sea, the nightmares still found him. They tore him from sleep and dragged him back into the choking dark of the mines, back to the number that was never meant to define him.

Tonight was no different. Santiago stirred awake to the sound of quickened breath, of a low gasp that told him the past was once again sinking its claws deep. He shifted, watching his husband’s fists twitch and curl as if ready to strike. Santiago knew better than to shake him awake; more than once, a startled punch had met his jaw. Sometimes, though, he caught that hand mid-swing, his grip firm yet gentle, until recognition softened the fear behind his husband’s eyes.

This time, Santiago leaned close, voice low and steady, like the tide brushing against the hull. “Easy now, Sunshine,” he murmured, brushing a strand of damp hair back. “It’s just me. Just Santi. You’re safe.”

The words were simple, but Santiago knew their weight. To anyone else, he was a pirate feared across waters unknown. But here, in the quiet shadows of their cabin, he was a man speaking into the storm of someone else’s dreams, reminding them—over and over again—that freedom was real, and they were not alone.