"poetry, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for."

Izuku Midoriya

Izuku Midoriya (now a Pro Hero and a foundational teacher at U.A. High) is standing before his very own Class 1-A. He’s in the middle of a passionate, slightly rambling lecture on hero ethics and situational awareness.

His phone, resting on the table, buzzed. Usually, he’d ignore it until the end of the period, but he has a specific bypass alert set for you just in case of an emergency.

He didn't expect this kind of emergency.

Izuku stops mid-sentence, his chalk hovering an inch away from the blackboard. His eyes lock onto the preview on his screen. It’s definitely not a villain report. It’s you, looking absolutely incredible.

For a solid three seconds, his brain completely short-circuits. All those years of analyzing quirks and strategy do absolutely nothing to prepare him for this midday tactical strike from you.

The immediate physical reaction is violent and uncontrollable. A sudden, involuntary spike of lightning crackles across his skin, sparks off his shoulders, and snaps against the chalkboard, leaving a tiny, charred static mark.

“Uh, Midoriya-Sensei? Are you okay? You don't look too well.”

“I-I’m fine! Just… a sudden realization about… something. Carry on with your reading!”

---

He waits until the students are quietly working on an assignment, hiding his phone behind his open lesson-plan binder. His fingers are shaking so badly he typos three times before sending it.

Izuku: [1:42 PM]

I almost DIED 😓 mY students think i'm having a medical emergency!!

Izuku: [1:44 PM]

Don't delete that. But also PLEASE don't send anything else until 4:00 PM because I can't think straight and I WILL make a mistake while teaching.

Izuku: [1:45 PM]

I’m rushing home the second the bell rings. You are so mean for this. (But you look beautiful. ❤️)

For the rest of the afternoon, Izuku is uncharacteristically distracted. He keeps his phone firmly face down, and every time it vibrates, he flinches lightly. The students definitely know something is up, becuase he dismissed them exactly five minutes early, packed his briefcase at an incredible speed, and muttered something about a "highly time-sensitive patrol" before speedwalking out of his class.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Katsuki Bakugou

The atmosphere in the tactical briefing room is heavy with the scent of ozone and strong black coffee. Pro Hero Dynamight, Katsuki Bakugo to the public, is sitting with his boots unceremoniously propped up on the corner of a sleek, mahogany conference table.

To his left, Best Jeanist is smoothly pacing, adjusting his denim collar while dissecting the structural failures of a recent raid. To his right, Edgeshot sits perfectly upright, arms crossed, analyzing a map of routes with razor-sharp focus.

Katsuki isn't paying attention. He knows his part of the mission went flawlessly; he doesn't need to hear the lecture about "collateral fiber damage." He’s idly spinning his phone on the table when it buzzes.

It’s you.

Fully expecting a text telling him to pick up groceries on his way back to the apartment, he grabs the phone, unlocks it with a quick swipe of his thumb, and glances at the screen.

Katsuki's eyes narrow, then widen by a fraction of a millimeter. His pupils dilate instantly.

On the screen is a photo that has absolutely nothing to do with groceries. Katsuki's palms flare up, releasing a sharp, violent pop-crack of sparks that scorches a tiny black circle into the armrest of his leather chair.

His jaw clamps shut so hard his teeth click. Without blinking an eye, he violently slams the phone face-down onto the table. The impact makes Jeanist’s coffee cup rattle in its saucer.

Jeanist stops pacing. He turns a slow, critical eye toward Bakugo, noticing the faint wisp of smoke curling off the younger hero’s palms.

"Bakugo," Jeanist sighs, his voice smooth and disapproving. "We are discussing the fiber-density of the perimeter restraints. If your explosive temper cannot handle a standard tactical review-"

"Shut up," Katsuki snaps. He clears his throat roughly, staring fixedly at a spot on the wall behind Edgeshot’s head. "The review is fine. Keep talking. I'm listening."

Edgeshot glances from the scorched armrest to the phone, then to the uncharacteristic shade of pink painting Bakugo’s face. He raises an eyebrow.

"I said I'm fine!" Katsuki growls, seeing the older hero's expression. "Just read the damn report so I can get out of here!"

---

He glares at the back of his phone as if he could melt the casing with his eyes. His mind takes a treacherous detour, replaying the exact details of the photo. He aggressively grabs his phone, hitting the screen so hard it’s a miracle the glass doesn't shatter.

Bakugo [3:18 PM]:

Are you fucking INSANE?? I’m in a room with Jeanist and Edgeshot right now. If either of them had looked over my shoulder I would have had to murder them.

Bakugo [3:19 PM]:

Delete that off your phone right now. Stop looking like that when I'm not there to do anything about it.

Bakugo [3:19 PM]:

Jeanist has five minutes left of this bullshit brief. You started this, so you better be ready when I get back.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Shoto Todoroki

The atmosphere in the private dining room of a high-end, traditional Japanese restaurant is surprisingly peaceful. Enji is tucked away at a hero convention in Tokyo, leaving the Todoroki siblings to enjoy a rare, stress-free dinner together.

Fuyumi is happily chatting about a new recipe, Natsuo is loudly recounting a chaotic story from his college residency, and Shoto is sitting cross-legged on his tatami mat, quietly sipping his miso soup.

His phone sits face-up beside his knee. It lets out a soft, polite chirp.

Knowing his agency usually radios him for emergencies, Shoto casually sets his soup bowl down and picks up the device. He expects a patrol schedule update or a message from Midoriya about an upcoming training session.

Instead, his screen lights up with a picture of you that defies all laws of his orderly universe.

Shoto freezes entirely. Because his emotions are tied directly to his Quirk factors, his internal thermostat goes haywire. The right side of his body experiences a sudden, icy drop, causing a thin layer of frost to instantly coat his water glass. Meanwhile, his left side experiences a massive spike in heat.

He doesn't slam the phone down. Instead, he slowly, methodically places the phone face down on the tatami mat, staring at it as if it were an unexploded bomb.

Shoto thinks he is being incredibly subtle. He is wrong. Natsuo and Fuyumi have spent a lifetime reading the micro-expressions of their youngest brother, and a sudden thermal event at the dinner table is hard to miss.

Natsuo stops mid-sentence, his chopsticks hovering in the air. He looks at Shoto’s frost-covered water glass, then at the steam curling off his left shoulder. A massive grin spreads across his face.

"Whoa, hold on," Natsuo leans over the low table, poking Shoto’s right arm, which is literally radiating cold air. "What just happened?" "Natsuo, leave him alone," Fuyumi chides, though her eyes are sparkling with intense curiosity. "Shoto, are you okay?" "I am perfectly functional," Shoto says, his voice a flat monotone that fools absolutely no one. Natsuo scoffs, lunging across the table to snatch the face-down phone. Shoto’s reflexes are hero-level; he quite literally freezes it to the floor. "Oh man, it's definitely (f/n)!" Natsuo laughs boisterously, pointing at Shoto’s burning red face. "Look at him! He’s about to experience a full core meltdown!" "Natsuo!" Fuyumi gasps, swatting her brother's shoulder, though she looks highly amused. "Leave him alone!" "I'm just saying! Our little masterpiece brother just got short-circuited by a single text. It's beautiful."

---

Later, Shoto carefully melts his phone out of the ice, slides it beneath the edge of the table away from Natsuo’s prying eyes, and begins to type with his thumb.

Shoto [7:22 PM]:

That image is highly unsafe for where I am right now. Natsuo noticed my temperature fluctuation and attempted to steal my phone. I had to freeze it to the floor to protect your privacy. He is currently making uneducated guesses about what you are wearing. He is incorrect, but his guesses are making my left side difficult to control.

Shoto [7:24 PM]:

You look very beautiful. The garment fits you well, though it looks functionally inefficient for keeping you warm.

Shoto [7:25 PM]:

Fuyumi is currently paying the bill. I am going to excuse myself from dessert. I will be home in twelve minutes. Please do not put on any more clothes before I arrive.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hitoshi Shinso

The afternoon is quiet and overcast, the perfect weather for a day out. Hitoshi Shinso, now a licensed underground hero operating in the same sleek, capture-scarf-clad style as his mentor, is sitting at a small outdoor table just a few blocks from the U.A. campus.

Across from him sits Shota Aizawa, looking as perpetually exhausted as ever, nursing a cup of black coffee. Between them is Eri, happily swinging her legs in her chair, entirely engrossed in a massive strawberry parfait and a sleepy calico cat that has curled up in her lap.

Shinso is idly stirring his iced coffee, listening to Aizawa give a dry, analytical breakdown of a local smuggling ring they’ve been tracking.

Then, his phone buzzes in the palm of his hand.

Assuming it’s an alert from the underground information network, Shinso glances down at the screen. His thumb unlocks it automatically.

It is not a villain tip. It is a photo.

Shinso’s signature deadpan, completely unbothered expression shatters into a million pieces. His training prevents overt flinching, but his breath hitches audibly. His fingers tighten on his iced coffee glass with enough force that the ice cubes clink violently against the glass.

Shinso instantly shoves the phone screen down onto his thigh under the table, staring fixedly at his coffee as if he could pretend he hadn't just seen the most scandalous thing in his life.

Eri looks up from her parfait, her wide eyes blinking innocently at him. "Hitoshi-san? Your face is really pink. Are you catching a fever?"

"No, Eri," Shinso mutters, his voice a strained, slightly choked rasp. He clears his throat, desperately trying to summon his usual cool demeanor. "Just... swallowed a piece of ice wrong. It's fine."

Aizawa doesn't even look up from his coffee, but his sharp, dark eyes take in the entire scene instantly. He’s spent a decade managing young adults and dealing with the chaotic personal lives of heroes; he knows exactly what that specific shade of panicked red means.

He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his coffee, a faint, wry smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"A ice cube, Hitoshi?" Aizawa says, his tone dripping with dry, monotone amusement. "Impressive. I didn't know ice cubes caused a visible spike in your resting heart rate."

Shinso stiffens, refusing to look his mentor in the eye. "It was a very sharp piece of ice, Aizawa-sensei."

"Right," Aizawa murmurs, leaning back in his chair. He glances at the hand Shinso still has clamped over his phone beneath the table. "Well, whatever 'intel' you just received, make sure you don't use your Quirk out of sheer panic. I'd hate to have to explain to the support department why you brainwashed a random citizen because your partner knows how to use a camera."

Shinso feels the blush burn even hotter, reaching the back of his neck.

"Eri," Aizawa says smoothly, tapping the table. "Eat your parfait a little faster. It seems Hitoshi has a sudden, urgent 'underground investigation' he needs to conduct back at his apartment."

---

Keeping his phone firmly out of Eri's line of sight, Shinso uses his thumb to type a quick, frantic, yet characteristically intense response.

Shinso [4:18 PM]:

You are such a piece of shit. You know that, right?

Shinso [4:19 PM]:

I am sitting at a cat café with Eri and Aizawa. Aizawa literally just mocked me because my face turned red. He knows. He definitely knows and I am never going to live this down.

Shinso [4:21 PM]:

Wrapping up the bill right now. I’m taking a shortcut over the roofs. Don’t you dare move.

Killian Jones

Oh, you better BELIEVE that this man is going to leave his mark—and he’s not doing it gently. Losing a hand didn't make him less dangerous; it just forced him to adapt. Killian bites slow, deliberate, and agonizingly deep. He takes a twisted kind of pride in mapping out his lover’s skin with his teeth, treating their body like a canvas for his possessive streaks. By the time he’s satisfied, they look less like they’ve been loved and more like they’ve survived a genuine battlefield, painted in a mosaic of bruises.

And god forbid something makes him jealous. If he catches another person looking for too long, the subsequent marking becomes a territorial claim. He will deliberately ruin them for anyone else, focusing on the most public, high-visibility areas—the stark line of the collarbone, the dip of the throat, and the soft skin right beneath the jawline. It’s an unspoken rule: after a night fueled by his envy, leaving the house requires at least two or three heavy layers just to look respectable.

Does his partner mind? Absolutely not. There’s a thrill in carrying his weight around all day.

Flip the script, though, and Killian’s tough exterior fractures in the best way. On the receiving end of things, he becomes an entirely different creature—impatient, restless, and delightfully whiny. He hates the vulnerability of being serviced, his hand twitching for control he can’t quite grasp. But the second his partner's teeth touch his own skin? The complaints completely die in his throat. He’ll take every single mark given to him, sinking into the mattress and wearing those bruises like a badge of honor.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Rumplestiltskin

This man may be well over five hundred years old, but time has only sharpened him into a master of precision. He is no blunt instrument; when it comes to marking his lover, Mr. Gold doesn’t just leave a bruise—he burns himself into their very being.

Because of his cane and the slight physical limitations, he relies heavily on leverage, pinning his partner down with an unexpected, deceptive strength while his hands—accustomed to the delicate precision of spinning gold—hold them fast. His favorite marks are the ones hidden from the eyes of Storybrooke but agonizingly loud to the wearer. The tender skin of the inner thighs, the abdomen, or the vulnerable flesh right along the ribcage. These are strategic placements; they ache with every single breath, stride, or shift in a chair throughout the work day. It is a constant, throbbing, tactile reminder of exactly who owns them.

Jealousy, however, coaxes out the volatile nature of the Dark One. He has learned to control the violent impulses—after all, it isn't his darling’s fault that the world stares at what is beautiful. When his deep-seated insecurities are triggered by a lingering look from a stranger, his retaliation is quiet, methodical, and devastating. He will deliberately mark his partner's pulse point of the throat or the nape of the neck—high-visibility zones that demand a high collar or a heavy scarf to conceal. Each bite is a slow, deliberate brand, a silent declaration to the opposer: Look at what is mine, and despair.

On the receiving end, however, Rumple completely unravels. Decades of being unloved and feared make him incredibly touch-starved, yet intensely defensive. Give him service, and he goes absolutely still—tense, quiet, and hyper-aware of his own vulnerability. He won't whine. Instead, he chokes on his own breath, completely overwhelmed. If his partner leaves a mark on him? It shatters his control. Feeling teeth sink into his skin reassures his darkest insecurities, proving someone actually wants to leave an indelible scar on the Dark One.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Robin Hood

Robin might be a rogue and an outlaw, but when it comes to his lover, he’s a man defined by a fierce devotion. He marks his partner out of an overwhelming, breathless need to cherish. His touch is a contradiction of a thief's lethal precision and a gentleman's profound reverence.

Because he is a man of the woods—accustomed to tracking, survival, and the raw elements—his style is deeply tactile and grounded. His marks are dark bruises left by a mouth that lingers too long because he simply cannot bring himself to pull away. He favors the spots that evoke comfort and closeness: the slope of the shoulder where they rest their head, the crook of the neck, or the sternum. They are meant to feel like a warm, protective brand that pulses with his heartbeat.

Jealousy turns Robin into a protective wall. If someone dares to eye his partner, he doesn't scheme in the dark—he stakes his claim out in the open. His reaction is to pull his lover into his side, his hand gripping their hip right where everyone can see. That night, his marks will crawl up the throat and right along the jawline. He wants the world to see the shadow of his mouth on their skin the very next morning. It’s an archer’s arrow shot straight into the ground: This territory is occupied.

When the tables are turned and Robin is the one receiving, the bold, confident leader entirely melts away.

Robin thrives on the vulnerability. He is a provider by nature, constantly looking out for everyone else, so being taken care of makes him sigh into the mattress with a heavy relief. He is incredibly vocal—not whiny, but breathless. He whispers praise, mumbles half-formed words of devotion into the pillows, and chuckles softly at the sheer bliss of it, his fingers tangling tightly in his partner's hair. If you bite him, Robin absolutely unravels. To an outlaw who owns nothing, those marks are the only wealth that matters—proof that he belongs to someone, and that he finally has a home worth fighting for.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Peter Pan

This little shit is a creature of pure, unfiltered malice and eternal youth. He isn’t looking to romance his partner; he wants to consume them. When it comes to marking his lover, Peter doesn’t do it out of passion or insecurity—he does it for the sheer, sadistic thrill of dominance. He treats their body like a territory conquered, and he wants them to remember exactly who their king is.

Because Peter thrives on torment, he doesn’t leave marks where they can easily be shown off. No, Peter leaves his marks in the most agonizingly frustrating, high-friction places possible: the lower abdomen, the center of the sternum, and the sensitive skin curving along the side of the ribs. Every time his partner bends over, laughs, breathes deeply, or pulls his clothes on, the fabric rubs directly against those raw, stinging crescents. It is a constant, physical reminder of his teeth, keeping them trapped in his orbit even when he isn’t in the room.

Jealousy doesn't make Peter volatile; it makes him incredibly petty and wicked. If he senses another's eyes on his sweetheart, he will pin them down with a terrifying, ancient strength that belies his youthful appearance. He will deliberately cage them beneath him, sinking his teeth into those exact, agonizing spots on their ribs and abdomen until they are breathless and sobbing from the sheer sensory overload.

When the tables are turned, the dynamic becomes a high-stakes psychological game. On the receiving end, Peter Pan refuses to yield an inch of his power. Peter absolutely refuses to let his partner leave a mark on him. To him, a mark is a sign of ownership, and the king of Neverland belongs to absolutely no one.

There is only one single loophole to this rule: if he has genuinely angered his lover. If Peter has pushed them too far, played one too many cruel games, and sparked a real, blinding rage in them, he will allow it.

He would rather jump off the highest cliff in Neverland than admit it out loud, but seeing the dark, angry bruises and teeth marks his partner leaves on his pale skin turns him on immensely. Seeing the marks on him is the ultimate proof that he managed to evoke a passion so intense it became violent.

Yet, beneath the mind games lies a terrifyingly soft truth: his partner is the only person he has ever confessed his love to. Peter is a romantic in his own twisted, dark way. During every single one of their trysts, amid the heavy breathing and the biting, he will lean down and whisper those three words over and over like a mantra. He reminds his sweetheart of his devotion with a desperate, almost fierce urgency, ensuring that while their body belongs to his games, his blackened, immortal heart belongs entirely to them.

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

David Nolan

David Nolan is a prince, and his approach to intimacy is different. David is a man of duty, honor, and deep, overwhelming passion. When he marks his lover, it is an act of pure, unadulterated adoration—heavy, breathless, and incredibly possessive in a deeply traditional way.

Because of his background as a shepherd, David possesses a rugged, physical strength that he usually keeps carefully checked. But behind closed doors, that restraint snaps. He uses his broad frame to completely engulf his partner, pinning their wrists above their head with one large hand or anchoring their hips flat against the mattress. David marks with a deep, aching slowness, favoring the places that feel the most romantic: the muscle where the neck meets the shoulder, the soft underside of the jaw, and the inner curve of the wrists. His marks aren't sharp or cruel; they are deep, blooming bruises that look like flush, sun-warmed branding. It’s his way of anchoring them to him, leaving a physical testament to a love that survived curses and time itself.

Jealousy turns David quietly protective. If a stranger stares too long, his jaw tightens, and his hand immediately finds the small of his partner's back, a quiet, reassuring gesture. That night, his marking becomes an urgent, almost desperate reclamation. He will focus heavily on the collarbones and the high slope of the chest, areas that sit right at the edge of a shirt collar. He wants his beloved to look in the mirror the next morning and see the unmistakable shadow of his devotion, a silent warning to the rest of the world that they are entirely spoken for.

On the receiving end, the man who carries the weight of the entire town on his shoulders completely dissolves. David spends his whole life being the protector, the savior, and the leader, so being the one completely taken care of utterly unmans him. When given service, David loses all of his rigid, military alertness. He goes entirely melty and heavy against the sheets, his chest heaving as he surrenders control to his lover. He doesn't play games or hide his emotions; if his partner makes him feel good, he will look them dead in the eye, his gaze intensely soft, and tell them exactly how much he loves them, his voice thick with emotion.

His head was a forge, an anvil being struck by a relentless hammer, while his throat felt as though he had been forced to swallow a handful of rusted needles and thorns. His tongue, dry and leaden, felt too large for his mouth, and his lips were so parched they threatened to split at the slightest twitch.

His body was a furnace, radiating a heat that turned his nightshirt into a damp, suffocating second skin, yet a primal, bone-deep chill made him shudder so violently his teeth rattled. The thought of moving to reach for a glass of water, let alone food, felt like a feat reserved for gods or madmen.

On the bedside table, his phone—a device he still regarded with the cautious suspicion—screamed with insistent, discordant digital chirps. Each vibration was a physical blow to his senses. He wanted to hurl it into the ocean outside, but he lacked the strength to even lift his hand. The heavy velvet drapes in his room were drawn tight against the world, he couldn't tell if the sun was high or if the moon was silvering the waves outside.

He was drifting back into a feverish, uneasy stupor when the heavy silence of the cabin was shattered. A frantic, rhythmic pounding echoed off the mahogany door, followed by a voice that managed to pierce through the fog of his delirium.

"Killian! Open this door right now!"

He let out a fractured sigh, his eyes remaining stubbornly shut. "Who is it...?" he groaned, the words barely more than a dry rasp that tore at his throat.

"It's me. I'm coming in."

(first name) didn't wait for permission. She turned the brass handle and stepped into the dim, stifling room.

"Killian Jones, for the love of all that is holy, I have called you around fifty times—" She stopped mid-sentence, the sharp edge of her frustration dissolving into a cold pool of dread as she approached the bed.

The man before her was a ghost of his usual swaggering self. His rugged features were pale, his skin took on a sickly, translucent sheen, and his raven hair was matted with sweat.

"Love," he murmured, his voice a ghost of a sound. He tried to offer a rakish smirk, but it came out as a pained grimace. "I’m... sorry. I’ve been somewhat... inconvenienced... since the sun rose. Or perhaps before. It’s hard to say."

He squeezed his eyes shut as a fresh wave of vertigo washed over him, his breath hitching in a way that bordered on a sob. The indignity of being brought low by a mere fever grated against his pride almost as much as the pain.

"Hey, hey... look at me," (first name) whispered, her voice softening instantly. She moved to the edge of the bed, her hand reaching out to brush against his forehead. She gasped, pulling back for a second as if scorched. "Killian, you're burning up."

"I am usually... much more resilient," he managed to choke out, his chest heaving. "A pirate’s constitution... usually scoffs at... such—"

A violent volley of coughs cut him off, racking his frame and forcing him to curl into himself. Each shuddering breath seemed to ignite the fire in his lungs and sharpen the knives in his throat.

"Stop talking, you stubborn man," (first name) chided, though her eyes were bright with worry. She went to work with practiced efficiency. She clicked on the ceiling fan, its blades beginning to stir the heavy air, and hurried to the washroom. She returned with a basin of ice-cold water and a soft linen cloth.

As she pressed the freezing compress to his brow, Killian let out a long, shuddering moan of relief. The contrast was divine. He leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering as he tried to anchor himself to her presence. While he lay there, she worked to untangle the damp, knotted heap of blankets, smoothing them over his shivering form to provide some semblance of organized warmth.

"You are a vision, love," he muttered, his voice thick. He reached out, his hand trembling as he caught her fingers, anchoring her to the bedside.

"And you," she replied, her voice a mix of tenderness and exasperation as she brushed a stray dark lock from his temple, "are entirely too careless. You've been lying here for hours, haven't you? Dehydrating and suffering in silence because you’re too proud to ask for help."

She looked down at him, and for a moment, the guard he usually kept up was completely gone. His cerulean eyes, usually so sharp and full of fire, were glassy and vulnerable, searching hers with a raw, desperate adoration.

"Don't look at me like that," she whispered, her heart aching. "You’re not out of the woods yet. You need fluids, and you need something to eat before I give you any medicine."

"I suppose... you’re right," he relented. With a herculean effort that drained what little color was left in his face, he hauled himself into a seated position. He swayed dangerously, the room spinning like a carousel, and he immediately began to shiver again now that he was out from under the heavy covers.

"I'll be right back." (first name) murmured, leaning forward to press a lingering, worried kiss to his flushed cheek. She started to stand, intent on heading to the galley, but her sleeve was caught in his firm, if shaky, grip.

"Stay," he pleaded. The word was small, devoid of the bravado he usually wore like armor. He looked up at her, his pride having evaporated the moment she walked through the door. "Please. Just... stay a moment longer."

"Killian, I have to get you water. You’re parched, I can hear it in your voice."

"I am perfectly fine," he lied, his voice cracking even as he said it. He laced his fingers with hers, holding on as if she were the only thing keeping him from drifting away into the dark. "I feel better already, and I'd much rather have the company of the woman I love than a glass of water."

"Flattery won't lower your temperature," she teased gently, though she didn't pull away. She saw the way his eyes struggled to stay focused, the way his chest labored with every breath. He looked smaller like this—not the indomitable pirate, but a man who was simply exhausted.

"It isn't flattery if it’s the truth," he whispered, his grip tightening ever so slightly. He pulled her hand toward him, pressing a dry, feverish kiss to her knuckles. "The water can wait. Just... five minutes. Let the fever claim me if it must, so long as you’re the last thing I see."

"Don't say things like that," she said, her voice trembling. She sat back down on the edge of the bed, realizing that his physical thirst was currently rivaled by a desperate need for comfort. She pulled the duvet up higher around his shoulders, tucking it in to trap the heat he so desperately needed to break the fever, while keeping the cool cloth pressed to his forehead.

Killian let out a long, jagged breath and slumped forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder. He was heavy, his body radiating heat like a dying star, but he let out a sound of pure contentment that broke her heart.

"There," she whispered, wrapping an arm around him to steady his swaying frame. "Five minutes. But then I'm bringing the strongest broth and the coldest water this ship has to offer. Understand?"

"Aye, Captain," he murmured against her neck, his eyes finally closing in a sleep that looked a little less like suffering and a little more like rest.

---

The five minutes stretched into ten, then twenty, as Killian’s breathing shifted from the jagged rasps of a man in pain to the heavy, rhythmic thrum of sleep. Slowly, she slipped out from under his weight and eased his head back onto the pillows.

The galley was a stark contrast to the stifling, heavy atmosphere of the captain's quarters. It was cool, smelling of salt air and seasoned wood. (first name) moved with frantic efficiency, filling a tall glass with water from the chilled pitcher kept on one of the shelves, dropping in a pinch of sea salt and a squeeze of lemon—an old sailor’s trick for dehydration that Killian himself had once taught her.

Next, she set a small pot over the stove. She didn't reach for anything heavy. Instead, she prepared a clear, chicken soup, seasoned with ginger to settle his nausea and a heavy hand of garlic for its medicinal bite. After half an hour of cooking, she balanced a wooden tray carefully as she navigated the swaying corridors back to his cabin.

"Killian," she whispered, setting the tray on the nightstand. She replaced the now-lukewarm cloth on his head with a fresh, freezing one. He jolted at the touch, his eyes snapping open, though they were unfocused and wild.

"Easy, sailor. It’s just me."

He blinked, the glassy sheen of his eyes clearing just enough to recognize her. He leaned his head against her shoulder, his body trembling so hard she could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Water," he wheezed.

She held the glass to his cracked lips. He drank greedily, the cool liquid spilling down his chin and wetting his nightshirt, but she didn't care. He finished half the glass in one go before sighing with relief.

"Slowly. You'll make yourself sick," she murmured, wiping his chin with her thumb.

Next came the broth. She blew on a spoonful, testing the temperature before offering it to him. He looked at the spoon with a flash of his old disdain, his pride flickering back to life for a brief second.

"I can... manage a spoon, (first name)."

"You can barely manage to keep your head upright," she countered gently, pressing the spoon to his lips. "Humor me. I've spent the last hour thinking I was going to have to bury you at sea. Let me play nurse for one night."

He relented, his eyes closing as the warm, savory liquid hit his scorched throat. The ginger took the edge off the burning, and the heat of the broth seemed to soothe the tremors deep in his marrow. One spoonful became ten, then twenty, until the small bowl was nearly empty.

"There," she said, setting the tray aside. She reached for a small vial of medicine she’d taken from the infirmary—something to break the fire raging in his blood. "One last thing, then you can go back to sleep."

He took the medicine without protest, his strength spent. As she lowered him back onto the damp sheets, he reached out blindly, finding her hand once more. This time, he didn't try to pull her down; he simply held on, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over her knuckles.

"Don't... the drapes," he whispered, his voice fading. "Open them... just a crack. I want to know when the light comes."

(first name) nodded, her heart swelling. She stood and moved to the heavy velvet curtains, pulling them back just enough to reveal a sliver of the midnight sky. A single star hung over the horizon, reflecting in the black glass of the ocean.

When she turned back, Killian was watching her, the fire in his eyes dimmed but no longer desperate.

"The star," he murmured, a ghost of a smile touching his chapped lips. "It looks like you."

"You’re definitely delirious," she whispered, walking back to sit in the armchair she’d dragged to his bedside. She tucked her feet under her, prepared for a long night of changing compresses and monitoring his breath. "Go to sleep, Killian. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"On my life."

He exhaled a long, shaky breath, his features finally softening into a true rest. (first name) watched him for a long moment, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She reached out, checking the damp cloth on his forehead; it was already warm from the heat of his skin. She refreshed it yet again, and took out her phone. She stepped toward the far corner of the room, keeping her voice a mere shadow of a whisper as she dialed.

"Mary Margaret? It’s me."

A frantic gasp came through the receiver. "Oh, thank god! We’ve been calling for hours. Is he... is he alright? What happened?"

(first name) looked back at the bed, where the dim light of the lantern traced the now peaceful silhouette. "He’s fine," she breathed, though her voice caught slightly. "He’s got a fever—a bad one. I think it’s a mix of exhaustion and some nasty bug he picked up at the docks. He’s sleeping now. I’ve managed to give him some water, soup and medicine."

"Do you need anything? We could call Dr. Whale—"

"No," (first name) said, her gaze softening as Killian let out a low, peaceful sigh in his sleep. "No, he just needs rest. I’ve got him. Tell the others not to worry."

After she hung up, she moved back to the bedside, pulling a heavy armchair close to his pillows. She didn't want to leave him, even for the comfort of a proper bed. She watched the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

The ship felt different when its Captain was down. It felt hushed, as if the vessel itself were holding its breath.

As the hours ticked toward the deepest part of the night, (first name) found herself mesmerized by the small details of his face.

She reached out, gently lacing her fingers with his. In the stillness, she leaned her head back against the chair, her eyes never leaving his face. She would be there when the sun finally broke through the drapes, and she would be there when the fire returned to his eyes. She would be tired in the morning, her own bones would likely ache from the position she was curled up in, but as she sat there, staring at the man she loved, she knew she wouldn't have been anywhere else in the world.

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