Y/n’s cabin was a disaster of the best kind. Shells and sea glass lined the windowsill, a collection of strange-shaped stones sat in a tin cup, and a half-finished charm dangled from a hook near the bunk. The air smelled of gunpowder and salt.

He watched her work for a moment, whistling a tune that was decidedly off-key. His one good eye traced the line of her small hands, the steady way she crimped the brass casing.