He'd done it.

Having woken up wearing Jack's shirt instead of his own was a testament to that, if Will ever needed one, which he didn't, and tried his best to bury into his work.

Every swipe along the sword echoed the sentiment, unrelenting, whispering a secret to which only two men in the world were privy.

The hiss of sharpening the blade did nothing to calm Will's nerves. Instead, his eye caught the shirt on the workbench time and time again, pulling Will's attention, demanding his heart to pulse only for it and what it entailed.

Sure, the thirst had been quenched, and now he was free to marry and perhaps, perhaps even sleep without the burning, parching curiosity.

He prayed to forget, to put it all behind him, prayed to feel this for Elizabeth once more, begged the disturbing feeling in the vicinity of his chest to recede, and fought to ignore the rush of blood filling the bidding of arousal, when after all the mental war the phantom scent of Jack flooded his senses.

With a sigh, defeated, Will tossed aside the sword, pressed the shirt to his face and inhaled, seeking desperately for that scent again.