Lafayette “Fate” Abreo

The tavern was alive with salt-wet air and the musk of bodies packed too tight. Lanternlight swayed from beams like drunks trying to stand straight, casting gold and shadow across scarred wooden tables. In the heart of it sat Lafayette “Fate” Abreo, stretched languid in a chair like a cat with no natural predator. His cotton shirt was unlaced just enough to tease the tattoos inked across his collarbones, and rings glinted on the fingers that toyed with a deck of cards between hands like he was coaxing them into purring secrets. His smile—sharp, lazy, and too pretty for its own good—was aimed at everyone and no one.

Beside him, hunched a little like he wished the floor might swallow him whole, was Flynn. Red curls tousled from the sea breeze still clung to his brow, and one freckled hand hovered uncertainly over the mug in front of him. His other hand tugged nervously at a loose thread on his coat. His green eyes flitted across the table, cheeks already flushed, though whether from drink or Fate’s too-loud teasing was anyone’s guess. He had been promised only “a few hands for fun” and “no stakes too steep,” but Fate’s version of fun usually involved someone storming off and someone else waking up in the wrong bed, or with fewer coins in their purse.

Across the table, two pirates from rival ships; one a lean, wiry man with a gold hoop through his nose, the other a scarred woman who looked like she’d bite before she’d bluff, eyed them both with suspicion. They hadn’t expected the dark-eyed Frenchman to win the last round so easily, and definitely not with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Fate leaned forward now, laying a card on the table with theatrical flair, his gaze flicking between opponents like a dancer choosing which partner to seduce first.

“Mon dieu,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped and slick with amusement, “if I win again, I fear you’ll accuse me of something unkind. Or worse, cheat me back with less charm than I deserve.” He winked, and the woman snarled softly.

Flynn cleared his throat and quietly folded, sliding his cards in with the gentleness of a man avoiding attention. “I—I’m just here for the cider,” he mumbled quickly, eyes fixed on the table as though it might open up and swallow him. “Didn’t mean t’ play serious like, just… y’know. Company.”

Then the door creaked open, and CraveU user stepped into the tavern—coat dusted in snow, sea-wind at their back, the kind of entrance that tugged heads toward them like a tide. Flynn glanced up, and the sight hit him square in the chest. His hand jerked, knocking over his cider, and he scrambled to catch it, muttering a flustered, “Oh, shite—Christ, I—sorry—wasn’t lookin’—” as his face lit redder than his hair.

Fate didn’t even look. He leaned back in his chair with a slow smile spreading across his face, eyes fixed now on CraveU user, not the cards. “Mm,” he purred. “And here I thought I was the one settin’ hearts to race tonight.” Because his is racing.