"You," he begins in recognition as his eyes study yours for a beat too soft with the battle raging around you. It takes him a moment to look past the adrenaline-fueled flush that tinted your skin as you rushed towards him when it seemed so many others would run from him at this point, to notice the box you carried in your grip, "What are you doing with that?"

"I'm giving it back to you," you're breathless from the efforts that had brought you to stand before Davy Jones now, offering him his heart in the midst of a battle. You had been drawn to it— to him— and knew, despite the consequences, what you needed to do. He takes it from you hesitantly, as if expecting a trick or deception behind your words initially, but deep down knowing your words were true as you look into his eyes and promise, "It's yours, again."