Jun's POV

The ocean was quiet that morning, the kind of stillness that always put me on edge. The sun rose slowly, casting long shadows across the deck. The crew moved about with an air of unease, their weariness from the island still clinging to them.

I stood at the helm, staring out at the endless expanse of water, letting the fresh breeze fill my lungs. It didn't help clear the thoughts weighing me down. My grip tightened on the railing, knuckles white as I replayed the events of the cursed island.

The girl.

She had a way of getting under my skin, like a splinter I couldn't quite dig out. She wasn't completely useless—I'd give her that. She had guts and a stubborn streak a mile wide, but she wasn't ready for the life she'd been dragged into. Not even close.

And that was on me.

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. I'd been reckless with her, throwing her into the fire without any way to protect herself. She'd barely made it off the island alive.

"Cap'n?"

Wren's voice cut through my thoughts, and I turned to see him standing a few paces away, his expression tight with concern.

"What is it?" I asked, sharper than I intended.

"The men," he began, glancing over his shoulder toward the crew, "they're uneasy. Talkin' about the sick we saw on the island. Saying it ain't natural."

I gritted my teeth. Of course they were talking. They'd be fools not to.

"Let them talk," I said. "So long as they keep their heads clear and their hands steady, I don't care what stories they spin."

Wren nodded slowly, but his hesitation made me narrow my eyes.

"Out with it," I said.

"It's not just the men," he admitted, shifting uncomfortably. "What about the girl? She's trying, sure, but she's a liability, Cap'n. You saw what happened back there. She'll get herself killed—or worse, she'll get one of us killed."

I knew he was right. That didn't make it easier to hear.

"I'll deal with her," I said.

"And if she can't keep up?"

"Then that's her problem," I snapped.

Wren gave me a look but didn't press further. He nodded and walked off, leaving me alone with the weight of my own choices.

~~~

I spent most of the day avoiding her.

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It wasn't intentional—or so I told myself. Truth was, I didn't know what to say to her. She'd looked at me after the island like I was something I wasn't, something I could never be.

I wasn't her savior. I wasn't a hero. Hell, I wasn't even a good man.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I'd had enough of the silence. The air was too thick with tension, and the crew's whispers grated on my nerves. I made my way to the hold, deciding to busy myself with checking the supplies we'd salvaged from the island.

The sound of footsteps behind me made me pause.

"Jun."

Her voice was soft but steady, and I turned to see her standing in the doorway.

The girl.

She looked small, her thin frame swallowed up by the oversized shirt one of the men had tossed her way. Her hair was damp from the sea air, and she had a stubborn set to her jaw that told me she wasn't going anywhere until she'd said her piece.

"What are you doing down here?" I asked, my voice gruffer than I meant it to be.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, stepping inside.

"You should try," I muttered, turning back to the crate. "We'll hit port in a few days. You'll need your strength."

"I wanted to thank you."

Her words made me pause, my hand hovering over the lid of the crate.

"For what?" I asked, not looking at her.

"For saving me," she said.

I straightened, turning to face her. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you."

Her brows furrowed, but she didn't look away. "Then why did you do it?"

"Because I can't afford to lose anyone else right now," I said flatly. It wasn't the whole truth, but it was close enough.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't back down.

"You're lying," she said quietly.

Something in her voice made my chest tighten. I scowled, turning back to the crate. "Go back to your bunk, little rat."

"I'm not a rat," she snapped, her defiance catching me off guard.

A small smirk tugged at my lips before I could stop it. "You've got a lot to learn."

"Then teach me," she said, stepping closer.

Her words hung in the air, daring me to refuse. There was fire in her eyes, the kind that could burn brighter than she realized.

I let out a long breath, studying her for a moment.

"You think you can handle it?" I asked.

She nodded without hesitation.

"Fine," I said, nodding toward the stack of crates. "We start now."

~~~

The hours that followed were grueling, more for her than for me. I showed her how to hold a blade properly, how to block and parry, how to keep her footing when the ground shifted beneath her.

She was clumsy, her movements stiff and awkward, but she didn't complain. Not once.

Her determination was infuriating and impressive all at once.

"Not like that," I barked, stepping behind her to adjust her grip. "Loosen your wrist. You're not hacking at firewood."

She let out a frustrated huff but did as I said. Her shoulders were tense, and I placed my hands lightly on them to guide her into the right stance.

"Relax," I said. "If you're stiff, you're slow. And if you're slow, you're dead."

She exhaled sharply, her muscles loosening slightly under my hands.

"Better," I said, stepping back. "Now, swing."

She swung, and this time it was almost passable.

"Good," I said grudgingly.

She lowered the blade, her chest heaving from exertion. "Is that a compliment?"

"Don't push your luck," I said, though I couldn't stop the small smirk that tugged at my lips.

She smiled faintly, and for a moment, the tension between us eased.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked after a long silence, her voice quiet but steady.

I met her gaze, my expression unreadable.

Because I don't want to see you die.

Because I see something in you I don't understand.

Because I care more than I should.

Instead, I shrugged. "Like I said, you're no use to me dead."

Her expression darkened, but she didn't press the issue.

"Go get some rest," I said, turning away. "We'll continue tomorrow."

She lingered for a moment before nodding and leaving the hold.

I watched her go, the weight of her question still pressing on my chest.

Why was I helping her?

The answer was simple, even if I didn't want to admit it.

Because she reminded me of something I'd lost a long time ago.

And that terrified me.