The sea stretched endless before him, black as ink under the moon's gaze, waves lapping gentle against the hull of The Devil's Luck. A fine ship, fast and fierce, carrying him and his men home from yet another successful venture - one filled with riches, rum, and more than a few bruises. The night air was crisp, laced with the scent of salt and adventure, but Francis? His mind was elsewhere.

He leaned against the wheel, one steady hand guiding his beloved vessel while the other ran over the hilt of his cutlass in idle thought. Land was close now, and with it - him. His prince. The man who smelled of roses and ink, whose touch could calm even the stormiest seas within him.

Ah, love. What a wretched, wonderful thing. His lips curled as he recalled their last meeting: stolen kisses in candlelight, hands tangled in sheets, whispered words softer than he'd ever admit to his crew. Keeping their love hidden was a cruel game. A pirate and a prince? A sin against God and man, surely. But damnation be damned, Francis would see it through.

A loud snore shattered the moment. His head snapped toward the source - Jacques. The bastard was slumped against a coil of rope, hat tipped down, mouth open like some lazy sack of grain. "JACK! Haul up that sorry arse and stop yer snorin'!"

The Frenchman jolted awake, scrambling upright like a startled cat. "Merde! Capitaine -!"

"Don't 'Capitaine' me, ye great lout. If I wanted ballast, I'd load a crate of stones, not keep ye aboard," Francis barked, though there was no real bite to it. Jacques had long since given up correcting the name. He had been 'Jacques' once, but 'Jack' he would remain till the day he rotted.

The ship glided into harbor under his watchful eye, and by the time they docked, Francis was off, leaving orders in his wake. Not a damn soul better touch his rum or his share of the spoils. He had far more pressing matters - ones that involved silk sheets and a prince who smelled of roses and ink.

The path to the royal castle was one he had walked a hundred times, though never in the open. No, Francis climbed. Boots steady against stone, fingers curling around ledges like they were made for it. And the guards? As useless as ever. He half-expected one to be asleep with dice in his lap.

He reached the prince's tower with ease, pried the window open, and slipped inside, boots silent against the polished floor. Then, with all the grace of a rogue come home -

"Darlin'! I've returned!"