i miss ace

The weeks that followed bled into one another, blurring the lines between day and night seeminglessly. The village of Sphinx settled into a new, comfortable rhythm, and you were at the very center of it.

The “school” had grown. It wasn’t just a patch of dirt and driftwood anymore; it was a small, organized chaos of learning. You had managed to scavenge enough discarded slate and smoothed stones to create a rudimentary “textbook” system. The children were no longer just learning letters; they were learning to count, to map the tides, and to recognize the medicinal herbs that the village elders used.

You found yourself looking at the children differently now. You saw the spark of curiosity in Leo’s eyes, the way his small hands moved with growing precision, and the way they all looked to you for guidance. You had grown to love them - not with the soft, sentimental love of a parent, but with the fierce, protective love of a teacher who could not wait to see their full potential unleashed. 

And that was the problem. Because the more you loved the children, the more the horizon felt like a threat.

In the village square, everything was normal. You and Marco functioned with a professional, almost clockwork efficiency. He would pass you in the market, a polite nod of his head, a “Good morning, yoi,” and a brief, friendly exchange about the day's supplies. To the villagers, you were the dedicated new teacher and the reliable doctor, two pillars of their small community.

But the moment the doors of the clinic closed, or the moment you found yourself alone in the kitchen, the air turned cold.

The silence between you was no longer the comfortable, shared quiet you used to enjoy. It was a thick, impenetrable barrier built of everything you weren’t saying. Every time your eyes met, there was a momentary, electric flash of recognition - a memory of heat and skin and breathless cries - and then, almost instantly, Marco would look away. He would pull back, his expression settling into that calm, unshakeable mask of maturity.

It was maddening.

It’s just professional, you told yourself, even as your chest tightened with irritation. He’s being mature. He’s honoring what he said. It was just physical.

But his so-called “maturity” felt like a cold, calculated withdrawal. It felt like he was retreating into his fortress, leaving you standing outside the gates, wondering if you had misread the entire thing. You knew he had a reason - you could see the way he fought himself, the way his hand would tighten on a medical tool when you entered the room - but knowing he had a reason didn’t make the isolation any less cruel.

One evening, you were bringing a tray of tea to the clinic. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of purples and oranges. You pushed the door open, the hinges sounding louder than usual in the quiet.

Marco was hunched over a desk, the candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across his face. He looked exhausted. He always looked exhausted lately, as if the weight of the village - and the weight of whatever he was carrying and wouldn’t tell you - was physically crushing him.

“Tea,” you said, your voice a bit sharper than you intended.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before he blinked and looked down at his charts. “Thank you, yoi.”

You set the tray down deliberately. “You’ve been working for six hours straight, Marco. Even a doctor needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” he said, his tone professional. “Just a few more patients to process for tomorrow.”

“You're not fine,” you snapped, the irritation finally bubbling over. “You’re a ghost. You’re right here, but you’re not here.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Marco froze, his pen hovering over the parchment. He didn’t look up. He didn’t move. He just sat there, his shoulders rigid, the candlelight flickering in the hollows of his cheeks.

“I am being responsible,” he said finally, his voice low and dangerously steady. “I am ensuring this village stays healthy. I am being... what is required of me.”

“Is that all you are now?” you whispered, the hurt cutting through your anger. "Some set of requirements? You know none of the villagers would want this!”

He finally looked up, and for a heartbeat, the mask slipped. You saw it - the raw pain, the hunger, and the terrifying conflict raging behind his eyes. It was a look of profound, agonizing longing, and… grief. Fear.

But then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. The mask slid back into place, cold and impenetrable.

“I am a doctor, yoi,” he said and turned away from you. “And you are a teacher. We have duties to fulfill.”

You stared at him, a lump forming in your throat. You wanted to scream, to shake him, to demand that he stop being so damn clinical and start being human again. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t break the wall he had built.

You turned and walked out, the sounds of your footsteps feeling heavy and hollow. 

As you sat in your room that night, staring out at the stars you had taught the children to map, the realization hit you with the force of a tidal wave that threatened to drown you. The sea was calling. You were a woman of the wind and the waves, a person who lived by the compass and the current.

But as you watched the moonlight dance on the distant ocean, all you could think about was the way the stars looked from the village square, and the way the children’s laughter sounded in the distance.

Leaving was becoming an impossibility. You weren’t just teaching them how to navigate their island; you were learning how to belong to it, too. And the most terrifying part was realizing that you were starting to belong to him, too.

The sun was high and merciless when Silas, one of the village’s oldest residents, approached you. He moved slowly due to his age, but his eyes remained sharp and bright. He sat on the edge of the stone well, watching you organize a pile of smoothed river stones for the children’s counting lessons.

“It’s a fine thing you’re doing, Teacher,” Silas said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

“Thank you, Silas,” you replied, wiping sweat from your brow. “It’s just a way to… pass the time.”

“Is it?” He chuckled. “I think it’s more than that. I think you’ve planted a seed already, even if that wasn't your intention. And if you’ve planted a seed, you’ll need a proper place to let it grow. We all want to build you a school. A real one. With walls to keep out the rain and a roof to shade the little ones.”

You paused. A knot of apprehension tightened in your chest. “Silas, I... I don’t think that’s a good idea. This village is small. It’s mostly the elders and the children. A permanent thing like that... it’s a big commitment for a community that might not need it for long.”

You didn’t say the rest: I might not be here for long.

Silas leaned forward, his gaze steady. “We know you’re a pirate. We know the sea has a way of pulling people back to it. We aren’t fools, Y/N. But we also know that even if you leave, the school stays. The knowledge stays. So it's fine. Let us do that for you and the children.”

The sincerity in his voice left you breathless. Slowly, you looked around the square - at the weathered houses, the worn paths, the faces of the people who had begun to look at you not as a stranger, but as a fixture of their lives.

“If… if the village wants it,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, “then I will help.”

The construction began pretty quickly, just days after. The village men, fueled by Silas’s enthusiasm, spent their afternoons hauling timber and mixing mortar, despite most of their advanced ages. And, much to your internal chaos, so did Marco.

He had already taken on the medical needs of the village, but he seemed determined to shoulder the physical burden of the school as well. He would emerge from the clinic, his medical coat discarded, appearing in the square with rolled-up sleeves and a heavy hammer in hand.

The rhythmic strike of his hammer against a nail became the soundtrack of your afternoons. 

It was torture. 

You were supposed to be teaching the children under the shade of the large oak tree, but your eyes were traitorous. They constantly drifted toward the construction site. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sweat on the nape of his neck, how his back muscles rippled and bunched beneath his thin, damp shirt as he lifted heavy beams. Every time he moved, every time his shirt clung to the broad expanse of his shoulders, a jolt of heat flared in your gut, making it impossible to focus on whatever you were teaching at the moment.

And the awkwardness... it was suffocating. 

Whenever you had to pass him to fetch supplies, or when a child would run between you, the air would suddenly thicken. You could feel his gaze on you even when he was supposedly looking at a piece of timber. You knew he was thinking about the porch. You knew he was thinking about the way you had gasped beneath him. And you knew, with a terrifying certainty, that he could feel your eyes tracing the lines of his body, too.

But beneath the tension, a darker concern was growing.

Marco was… fading.

He wasn’t just looking like a ghost anymore; he was becoming one. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened even further. His movements, usually so precise and powerful, typical for a doctor and former first commander of the Whitebeard pirates, were now occasionally marred by a slight, tell-tale tremor in his hands. He worked with grim determination, as if he were trying to outrun something.

One afternoon, as the heat reached its peak, you watched him struggle with a particularly heavy piece of cedar. He gripped the wood, his knuckles white, his jaw set so tight you thought his teeth might crack. He heaved, a low, strained groan escaping his lips and for a second… he swayed.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You started to rise, your hand reaching out instinctively, but he steadied himself against the timber, his breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. He didn’t look up. He didn’t acknowledge that you had seen him stumble. He simply wiped his face with a forearm and continued.

That night, the silence of the house felt even more swallowing. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle. You waited. You waited for the sound of the floorboards, for the shadow at your window, for the restless movement that had become your nightly ritual of observation.

But there was nothing. Only the silence.

You realized then that he wasn’t even wandering the porch anymore. He wasn’t even in the house. He was simply... gone. You had no idea where he was, but you knew he wasn’t sleeping. He was running himself into the ground, perhaps to punish himself, or perhaps because the thought of closing his eyes and seeing you was more than he could bear.

“He watches them, my dear. Every single night, he stands there, but he never walks all the way. Not once.”

Shit, that scared you.

You stopped dead in your tracks, your basket of slate tiles nearly slipping from your grip. The old woman - her name was Elara, a frail thing you’d only ever seen alone on her porch - was pointing with a gnarled finger toward the northern hill. The wind whipped her thin, gray hair across her face, but her eyes were fixed on the slope where the graves of none other than the legendary Whitebeard and Portgas D. Ace lay.

The dry grass shivered around her ankles.

“Who?” you asked, though your heart hammered a sudden rhythm against your ribs. You knew who, of course you did. A part of you just needed her to say it out loud.

“Our Marco,” she said, her voice raspy and with profound sadness. “He stands on the edge of the cliff, staring down at those grand memorials, but no step further. He watches them, as if he’s waiting for them to tell him it’s alright to rest and to grieve and to move on. But he won’t step into that hallowed ground. Never.”

She turned to you, her milky eyes piercing. Those next words were meant for you and you only. “He’s a man carrying an ocean of grief, child. And he thinks if he stops moving - if he stops working, stops helping us in Whitebeard's name - the weight of it will finally crush him.”

You stood frozen as Elara shuffled away, leaving you alone with the biting wind. The pieces of the puzzle, the ones you had been too self-absorbed to put together, suddenly clicked into place with a sickening thud. You were a navigator of a late pirate crew; you knew the history of the seas, the legends of the Great War, the stories of the Whitebeard Pirates. You knew about Marineford. You knew about Ace dying in his brother's arms and the loss of a legend that was Edward Newgate. You knew Marco was the one who had stayed behind to lead his remaining crew into the Payback war where they were ultimately defeated by Blackbeard.

He had told you, after all. And you realized he only told you because, at that time, everyone - including you - still thought you would leave. He told you because you were a stranger and he needed someone to listen, just once.

Oh, Marco.

The distance you had felt wasn’t just because of your weird sexual tension… Actually, you were fairly sure you were the smallest reason for why he was acting like this. No, it was him trying to keep his composure because if he let a single crack form in his armor, the dam would break. He wasn’t just tired or uninterested in you after he had slept with you once; he was scared. Or broken. Possibly both at once. He was the doctor for everyone else, stitching up cuts and setting bones, but he was a man who had never allowed himself to be stitched up. A wave of shame washed over you, hot and stinging. You had been frustrated by the way he acted, annoyed by his withdrawal, while he had been standing on a ridge every night, haunted by the ghosts of his past.

The next few days passed in a blur. You tried to bury the gnawing guilt under a mountain of lessons and activities.

“What does A stand for?” you asked Maya, pointing to a crudely drawn letter on a slate board.

“Apple!” she chirped, holding up a small, red fruit. The poor children still had a few troubles with the letters, so you decided it was time for a revision today.

“Excellent!” you praised, forcing a smile. The children’s bright faces were a temporary balm for your soul against the turmoil inside you. 

Meanwhile, the construction of the school continued. The sounds of hammers and saws filled the air, a constant reminder of Marco’s presence. He was there every afternoon among the other men. He moved with a practiced efficiency, lifting beams, sawing planks, his muscles coiling and releasing under the strain.

You watched him from under the shade of the old oak tree, your gaze lingering on the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his shirt clung to his broad shoulders. The familiar spark of physical attraction was still there, a persistent, unwelcome fire in your belly. But now, it was tinged with a deep, aching sadness.

He looked perpetually exhausted. He rarely spoke, offering only grunts of effort or brief, clipped instructions to the other men. When your eyes met, which was rare and accidental, there was no flicker of the desire from that night. Only a carefully constructed blankness, a wall that was now higher and thicker than ever before.

You missed him. You missed him so much, not even the sex, but talking with him. Laughing with him. Enjoying each other’s presence like you did when he was still caring for you all these weeks ago.

And so, you decided that enough was enough.

The sun was dipping low that day. The men had just finished securing the last timber beam for the day, and a sense of tired camaraderie filled the air. Marco stood among them, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, listening to Silas recount an exaggerated tale of something you couldn’t quite make out. He looked utterly spent, his shoulders slumped, his eyes shadowed with a weariness that went bone-deep.

You approached the small cluster of men, your heart hammering against your ribs. This was it. No more dancing around the edges.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” you said, your voice cutting through the easy chatter. “Sorry, but I need to borrow the doctor for a moment.” You reached out, placing a firm hand on Marco’s forearm. His skin felt very warm, even through the thin fabric of his shirt.

A few whistles erupted from the men. 

“Go on, Marco! The teacher needs her private lesson!” Silas chuckled, a knowing glint in his eye.

Marco stiffened, his gaze snapping to yours. For a fleeting second, you saw a flicker of surprise, then that familiar, impenetrable mask settled over his features. He didn't protest or pull away. He simply let you lead him.

You navigated him away from the bustling construction site, toward a quieter spot near a stack of fresh-cut lumber. You gestured for him to sit on one of the smooth, planed beams. He did, his movements slow, as if every joint ached. You sat beside him and deliberately left enough space between your hips.

“Marco,” you began carefully, your voice trying to project a calm you didn’t entirely feel. You looked at his hands, calloused and strong, resting on his knees. “This... this can’t go on.”

He didn’t respond, just stared straight ahead at the distant ocean, his jaw clenched.

“The way things have been between us since…,” you continued, pressing on. “It’s not helping anyone. Especially not you.”

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. “Look, that night... on the porch, in your room... it happened. It was good, and we both enjoyed it. But it was just physical, right? Just like you said. And I think we both need to just... forget about it.”

He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. They were dark, unreadable, but he was unable to hide the exhaustion in them.

“Forget about it?” he rasped, his voice rough. “You think it’s that easy, yoi?”

“It has to be,” you insisted, leaning slightly closer, your voice dropping to a near whisper. “Because you’re running yourself ragged. You’re barely sleeping. You’re carrying the weight of this entire village, and... and other weights too, I know.” You didn't mention anything more. Not yet. It was too soon, and you knew he had to willingly come to you and tell you once he was ready. “You need a friend, Marco. Someone you can talk to. Someone who can just... be there.”

You reached out, hesitantly, and placed your hand on his. His skin felt just like you had remembered. He didn’t pull away.

“I can be that person,” you said, looking directly into his tired eyes. “But not if we’re constantly caught in this... this tension. We need to forget that night ever happened, and just go back to being... normal. To being friends. We’re both adults, so I believe that we can do this.”

The silence seemed to stretch on forever after you finished speaking. You could hear the distant chirping of crickets starting their nightly chorus. Marco stared at your hand on his, then back at your face. His expression was a storm of conflicting emotions - relief, then disbelief, then a flash of something that looked like hurt. He looked like a man being offered water after years in the desert, but he was too afraid to drink.

“Friends,” he repeated, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. He let out a long, slow breath, a heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the burdens of his past. He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say no. He just squeezed your hand, a firm, almost desperate pressure, before letting go.

He stood up, his tall frame looming over you. “I... I have more work to do, yoi. In the clinic.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the growing night, leaving you sitting alone on the lumber with the fragile hope of a new beginning fluttering in your chest.

The next morning dawned and you woke up feeling an odd mix of relief and apprehension. You had laid your cards on the table, however awkwardly and desperately. Now, the ball was in Marco’s court, and all you could do was wait for his play.

He was already gone when you ventured into the clinic for breakfast. The kitchen was meticulously clean, a half-empty pot of coffee still warm on the stove. He had left no note, no sign of his presence other than the lingering scent of his strong coffee. It was a familiar pattern, one that had become ingrained into the fabric of your days, but today it felt… different. 

You went about your morning routine, preparing for the children. The slate tiles you had dropped the previous day were scattered near the lumber pile, a stark reminder of Elara’s words. You picked them up, one by one, the cool stone a grounding presence in your hand. The image of the graves refused to leave you.

You frowned as you arranged the slate pieces into a neat stack.

The graves weren’t abandoned, you knew that despite never visiting them yourself. Because Marco still couldn't, the villagers did it for him. 

Your fingers brushed against a small cluster of blue daisies growing near the fence. Their petals were bright despite the poor soil. You gently tilted one of the flowers between your fingers. Blue daisies. In many places, they symbolized innocence, new beginnings and loyalty. A good flower, you thought. 

Your gaze drifted toward the distant hills and clicked your tongue softly. Perhaps it was the gardener in you. Perhaps it was simply impossible for you to leave flowers alone once you noticed them.

Either way, the thought lingered. The children arrived not long after, dragging driftwood slates and charcoal with them.

“Teacher!”

“Teacher, look! I practiced my letters!”

“Teacher, Maya stole my charcoal!”

The moment swept you away as always. Lessons began with laughing like always.

And so, the day passed. Then another. And the next morning, while gathering herbs near the western cliffs, you found yourself stopping beside a patch of other blue flowers and your eyes lit up instantly.

Delphinium. Not common on Sphinx. The blossoms swayed gently in the breeze, brilliant blue against the green hillside. It wasn’t a coincidence that you chose blue flowers twice. Blue often symbolized remembrance. A fitting sentiment.

Carefully, you dug around the roots, Not enough to damage them, just enough to relocate a few healthy plants. You carried them back in a basket alongside your herbs. No one questioned you, at least of all Marco. After all, you were always collecting flowers, and he knew that.

A few days later, Mika spotted you near the well with dirt beneath your nails and several packets of seeds tucked under one arm. “More flowers?” the older woman asked fondly. You looked down at them. They were a mix of white, yellow and even more blue. “Mhm,” you hummed, looking down on them with a thoughtful smile.

“ou planning another garden, Y/N?” She asked. You smiled. “Something like that.”

Nothing more needed to be said. The flowers disappeared one basket at a time. The villagers paid little attention, mostly because the active construction and taking care of the children consumed most of their time. No one thought much of it if you carried a few more flowers than usual with you.

Except perhaps old Elara. Because every few mornings, just after sunrise, before the children arrived and before the village fully woke, she would occasionally spot a familiar figure walking the northern path carrying fresh flowers. And every few mornings, that same figure would return with empty hands and dirt beneath her fingernails.

As you gathered the children for their lessons today under the shade of the growing school, the sounds of construction began, early as always. The rhythmic impact of hammers on wood echoed across the square. You saw Marco then, already at work, with his back to you and his movements efficient and powerful. He didn’t look up nor acknowledge your presence. He was focused solely on the task at hand.

The day passed in a careful dance of avoidance. When you needed to retrieve a tool from the area where he was working, you made sure to approach from a wide angle, keeping your gaze fixed on the ground. When he passed by the oak tree where you taught, carrying a heavy plank, he would simply nod curtly to the other men, while his eyes were never quite meeting yours. The air around him felt like a palpable shield, deflecting any attempt at casual interaction.

It was infuriating, but also heartbreaking. You had asked for normalcy, for friendship, but it seemed he had interpreted it as a complete withdrawal. He was enforcing the boundary you had proposed with a rigidity that stung. You wanted to scream, to shake him and remind him that “normal” meant talking, not acting like strangers. But the image of those graves, the understanding of the burdens he carried, held your tongue. He needed space, you reasoned, and perhaps this was his way of processing.

All you could do was take care of the one thing you know he couldn’t.

Days bled into a week, then two. The schoolhouse began to truly take shape. Walls rose, a rudimentary roof frame was installed, and the distinct smell of fresh-cut lumber mingled with the salty sea air. The children were ecstatic already. They’d often sneak away from lessons to watch the men work, and you could see their small faces rapt with admiration.

Your interactions with Marco remained minimal. Brief, clipped exchanges about necessary materials, or the occasional question about a child’s scraped knee. He was polite, professional, and still utterly distant. Yet, you found yourself observing him more keenly than ever.

You noticed the way his hands, so precise during surgery, handled the rough timber with a surprising gentleness when he thought no one was watching. You saw the subtle flinch when a loud bang of a dropped tool startled him, a tiny tremor that spoke of obvious frayed nerves. And you saw the lines of exhaustion around his eyes deepen with each passing day. He was still not sleeping, you knew that. The clinic light would often burn late into the night, and then, in the pre-dawn hours, you’d hear the faint sounds of him moving about, starting his day before the sun had even considered rising.

One afternoon, a particularly wild game of tag among the children ended with Leo tripping over a stray piece of wood. The poor boy landed hard on the ground, scraping his knee and palm. A high-pitched wail erupted from him.

“Leo! Are you alright?” you rushed over, kneeling beside him, assessing the damage. It was a nasty scrape, already welling with blood and grit.

Marco was there almost instantly, his large frame appearing at your side. His doctor’s instincts overrode whatever invisible barrier he had erected. He dropped to one knee, pulling a small, clean cloth from his pocket.

“Let me see, yoi,” he said in his familiar calm and authoritative voice. The familiar tone that always soothed you, even when you were the one injured many weeks ago. He gently took Leo’s knee, his calloused thumb brushing away some of the dirt.

“It hurts, Marco,” Leo whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

“I know, little one. But you’re a brave boy, aren’t you? We’ll clean this up, and you’ll be back to chasing Maya in no time.” He glanced at you. “Bring me some clean water and some antiseptic from the clinic. We’ll need to keep this from getting infected.”

You nodded, already moving. This was familiar territory, a return to your previous and efficient partnership. As you retrieved the supplies, you watched him distract Leo with his low voice murmuring reassurances while his large hand was surprisingly gentle as he held the boy still. It was a small, almost insignificant moment, but it was the first time in weeks that you felt a sliver of his old dynamic return.

When you came back, Marco was already preparing the wound. He glanced up, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours. There was no awkwardness this time, no forced distance, only a shared concern for the child. It was a silent acknowledgment, and finally, a tiny crack in the wall.

“Here,” you said, handing him the small bottle of antiseptic.

“Thanks.” His voice was still clipped, but softer than it had been. He dabbed the antiseptic onto Leo’s knee, making the boy hiss and whine.

“Just a little sting, Leo,” you murmured, rubbing his back. “Then it will feel much better.”

“See? She’s right,” Marco added, a faint smile touching the corner of his lips. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you saw it. A tiny spark of the man you knew.

After Leo was patched up and sent off with strict instructions to be careful, Marco stood, stretching his back. He looked at the half-finished school, then at the setting sun.

“Good work today,” he said, not specifically to you, but more to the lingering air. “We’re making good progress.”

You remained silent, just watching him. He seemed to expect no reply. He turned to leave, then hesitated. “Get some rest, yoi. And whenever you see him, make sure Leo keeps that bandage clean.”

“I will,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “You too, Marco. Get some rest.”

He didn’t respond, just walked away. But the conversation, however brief and mundane, felt like a victory.

The school neared completion. The roof was on, the windows were framed, and the interior was being fitted with makeshift desks and benches. The village buzzed with anticipation.

You found yourself spending more time at the construction site, not just observing, but actively participating when you weren’t teaching. You helped paint the interior walls and carved small, intricate designs into the wooden nameplates for each child’s desk.

Marco was always there of course. He still maintained his distance, but the forced awkwardness had begun to dissipate. Now, it was a comfortable silence, punctuated by necessary exchanges.

One afternoon, you were struggling to hoist a heavy wooden bench into place. It was awkward, unwieldy, and despite your best efforts, it kept slipping. “Ugh!” You grunted, straining, your muscles protesting.

Suddenly, a large hand appeared, steadying the bench. Marco, without a word, took the heavier end and together, you lifted it, guiding it into its designated spot against the wall. 

“Thanks,” you breathed, flexing your sore shoulders.

He just nodded, his gaze sweeping over the newly arranged classroom. “Looks good, yoi. The children will like it.”

“I hope so,” you said, a small smile touching your lips. “It’s almost ready for them.”

He walked over to a window, running a calloused finger along the smooth frame. “A proper place to learn, they deserve that.”

You watched him, noting the rare, almost wistful expression on his face. This was it. This was the opening.

“You know,” you began, keeping your voice light and conversational. “Silas told me you were the one who gathered most of the materials. That you spent days scouting the island for the best timber.”

He turned, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected you to notice, or to care. “Someone had to. Good wood is hard to come by on this island, and I couldn’t let the elders do it.”

“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “It's… a way to build something that will last.”

He looked away, back out the window, his gaze distant. “Perhaps.” His voice was almost inaudible.

“It’s a good thing you’re doing, Marco," you pressed gently. “To… build something.”

He remained silent for a long moment, the only sounds the distant caw of a seagull and the gentle creak of the newly settled wood. Then, he turned fully to face you. His eyes were still shadowed, but there was a vulnerability there that hadn’t been present before.

“It’s... hard to build when you feel like everything you touch turns to dust,” he said. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief.

You didn’t respond immediately. You didn’t need to. You simply met his gaze, offering a silent acknowledgment of the pain he had just revealed. You didn't try to fix it, and didn’t offer platitudes. You just saw him.

He looked at you for a long moment, then a slow, heavy sigh escaped him. “I should... I should check on the clinic supplies.”

“Of course,” you said, knowing the conversation was over for now. He was retreating, but not with the same defensive wall. This time, it felt like a retreat to process and to gather himself.

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🔥 ace

✧ tba...

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🪽 marco

✧ where flowers bloom again || 🌊♡☾🔥

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🌞 sabo

✧ tba...

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🫀 law

✧ tba...

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⚙️ kid

✧ tba...

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🍺 shanks

✧ tba...

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🗡️ mihawk

✧ tba...

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⚔️ zoro

✧ tba...

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🚬 sanji

✧ tba...

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legend

It took only a few days until the “school” had become a permanent fixture of the village square, a loud place of learning where the air was perpetually filled with the rhythmic scratching sounds of charcoal and the melodic chaos that children naturally carried. You had moved from the dirt to flat pieces of driftwood and slate scraps, teaching the children not just letters, but the names of the stars and the currents of the sea.

“Teacher! Teacher!” Maya squealed, running toward you with a handful of crushed wildflowers. “Look! I made a yellow S!”

You took the wilted offering with a grin. “It’s beautiful, Maya. A very sunny S.”

“Can we learn the C today? The C for Captain?” a small boy asked, his eyes wide with longing.

“We’ll see,” you promised. “First, we finish the vowels.”

The village has changed in the short time you’ve been here. The old women, who once whispered about your presence, now brought you bowls of stew or extra scraps of cloth. They watched from their porches, their eyes no longer suspicious, but curious - and occasionally, with a mischievous glint you grew more and more suspicious of. They watched the way you looked toward the clinic when the bells rang, and the way Marco’s gaze would linger on the square whenever he stepped out for air.

Today, the afternoon was bright and humid, the kind of heat that makes the horizon shimmer. You were mid-sentence, explaining the concept of a horizon line to a group of rapt listeners, when the world suddenly shifted.

It wasn’t a sound at first. It was a spike of pure, harsh sensation - a cold, sharp ripple in the air that hit your mind like a physical blow. Observation Haki. Your eyes snapped toward the jagged cliffs that bordered the village.

“Teacher? What's wrong?” Leo asked, sensing your sudden unease.

“Stay here,” you commanded, your voice dropping into the low, authoritative tone of a navigator in a storm. “Do not move from this spot. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Teacher…” the children whispered in unison, their voices trembling, all of them clearly confused but still listening to your order.

The sound of stone shearing away from the cliff echoed through the valley, followed by a harrowing, high-pitched scream.

“AAAAAAAGH! HELP! SOMEBODY!”

The scream belonged to Haru, the little boy who had found you washed ashore almost two weeks ago. You cursed as you realized that he hadn’t been playing near the cliffs like the children often did; he had been climbing the old, abandoned watchtower near the edge of the village. And now a loose stone had given way.

You didn’t think. You ran. Your lungs burned, and your ribs protested with a sharp stabbing sensation, but you pushed through it. Your Haki was screaming at you, a frantic pulse in the back of your skull, guiding you toward the source of the distress.

“Haru!” you screamed, your voice tearing through the air.

As you rounded the corner of the tower, you immediately saw him. The boy was sprawled on a narrow ledge about fifteen feet down, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. His face was a mask of tears and dirt.

“Teacher! It hurts! It hurts so much!” he wailed, his sobs turning into pathetic, gasping whimpers. 

“Haru, look at me!” you shouted, dropping to your knees at the edge of the cliff. “Keep your eyes on me! Don’t look down! Just look at my face!”

“I can’t... I can’t move…” he sobbed. “Waaaaah!”

“I’m coming for you. I promise!”

“Is he alright? What happened?” The voice was deep, steady, and undeniably coming closer. You didn’t have to turn to know it was Marco. He had arrived with the silent efficiency of a man used to responding to emergencies.

“He fell from the tower,” you said, your voice tight. “His leg is definitely broken. I-i can see the swelling. We need a splint and a sedative, fast.”

“Move aside, yoi,” Marco commanded. It wasn’t a request. He moved with a terrifying, focused calm, and the way he didn’t look panicked at all calmed you down as well. “I need to secure the line. Can you stabilize his upper body?”

“I’ve got him,” you said. You reached down, your fingers brushing the rough stone. You focused on your entire strength to ensure you wouldn’t slip on the crumbling edge. “Haru, grab my hand! Reach for me! Come on, Haru!”

“I’m scared!” He cried out.

“I know! I know you are! Grab it!” 

With a desperate cry, the boy finally lunged upward. His small, sweaty hand caught yours. You hauled him up with a strength born of pure adrenaline, your muscles straining until, with a final, heavy thud, he tumbled over the ledge and into your arms.

“There you go. You’re okay. You’re okay,” you murmured, pulling him against your chest, ignoring the way your own ribs screamed in protest.

Marco was already there, kneeling beside you both. His hands were checking pulses, assessing the wound, barking out instructions in a blur of motion. “He’s in shock. We need to get him to the clinic immediately. I need the willow bark tincture and clean linen. Now!

“I’ll get them!” you said, though you were still trembling.

The next hour was a complete fever dream. You stayed by Haru's side in the clinic, helping Marco clean the scrapes and stabilize the break. The boy had finally drifted into a medicated sleep, his breathing shallow but steady.

The clinic was silent now, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the distant, low hum of the sea. The adrenaline had subsided, leaving you feeling hollow and profoundly exhausted. You sat on a wooden stool, your head resting in your hands, when you felt a familiar presence.

Marco sat down on the bench opposite you. He didn’t say anything at first. He just sat there, his large frame casting a long shadow in the candlelight. He looked utterly spent and. The circles under his eyes seemed even darker in the dim light.

“You did well, yoi,” he said softly. His voice was barely a whisper, stripped of its usual professional undertone. “Your... your reaction, I mean. You were faster than I expected.”

“I couldn’t let him fall,” you replied, looking up. Your eyes met his, and for a moment, the world felt very, very small. “Thanks to my Haki, I could feel him. Before he even screamed.”

Marco nodded slowly. “Your Observation Haki is better than I expected, yoi.” He reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the table. He hesitated, then his fingers brushed against your knuckles. It was a light, tentative touch, but in the silence of the clinic, it almost felt like an explosion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you turned your hand over, lacing your fingers with his. His skin was warm and calloused.

A sudden, sharp movement startled you and you were immediately thrown back into reality. You both jumped as a small, muffled thump came from the doorway.

You both froze. Peering through the crack in the door were the wide, curious eyes of Mrs. Gable and two other women. They were holding a tray with a steaming pot of tea and a plate of honey cakes.

“We just... brought some tea for the doctor,” Mrs. Gable whispered, her voice brimming with suppressed glee. 

“And for the teacher!” the other woman added, her eyes twinkling. “A little something for the strength you showed!”

“Don’t mind us and just continue where you left off!” They retreated as quickly as they had appeared, their hushed giggles echoing down the hallway.

The silence that followed was heavy and thick with an unspoken realization. Marco didn’t pull his hand away. In fact, his grip tightened slightly. He looked at you, and in the candlelight, you saw it - the sheer vulnerability of a man who had spent a lifetime being a pillar for everyone else, only to realize he was starving for someone to lean on. You were that someone right now.

The way his thumb traced a slow, unconscious circle on the back of your hand... it was so unpracticed, so hesitant, that it confirmed your earlier speculations. This man, the legendary Phoenix, was utterly, hopelessly out of practice. He was a man who had forgotten that touch could be something other than a clinical necessity, especially that of a woman.

“They’re very observant, yoi,” Marco murmured, a faint, genuine flush creeping up his neck.

“They’re Sphinx residents,”you replied, your heart thudding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “It must be in their nature.”

He let out a long, slow breath, a sound that was half-sigh, half-laugh. “Mhm. Yeah, I suppose you’re correct.”

He didn't let go. And as you sat there in the quiet, dark clinic, the scent of dried herbs and salt air surrounding you, you realized that the “school” was no longer the only thing you were building on this island.

A week had passed since the accident at the tower, a week of afternoons spent in the sun with the children and the rhythmic, comforting routine of the clinic. Your ribs had stopped screaming, settling into a dull, manageable ache that luckily vanished the moment you moved. Physically, you were more than ready to return to the sea, to the unpredictable chaos of a navigator’s life without a crew.

But the thought of the horizon felt suddenly, inexplicably hollow.

Marco entered your room with his usual morning stride, the floorboards giving a familiar creak under his weight. He carried a small tray with tea and a bowl of sliced fruit. He looked better - the violet shadows under his eyes had faded to a soft grey - but he still moved with that lingering, heavy tiredness that made you want to reach out and steady him.

Yeah, you really needed to get laid. This was starting to get ridiculous.

“Morning,” he murmured, setting the tray on the bedside table. “How is the breathing today, yoi? Any tightness?”

You took a deep breath, then immediately collapsed into a dramatic, practiced wince. “Oof! Ah... stay back, Marco. It’s... it’s a bit sharp today. A real spike of pain right in my center.”

Marco paused, his hand halfway to the teapot. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He didn’t look concerned. He looked like a man watching a very predictable play.

“A… spike, yoi?” he asked, his voice dangerously smooth.

“A very sharp one indeed,” you insisted, clutching your side and letting out a soft, pathetic moan. “Mmmgh... I think I might need another week of bed rest. Maybe two. To be safe.”

Marco set the teapot down with a deliberate movement. He stepped closer, leaning over you, his shadow engulfing your small frame. He didn’t reach for his stethoscope. Instead, he simply stared at you, a tiny, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You were walking quite briskly toward the window ten minutes ago,” he noted. “I saw you through the glass. You didn't seem to be limping then.”

Your face heated instantly. “I... I was merely testing my limits! It’s a medical necessity to check for sudden onset of... of suddenness!”

“Tsk.” He let out a soft, amused huff. “You’re a terrible liar. Even for a pirate.”

“I am not!” you snapped, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. You scrambled for a different tactic, sitting up - carefully, this time - and smoothing your hair. “Fine. If you won’t buy the pain excuse, then listen to reason. I can’t just leave. Not yet.”

Marco crossed his arms, leaning against the bedpost. “The sea is calling, isn’t it? Your ship is likely wondering where its navigator vanished to.”

“... I don't have a ship anymore.”

“Right. Forgot that detail.”

“Anyways, it's not the sea!” you blurted out, then immediately regretted the volume. You cleared your throat, trying to regain your dignity. “It’s the children. I can't just abandon them in the middle of a curriculum. We’ve only just started the basics of literacy. If I leave now, they’ll lose all their momentum.”

Marco raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes! Especially the celestial navigation lessons,” you said, your voice gaining a frantic fervor. “We were supposed to start mapping the Southern Cross and the North Star this week. If they don’t understand how the stars guide a vessel, they’ll be lost in the dark if they ever sail on their own, metaphorically and literally! It’s... it’s a matter of educational integrity, Marco!”

He stared at you for a painfully long second. The silence in the room stretched on, and you were increasingly getting more nervous. You could hear the distant sounds of the windmills and the faint, joyful shouts of the children in the square. You kept your gaze fixed on a spot in the cedar beam, praying he wouldn’t see the way you were fumbling with your hands or hear the way your heart was currently performing a frantic drum solo against your ribs. 

“Celestial navigation,” Marco repeated, his voice low. He stepped even closer, until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “A very... complex and demanding subject. Requires a lot of... dedicated time.”

“Extremely demanding,” you whispered, your bravado crumbling under the intensity of his gaze.

“And you think the children need you here... specifically to teach them the stars?” He leaned down, his face inches from yours. The amusement in his eyes had shifted into something deeper, something more piercing. “Even if you are perfectly healthy?”

“I... I think it's important,” you stammered, your breath hitching. 

“Hmm.” He let out a long, thoughtful hum that vibrated in the small space between you. “It’s a very noble excuse, yoi.”

You finally looked up, meeting his eyes, and the realization hit you like a physical weight. He knew. He absolutely knew that he was the biggest part of why you were staying, not for the stars or the children or the 'educational integrity.' He could see right through your flimsy walls, right into the part of you that was terrified of the emptiness you’d feel if you sailed away from this island.

And the worst part? He wasn’t calling you out. He was enjoying it.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused, your voice small and utterly flustered.

“I find it... refreshing,” he replied, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his thumb grazing your jawline in a gesture so brief and so tender it made your head spin. “To have someone so determined to stay. Even if they have to invent various excuses to do it.”

He pulled back, a genuine, soft laugh escaping him at your flushed state. He turned toward the tray, picking up the teapot as if the tension hadn’t just threatened to pull the entire air from the room.

“Drink your tea,” he commanded, though the edge was gone, replaced by a warmth that made your skin tingle. “If you’re going to be a teacher, you’ll need your strength. I suppose I’ll have to clear some space in the clinic for your... star charts.”

You sank back against the pillows, your heart still racing, your mind a swirling mess of his voice and the scent of his skin. You were a navigator, trained to read the heavens and find the way home, but as you watched him move about the room, you realized you had no idea how to navigate the territory between you and the man who had just seen you make a complete fool of yourself.

The evening air was cooling, turning the dust of the village square into a soft, amber haze. You were kneeling in the dirt, a long stick in your hand, tracing the jagged outline of Cassiopeia for a group of wide-eyed children. You had run out of slates just yesterday, so back to scraping in the earth.

“And remember,” you said, your voice low and steady, “the stars don’t just sit there. They move. They tell you where you are when you feel lost in the open waters.”

“Like a compass?” Leo asked, his chin resting on his palms.

“Exactly like a compass,” you replied. Haru’s eyes stared at you with obvious excitement, even though the boy was still heavily bandaged due to his injury.

From the shade of a nearby whitewashed porch, a row of elderly women watched the scene with the intensity of hawks. Mrs. Gable sat in the center, her eyes tracking the way you brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“Look at her,” Mrs. Gable whispered, a mischievous glint in her milky eyes. “She’s got that look. The look of a woman who knows exactly how to navigate a storm.”

“Aye,” another woman, Martha, added with a low, throaty chuckle. “And she’s staying for the ‘stars.’ If that isn’t the most beautiful yet obvious lie I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.”

“She’s perfect for him,” a third woman chimed in, leaning forward. “He’s so wound up, he’s practically a coiled spring. If he doesn't find a way to... unwind... soon, he’s going to explode right in the middle of his clinic.”

Mrs. Gable nodded enthusiastically, her gaze drifting toward the clinic down the road. “A man like that needs more than just a nap. He needs someone to take the weight off his shoulders. Someone to make him forget about the medicine and our troubles for a few hours. A little... physical therapy, if you catch my meaning.”

The women erupted into a chorus of hushed giggles as they watched you work.

“She’s a fine girl,” Martha whispered. “Strong enough to hold her own, but soft enough to handle a man like Marco. If she doesn’t claim him, I might just go over there and suggest it myself.”

“Don’t you dare, Martha! You’ll scare her off!”

“Scare her? With a bit of healthy encouragement? As if! Look at the way she looks at our Marco, that girl definitely has some not-so-innocent thoughts about him!”

You felt the weight of their stares, a prickling sensation on the back of your neck, but you ignored it, focusing on the stick in your hand. You were so engrossed in explaining the tilt of the Earth’s axis that you didn’t hear the heavy footsteps approaching until they stopped right behind you.

“The stars are quite bright tonight, yoi.”

The voice was like a low vibration in the air. You jumped, your heart performing a sudden, violent beat against your ribs. You turned to find Marco standing over you, his silhouette cutting a sharp shape against the twilight. He looked exhausted, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the tanned, muscular forearms that always seemed to draw your eyes.

The older women were 100% right.

“Marco,” you breathed, your voice slightly higher than intended. “I didn’t… I didn’t hear you.”

“Hard to hear over the sound of ‘educational integrity,’” he teased, a lazy, tired smile playing on his lips. He sat down on the ground beside you, his thigh brushing against yours.

The contact was electric. A sharp, sudden heat flared where your skin met his, and you had to fight the urge to pull away - or lean in.

“The kids were just learning about the constellations,” you said, trying to sound casual, though your hands were trembling slightly as you gripped the stick.

“Mhm,” Marco hummed, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to settle in your very bones. He looked out at the darkening sky. “It’s a good thing you’re here. The children of Sphinx are lucky to have a navigator to show them the way.”

He turned his head to look at you, and the proximity was almost dizzying. You could smell him - the scent of something purely man, sun-warmed skin, salt, and that faint, lingering aroma of medicinal herbs. His eyes were dark, searching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Is that why you’re really here, yoi?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “To show them the way?”

The silence that followed was thick with everything you weren’t saying. You could feel the heat of his body, the magnetic pull of his mere presence. You were so focused on the war raging in your own mind that you didn’t notice the group of old women on the porch had gone deathly silent, their eyes wide with anticipation.

“I told you,” you whispered, your gaze dropping to his lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to his eyes. “I’m here for the… the stars.”

Marco let out a soft, breathy laugh, a sound that was half-amusement and half-something much more dangerous. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours in the dirt. He didn’t touch you, but you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.

“The stars,” he repeated, his voice a low, velvet caress. “Right. Well... don’t let me interrupt your lesson. I’ll be in the clinic if you... need anything.”

He stood up, his movements slow and deliberate. As he turned to walk away, he glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes locking onto yours one last time. 

“Goodnight, Teacher.”

As he disappeared into the shadows, you let out a long, shaky exhale and leaned back on your hands, trying to steady your racing heart.

“Teacher!” Leo called out, breaking the spell. “What comes after the stars?”

You looked up at the darkening sky, your mind still filled with the image of Marco’s dark, knowing eyes.

“The night, Leo,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “The long, beautiful night.”

From the porch, a single, quiet, and incredibly knowing giggle drifted through the air. “Hehehe…”

The lesson ended under a canopy of silver stars. After the children had wandered home, their voices fading into the quiet hum of the night, you retreated to your room in the cottage. The air was cool, and the silence of the house felt heavy, weighted with the lingering heat of the afternoon’s interactions.

You lay in bed, staring at the cedar beams, but sleep was only a distant memory. Your mind kept drifting back to the way Marco had looked at you in the square - the way his thumb had brushed your hand. 

A restless movement outside caught your eye.

You sat up, sliding toward the window. The moonlight washed the village in a ghostly, pale blue. Down below, near the edge of the clinic’s porch, a silhouette moved. It wasn’t frantic, and you almost missed it. Marco was standing by the stone railing, his back to the house, staring out at the black expanse of the ocean. 

He wasn’t moving much, but his posture was wrong. He wasn’t relaxed; he was rigid, his shoulders pulled tight, his head bowed as if he were bracing against an invisible wind. He stood there for a long time, a solitary, brooding figure against the infinite dark. He looked less like a man resting and more like a man standing guard over a grave.

A strange, aching sympathy bloomed in your chest. You didn’t know what he was looking for out there in the dark, but the stillness of him felt loud.

Moving quietly, you slipped out of bed. You went to the small kitchen area, your movements practiced and silent. You found the dried chamomile and a sprig of lavender you’d set aside earlier. The clink of the ceramic teapot felt loud in the stillness, and you moved with extra care. You brewed the tea, the steam rising upwards in a fragrant cloud.

You wrapped a shawl around your shoulders and stepped out into the night. The air was crisp, biting slightly at your skin. You found him exactly where you had last seen him.

“Marco?” you called softly.

He didn’t jump, but his shoulders tightened slightly before he turned. His eyes were hooded, the exhaustion etched deep into the lines of his face. “Can’t sleep, yoi?”

“Neither can you, it seems,” you said, stepping closer, the warmth of the teapot radiating through the ceramic. You held it out to him. “I made some tea. Chamomile and lavender. It helps with... restlessness.”

He looked at the tea, then back at you. For a moment, he looked like he might refuse, his guard rising instinctively. Then, with a weary sigh that seemed to deflate his entire frame, he reached out. “Thank you.”

He sat on the weathered wooden bench on the porch, and you sat beside him, handing him the cup. The steam curled between you in the moonlight.

“The sea is restless tonight,” he murmured, taking a slow sip. “... It’s a heavy night.”

“It is,” you agreed, keeping your voice low and gentle. You didn’t ask about the ocean, or the way he had been staring at it as if it were an enemy. “Sometimes the silence is louder than any noise.”

He hummed, a low, contemplative sound. “Mhm. You have a way with words, navigator. Even when you're trying to hide behind 'educational integrity.'”

You felt the familiar flush rise in your cheeks. “You’re still on that… I’m not hiding anything.”

“No?” He turned his head, his gaze catching yours. The tension, that electric, unsaid thing between you, hummed in the space between your breaths. “Then what are you doing here, in the middle of the night, bringing tea to a tired doctor?”

“I just thought you looked like you needed it,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

He went quiet, his eyes dropping to the tea. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it also wasn't entirely pleasant; it was thick, pressurized, like the air before a storm. You could hear the rhythmic clashes of the waves against the shore.

“Your shoulders,” you said suddenly, the words escaping before you could weigh them. “They’re practically up to your ears, Marco.”

He let out a dry, short breath. “It’s just work. The clinic... it never really stops, yoi.”

“Let me,” you said. It wasn’t a question.

You moved from your seat to the space behind him. As you reached out, your heart hammered a frantic, familiar rhythm against your ribs. You placed your hands on his shoulders.

He was massive. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, his muscles felt like carved granite, hard and unyielding. As your fingers began to knead the tension, he let out a sharp, sudden intake of breath. “Hah…”

“Relax,” you whispered, leaning in closer. The scent of him - salt and spice and something deeply, inherently him - enveloped you.

You pressed your thumbs into the heavy muscles at the base of his neck, working in slow, deliberate circles. You felt him shudder beneath your touch. He didn’t move away; instead, he leaned back, ever so slightly, his weight pressing against the space you occupied.

“You’re... very good at this,” he rasped. His voice was thick, stripped of its usual composure.

“I told you,” you murmured, your fingers digging deeper, finding the knots that felt like coiled springs. “I know how to handle pressure.”

As you worked, the silence shifted. It was no longer the silence of the night, but a heavy, pulsing intimacy. You could feel the heat of him radiating through your palms, and as his breathing slowed, turning into deep, ragged exhales, the tension in the air reached a breaking point. Every time your knuckles brushed the nape of his neck, or your chest brushed his shoulder, a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity shot through you.

Marco let out a low, guttural moan and his head fell forward, exposing the strong line of his throat. 

You froze, your hands still resting on his shoulders, your breath hitched in your throat. You realized, with a dizzying sense of vertigo, that if you moved even an inch closer, there would be no turning back.

The air grew heavy, static-charged and thick enough to choke on. Your fingers were still pressed into the hard muscle of his trapezius when Marco suddenly groaned, a sound that started deep in his chest and tore its way out. He didn’t turn around, but he grabbed your wrists, his grip firm, hot, and impossible to mistake.

“Stop,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Did I...?”

He pulled your hands from his shoulders, turning on the bench to face you. In the moonlight, his eyes were dark, dilated, and burning with a hunger that stripped away all the layers of his calm, composed doctor persona. The mask of the Sphinx caretaker had slipped, revealing the starving man underneath.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, his breathing jagged. “But you’re playing a dangerous game, yoi. Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. “I... I think I do.”

Marco leaned forward, invading your space until the warmth of him was the only thing you could feel. “It’s been a long time for me. A very long time. And I am not a saint. I’m a man with very basic, very suppressed needs.” He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch rough with restraint. “If you want this - if you want to stop playing 'teacher' and 'doctor' and just... release some of this tension - I would sleep with you. Right here. Right now. But… don’t mistake this for something it isn’t. You’re an incredible woman, Y/N, and I enjoy the time I spend with you, but… This is physical. Purely physical. I need this. You need this. So…”

Your breath hitched. The honesty of it, the blunt, desperate edge to his voice, was more intoxicating than any sweet talk for you right now. “I need it,” you whispered.

He didn’t waste a second. He stood up, pulling you to your feet, and before you could blink, he hoisted you up, seating you on the edge of the weathered wooden bench. The wood was cool against your thighs, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his hands as they slid up your legs, hitching your skirt high.

“God,” he growled, his eyes roaming over your body with the focus of a surgeon, but the fire of a man who had been starving. His hands were everywhere at once, mapping you, worshiping the curve of your hips, the softness of your stomach, the weight of your breasts as he shoved the fabric of your top aside.

“M-marco…” you gasped, a whimper escaping your throat as his mouth found your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered against your skin, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples with agonizing precision. He didn't kiss you - he consumed you. He was desperate, frantic, his hands trembling slightly as they traveled down to your ass, kneading the flesh with a possessive strength. “I’ve thought about this... every night for the past week.”

He moved between your legs, his presence solid and grounding. He didn’t waste time on preliminaries. His hand slid between your thighs, finding you slick and ready, and he didn’t hesitate. He thrust two fingers inside you, hitting your sensitive core with a surgeon’s accuracy.

“Ah! Marco!” You bucked on the bench, your head falling back against the porch railing.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured, his voice thick with arousal. He began to move his fingers, a rhythm that was steady and relentless. He watched your face, drinking in your pleasure, his own gaze hooded and intense. 

He moved your legs, spreading them wider, exposing you completely to the cool night air and his searing touch. He was everywhere - his mouth on your shoulder, his other hand gripping your thigh, his fingers working you until your vision blurred. 

You felt the edge approaching, a delicious, spiraling pressure coiling deep in your belly. You pushed your hips against his hand, gasping, “Marco, p-please…”

“No,” he growled, pulling his fingers out just as you were about to shatter.

You let out a sharp, frustrated cry, your back arching. “What the- Marco!”

He moved closer, his hips pressing against your thighs, his own arousal hard and straining against his trousers. He watched you with a dark, intense look of satisfaction. “Not yet. I want you to feel this. I want you to feel how much you want it.”

He plunged his fingers back in, slower this time, teasing, stretching, driving you to the brink and pulling you back every. single. time. It was torture, exquisite and maddening. The friction, the sound of your own wetness, the way he watched you with that unblinking, almost predatory stare - it was enough to drive you to the edge of sanity.

“Please,” you sobbed, grabbing his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. “I can’t…”

“You can,” he whispered, his voice a low, commanding rumble. He kissed you then, a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of salt and pure desperation. As you surrendered to the kiss, he pushed his fingers deeper, hitting that one spot, faster, harder, rhythmically, ignoring your pleas and pushing you over the edge into a silent, shattering climax that left you gasping and trembling in his arms, clinging to him for dear life as the waves of pleasure refused to let you go. 

He held you there, his hand still inside you, catching every twitch, every shiver. His eyes never left yours, and he looked like a man who had just touched the sun and was ready to burn.

The air on the porch was cooling, but the fire inside you was only raging higher. Marco pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving. The moonlight cast deep shadows across his features, making his eyes look like pools of molten ink.

“Still want to do this, yoi?” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in your very bones. “Remember - this is just release. Nothing else. You’re free to back out any time.”

His disclaimer should have felt cold, but the way he was looking at you - like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, even if only for the night - was scorching. It was dangerous. You knew, somewhere in the back of your mind, that giving yourself to him like this was a fast track to ruin, but the need overriding your common sense was too loud to ignore.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Take me inside.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He scooped you up with terrifying ease, one arm under your knees and the other supporting your back. Being in his arms was a jarring reminder of the difference between you; he was a giant, a man built to command fleets and withstand wars, and you were small, fragile cargo in comparison. 

He carried you into the bedroom, the clinic floorboards groaning slightly under his weight. He didn’t even bother with the lamp. He just let the moonlight spill across the bed, depositing you onto the mattress with a heavy thud. Before you could even blink, he was over you, his large frame eclipsing the room, casting you in total, delicious darkness.

When he pressed his weight down onto you, you were practically swallowed whole by him. It felt like being pinned by a force of nature. He didn’t hesitate, crashing his mouth down onto yours in a kiss that was far less restrained than the ones on the porch. It was wet, demanding, and tasted of suppressed desperation. 

“Mmph…” You made a sound of helpless agreement, your hands clawing at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, though it was impossible to actually be any closer.

His hands were roaming, dragging the hem of your shirt upward, his calloused thumbs grazing your skin with a heat that seemed to burn you alive. He was vibrating with tension, his movements sharp and impatient. You reached down, your hand wandering between your bodies, intending to guide him, but you stopped short. 

He was hard - impossibly hard - straining against the fabric of his trousers. 

You gripped him, wanting to tease him, but your fingers curled around a length that made your heart stop in your chest. You blinked, staring at the silhouette of his lap in the dim light, and then squeezed again, just to be sure. 

Holy shit.

You gasped, the sound ragged and breathless. “W-wait... what the fuck?” you stammered, your eyes widening in the dark as you looked up at him. “Marco, are you... are you serious? You’re…”

He let out a frustrated growl, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. He was panting, his breath hot against your cheek. “I told you I was pent up, yoi,” he groaned, his voice strained as you palmed him again, confirming the sheer, daunting reality of his arousal. “You have no idea.”

“You’re massive,” you whispered, the shock in your voice turning into a wicked, hungry curiosity. 

He shifted, his hand moving to your waist and pinning your hips to the mattress, trapping you beneath him. His eyes were wild, shimmering with a mix of pain and pleasure. 

“Hah... Don’t talk,” he commanded, though there was no malice in it, only the raw, unfiltered need of a man who had forgotten how to be patient. He shoved his knee between your legs, forcing them wider, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Just... take me.”

He didn’t look embarrassed as he said that; he looked ready to pounce on you.

The transition from talking to acting afterwards was a blur of frantic motion. There was no graceful undressing. It was the ripping of fabric, the heavy thud of his trousers hitting the floor, and the desperate, fumbling tug of your own clothes being discarded. Every movement was underscored by the sound of his labored breathing and the frantic beating of your own heart.

When he finally pressed his bare skin against yours, the sensation was overwhelming. He was a mountain of heat and hard muscle. The sheer scale of him made you feel tiny, almost fragile, as he moved back over you. His skin was hot, slightly damp with sweat, and as he moved, the friction of his large, heavy thighs against yours sent jolts of electricity through your nerves.

“Marco... ah!” You gasped as his mouth found your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple with a hunger that felt almost predatory. 

His hands, large enough to nearly wrap around your waist, moved with a possessive intensity. He slid them down, his palms grazing your ribs before gripping your ass, lifting you slightly to get better access. He worshipped your body with a desperate, starving fervor, his mouth trailing fire down your stomach, his teeth grazing the soft skin of your inner thighs.

“So soft,” he muttered against your skin, a low, vibrating hum of approval. 

He moved back up, his weight settling between your legs. The sheer mass of him was staggering, almost frightening if you didn't know the man above you would never hurt you. As he positioned himself, the tip of him brushed against you, and the sensation was so intense you had to grab his forearms just to stay grounded.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice full of nothing but need.

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. He was hovering just inches away, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated longing - for you. The “doctor” was gone. There was only this man, driven by a primal, singular focus.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, though his eyes said he was past the point of caution.

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, your voice hoarse and broken. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He let out a sharp, choked sound and pushed forward.

The sensation was a slow, heavy invasion. You felt every inch of him, the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him stretching you, hitting places inside of you you didn’t even know existed prior. Your eyes flew wide open, your breath catching in a silent gasp as your body struggled to accommodate the sheer scale of him.

“Easy... easy, yoi,” he groaned, his muscles straining as he held himself steady, resisting the urge to thrust wildly into your heat. He stayed still for a moment, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing in synchronized, ragged bursts.

But the stillness couldn’t last any longer, and you both knew. The friction, the heat, the way your body was molding itself to his impossible shape - it was too much. 

And thus, he began to move. It wasn’t a gentle rhythm, and you appreciated that; it was a deep, driving force. The sound of his hips meeting yours echoed in the quiet room. Each thrust was a heavy, blunt impact that seemed to vibrate through your entire being.

“Ah! Ah! Marco!” Your cries were no longer words, just raw sounds of pleasure and shock. 

He was relentless. He moved with a desperate, rhythmic force, his large hands pinning your wrists above your head, anchoring you to the bed as he drove into you. The sensation was a constant, overwhelming flood of heat and pressure. You felt like you were being undone, dismantled by him, piece by piece, over and over again.

“You’re... Fuck me... you’re incredible,” he groaned, his voice breaking. He leaned down, his mouth finding yours again, swallowing your moans as he increased his pace.

The world narrowed down to the friction, the heat, and the heavy, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. You were lost in a sea of sensation, the sheer size of him making every movement feel monumental. You felt the tension building again, higher and sharper than before, a white-hot coil tightening in your gut.

“Marco, I’m... Ah... I’m close!” you screamed, your voice cracking.

“It’s okay, just cum,” he roared, his own composure finally shattering. He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, faster, more violent. “Give it to me, Y/N.”

The world exploded right then and there. You felt the climax hit you like a wave, a violent, shattering release that tore a long, high-pitched scream from your throat. Your entire body convulsed, your muscles clamping down on him in a desperate grip.

Seconds later, Marco followed. He let out a low, primal sound as his body stiffened, his muscles locking tight as he surrendered to the overwhelming force of his own release. He collapsed onto you, his heavy weight pinning you into the mattress, his breath coming in long, shuddering gasps against your neck.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was the frantic, uneven rhythm of your breathing and the distant, rhythmic hum of the sea outside. The silence was heavy, pregnant with the aftermath of the storm that was your intercourse, leaving you both floating in the wreckage of the most intense connection you had ever known.

Marco remained draped over you. You could feel the frantic thudding of his heart against your own ribs, slowly decelerating from a sprint to a heavy, exhausted beat. 

The air in the room felt different now. It wasn’t just warm; it was charged, filled by the unspoken weight of his earlier warning. This is just physical. The words echoed in your mind, a flimsy shield against the reality of how he had just held you, how he had looked at you, and the way his name felt like a prayer on your lips.

Eventually, he shifted, the bed groaning under his movement. He rolled onto his side, pulling you into the crook of his arm. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t offer soft words of comfort or sweet reassurances. He simply held you, his large hand resting heavily on the small of your back, his touch possessive even in his exhaustion. 

You lay there in the dark, your skin tingling, your body feeling heavy and strangely hollow. You knew you should sleep, but your mind was a whirlwind of emotions that felt impossible to nitpick.

“You should go to your room,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that sounded like it had been dragged over stone. He didn’t move to push you away, but the command was there, underlying the exhaustion.

“I know,” you whispered back.

He sat up, the movement slow and deliberate. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his back, the powerful muscles of his shoulders still twitching slightly from the exertion. He reached out, his hand cupping your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

In the dim light, his eyes were unreadable, but the intensity in them was undeniable. He looked like a man who was fighting a war with himself. 

Then, he leaned in.

It wasn’t a gentle goodnight kiss. It wasn’t a soft, tentative brush of lips. He captured your mouth in a kiss that was hard, hungry, and devastatingly thorough. It was a kiss that tasted of desperation and unspoken promises, a kiss that felt less like a goodbye and more like a claim. 

“Marco-!” The sound was swallowed by him as he deepened the contact, his tongue sweeping against yours with a sudden, fierce hunger that made your breath hitch and your toes curl. It was a kiss that contradicted every single word he had said on the porch. It was a kiss that screamed of everything he was trying to deny.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, he pulled away. 

He sat back, his chest heaving slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips one more time before he looked away, his jaw tight. He didn't offer an explanation. He didn’t apologize. He simply waited, his silence a heavy shroud.

“Go,” he said, his voice harder now, though the tremor in it betrayed him. 

You sat up, your movements shaky and uncoordinated. You scrambled for your clothes, the fabric feeling strange against your sensitized skin. Every movement felt loud, every rustle of cloth in the heavy atmosphere a reminder of what just happened. 

You didn’t look back at him as you stood, though you could feel his eyes on you, tracking your every move. You felt exposed, not just physically, but emotionally, as if he had reached inside and rearranged the very stars of your internal compass.

The walk back to your room felt longer than usual. The hallway was a tunnel of shadows, the floorboards giving a soft, rhythmic creak under your unsteady feet. The coolness of the night air hit you as you stepped into your room where you had left your window open, but it did nothing to soothe the heat still radiating from your core.

When you finally reached your bed, you paused. You looked back toward your now closed door, toward the hallway behind it, thinking back to the room that held the man who had just shattered your carefully constructed boundaries.

Days blurred into a comfortable routine. You ate Mika’s hearty broth and bread, drank Haru’s mother’s herbal teas, and slowly, painstakingly, your body began to heal. Marco visited you twice a day, sometimes more, checking your bandages, assessing your head wound, and always, always bringing a fresh perspective. You found yourself greatly appreciating the older man’s presence, even if he wasn’t overtly friendly.

His dry wit and casual demeanor betrayed a deep compassion that you saw in his eyes whenever he looked at you, or when he spoke of the villagers. Especially the latter.

One afternoon, a week after you washed ashore, he walked in to find you attempting to do some simple stretches on the cot. You hissed as a sharp pain shot through your ribs.

“Careful there, Y/N,” he said, his voice calm, but with a hint of warning. He carried his usual leather bag with him. “Trying to rip those bandages off already, yoi?”

You straightened up, a flush creeping up your neck. “Just trying to feel useful. I’m tired of lying here.”

He set his bag down, pulling up his stool. “I understand. But healing takes time. You push too hard, you’ll just set yourself back.” He reached for your hand, his fingers gently checking your pulse. His touch was warm and reassuring and made you nervous for a second too long, for reasons you did not want to further explore.

“How much longer until I can leave?” you asked, the question feeling heavy on your tongue. You knew the answer, but you needed to hear it regardless.

He sighed, his gaze thoughtful. “Your ribs are mending well, but that concussion was nasty and you know it. And you’re still malnourished. I’d say another two weeks of strict rest, at least. Then we can start talking about light activity.”

Two weeks felt like nothing short of an eternity. Your heart sank a little. The sea called to you, a distant calling. But a part of you, a new, tentative part, found itself dreading the day you’d have to leave the quiet comfort of Sphinx. And the quiet comfort of Marco’s presence.

“Two weeks,” you repeated, more to yourself than to him. “What am I supposed to do for two weeks?”

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You could learn to knit. Mika’s quite good. Or you could tell Haru more pirate stories. He hangs on your every word, you know.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m not sure I’m much of a storyteller. My life wasn’t exactly full of grand adventures.”

“Every life is an adventure, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft. “Even the quiet ones.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “Or you could simply… rest. And think. About what you want next.”

“What I want next,” you mused, looking out the window again. The green hills seemed to stretch endlessly under the clear blue sky. “I don’t know. I never really thought past the next voyage. The future was always… something to deal with when it arrives at the next port.”

“It has arrived, Y/N,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “You have a choice now. The sea didn’t swallow you whole. It gave you back. What will you do with that second chance?”

You met his gaze, a sudden intensity in your eyes. “What did you do with yours?”

He paused, his expression unreadable. He looked away, towards the open door, towards the world outside. “I found a new purpose. A way to honor those I lost.” He turned back to you, a faint, sad smile on his lips. “It’s not the same as what I had. But it’s enough. And sometimes, Y/N, enough is more than you ever thought you’d get.”

You felt a strange stirring in your chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the herbal tea. His words resonated with a truth you hadn’t yet fully acknowledged. You were alive. And you had choices. Those choices would be hard, but you had them. 

“So, you’re saying I should become a farmer here?” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

He chuckled, a soft, rumbling sound. “If that’s what calls to you, yoi. This island always needs strong hands. But I imagine someone like you, with the Grand Line in your blood… will find her own way.”

He stood up, gathering his bag. “I’ll be back tonight. Try to keep those ribs intact.”

“I’ll do my best, doctor,” you said, a genuine smile on your face this time.

As he left, you found yourself watching the door long after he had gone. Something about this man drew you in completely. You were a pirate, a lone wolf, always had been. But the thought of leaving this island, and leaving Marco behind, felt suddenly… unwelcome.

The following days were filled with all types of conversations. Not just with Marco, but with the villagers. Haru brought you flowers, Mika shared stories of the island, and the old man with the beard, who had helped carry you, recounted tales of Whitebeard’s youth on Sphinx. You learned about the island’s poverty and how Whitebeard had secretly supported it for decades. You understood then why Marco was here, why a man like him who had only ever known life as a pirate had chosen this quiet life. It was a continuation of Whitebeard’s legacy.

One evening, Marco found you sitting outside the house, on a small wooden bench, watching the sunset paint the sky in all different kinds of hues. The air was cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. Your head still throbbed occasionally, but the constant ache had finally subsided.

“Enjoying the view, yoi?” he asked softly as he approached. He sat down beside you, his presence a towering but comforting weight on the bench.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your gaze fixed on the horizon. “Nothing like the wild sunsets at sea. This is… gentle.”

“This island is a gentle place,” he agreed. “A stark contrast to the world outside.”

“You miss it, don’t you?” you asked, turning to look at him. “The chaos. The adventure. Your family.”

He sighed, a deep, heavy sound. He suddenly looked way older than he actually was. “Every single day, Y/N. There’s not a moment I don’t think of Pops. Of Ace. Of my brothers.” His eyes, usually so calm, held a profound sadness. “But this is where I need to be now. This is where I can do the most good. This is Pops home. His legacy. He's not here anymore, so it's my turn to protect it. I can’t abandon it.”

“You’re a good man, Marco,” you said, and you meant it; those words were truly coming from the heart.

He chuckled, a self-deprecating sound. “I try, yoi. It’s a lot harder than fighting admirals, sometimes.”

“I can imagine,” you said, a small smile touching your lips. “Healing wounds of the body is one thing, especially because you're a doctor. Healing wounds of the heart…” You trailed off, remembering your own lingering emptiness.

“Those take longer,” he finished, his gaze meeting yours. “And sometimes, they never truly close. But you learn to carry and live with them. And sometimes, you find new reasons to keep going.”

You looked at him, really looked at him. The lines around his eyes spoke of experience, of sorrow, but also of resilience. The strength he radiated wasn’t just physical; it was deep in his spirit.

“What are your new reasons, Marco?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He turned his head, looking out at the fading light. “This island and its people. They need me. And… I need them. They remind me of what Pops fought for and protected all this time.” He paused, then turned back to you, his dark eyes holding yours. “And sometimes… new, unexpected arrivals. They remind you that life still has surprises in store.”

Your heart fluttered, a strange, unfamiliar sensation. Was he talking about you?

“I’m not sure I’m much of a ‘reason’,” you mumbled, a blush creeping up your neck.

He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that transformed his whole face. “You’re here, Y/N. You’re alive. And you’re starting over. That’s a powerful thing and a big enough reason yoi.”

The air between you crackled with an unspoken current. It wasn't just physical attraction, though he was undeniably handsome. Something about this tall man had definitely spoken to you. It was the shared understanding of loss, even if you were both griefing different things, and the quiet strength you saw in each other. The things you shared with no one else, both of you.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice low. “What are your new reasons?”

You looked out at the darkening sky, the first stars beginning to prick through the twilight. “I don’t know yet. But… being here, on this island, with you all… it feels different. It feels… safe. And for a pirate, that’s a very new feeling. I think I need time to get used to it.”

He reached out a hand, his large fingers gently covering yours on the bench. His touch was warm and comforting, and you definitely didn't miss how much bigger his hand was in comparison to your own. “Safety is a good place to start, yoi. We can build on that.”

You looked at his hand again, then up at his face. His eyes were soft, kind and full of an unspoken promise. The world, which had felt so empty and directionless just a few days ago, suddenly seemed to hold a new, fragile possibility. You were a pirate, or had been. You loved the sea and its never ending freedom. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was a different kind of freedom to be found here, on this quiet island, with this quiet, legendary, weirdly attractive doctor.

The ceiling of the cottage had become your entire world. By now, you knew every single fracture in the plaster, every knot in the cedar beams, and the exact frequency of the wind as it rattled against the windowpane. Your body had stopped screaming in pain and started humming instead - a low, restless vibration that made your skin feel too tight from sitting still.

The door creaked open. Marco leaned against the frame, a clipboard tucked under one arm and a steaming mug in his hand. He didn’t say anything at first; he just watched you, his dark eyes tracking the way you were currently trying to balance a pen on your nose while lying flat on your back. A lazy smirk stole its way onto his face.

“You’re somehow pacing a hole in my floor without even moving, yoi.”

You let the pen clatter to the floor. “I’m losing my mind, Marco. I can feel my brain shrinking. I think I’ve forgotten how to properly speak at this point. Or walk. Or breathe air that doesn’t smell like antiseptic.”

Marco let out a soft, rumbling chuckle, the sound vibrating in his broad chest, the one you definitely weren’t eyeing. He stepped inside, the scent of roasted coffee following him. 

“Your ribs are healing. The concussion has cleared. But you’re still a liability if a strong breeze hits you.”

“I’ll risk the breeze.” You said confidently, but when you sat up too fast, a sharp spike of pain hit your side. You hissed, clutching your torso, but kept your gaze defiant.

He sighed, the sound sleepy and patient, like he had already known this was coming. He set his coffee on the bedside table and looked you over with an assessing gaze. 

“Fine. I have rounds in the lower village. You can come, provided you don’t collapse and force me to carry you back. That would be a lot of effort, yoi.”

“Are you calling me fat?” You gasped in feigned outrage, but the man provided no answer for you, only a short laugh escaped him.

The air outside hit you like a physical attack - fresh, cool, and tasting of wild thyme. You followed him down the rolling hills, all while trying to stay near the tall man with unbelievably long legs. Sphinx was a simple yet beautiful looking place: whitewashed stone cottages, weathered wooden fences, and the distant, rhythmic thrum of windmills turning.

As you walked, the silence of the island began to speak for it. You noticed the gaps. There were no bustling markets, no shouting merchants, no mid-day crowds of working adults. Instead, you saw a group of children chasing a stray dog through a dirt alley, their laughter high and piercing. On the porches of the small houses, elderly men and women sat and talked quietly, their faces like maps of a hard-lived life, watching the world pass by with milky, tired eyes.

“Where is everyone?” you asked, your voice sounding small in the open air. “The... younger people. The parents. The builders.”

Marco didn't look back, but his pace slowed. “Poverty is a cruel thing, yoi. Most of the youth leave the moment they can sail, searching for work or a life that doesn’t involve scraping by on nothing but fish and hope. The ones who stay are the ones who can’t leave, or the ones who refuse to, because they need to care for the children and elderly.”

“It’s a ghost town for the young.”

“It’s a sanctuary for the old,” Marco corrected gently.

He stopped at a small garden patch bordering a cottage. The resident, an old woman sitting on the porch, beamed at him.

“Marco-san! My joints are screaming again!”

“I told you to soak them in the salts I bought, Mrs. Gable,” Marco replied, his voice dropping into a warm cadence. He knelt by her porch, his large hands moving with a precision that contradicted his sleepy demeanor, just like when he had cared for you.

While he worked, your attention drifted to the edge of the garden, where a cluster of pale, bell-shaped flowers grew in the shade of a leaning fence. You stepped toward them, your fingers hovering over the petals.

“Don’t let the Digitalis touch your skin if you have a cut," you murmured, almost to yourself. “The cardiac glycosides can be tricky.”

Marco paused, his hand still on the woman’s ankle. He looked up, his brow furrowing behind his glasses. “You know your botany.”

“I know the Digitalis purpurea,” you replied, leaning in. “And those over there are Aconitum. Monkshood. Beautiful, but they’ll stop a heart if you’re careless. And the yellow ones… they're just wild primroses. People sometimes use the flowers in herbal teas.”

Marco stood up slowly, his height dwarfing you as he stepped closer. He didn't look at the flowers; he looked at you. There was a new spark of curiosity in his dark eyes, a professional interest that felt unexpectedly intimate.

“A pirate who knows the difference between a cure and a poison,” he mused. “What was your role on the ship? You didn't seem like a doctor.”

“I'm not. I was a navigator,” you said. He seemed surprised by that. You looked out toward the horizon, the blue expanse calling to you. “I read the stars, the currents, and the wind. But the sea is a fickle thing. Sometimes the only way to survive a long voyage is to know what grows on the islands you hit. Medicine is a navigator's best friend when the ship's doctor is a drunk or non-existent like on my ship.” 

Marco hummed, a low sound of approval. He gestured to the vibrant patch of greenery you had been analyzing.

“Is that what you liked? The plants?”

You paused. The question caught you off guard. You thought of the lonely nights on the deck, the cold wind biting through your cloak, and the way you used to press dried petals into a leather journal just to feel something that wasn’t salt and gunpowder.

“Yes,” you whispered, the admission feeling somewhat fragile. “Yes, it was. I especially love pretty flowers.”

Marco watched you for a long moment. The silence between you wasn't heavy, but it stretched on for a while. A faint, genuine smile touched the corner of his lips - not the usual dry smirk, but something kinder.

“Well then, yoi,” he said, gesturing toward the path leading further into the village. “Since you’re so fond of the greenery, you can help me identify the herbs in the clinic’s drying room when we get back. Consider it a payment for the bed.”

“Is that an order, sir?”

“The highest authority on the island has spoken,” he replied with a laugh, turning away, though he left a gap in his stride, inviting you to walk beside him.

The air in the drying room was thick, smelling of sage, lavender, and something sharp and peppery you couldn't quite place. Bundles of dried flowers hung from the rafters, rustling softly with every slight breeze that snuck through the small, open window. Marco stood by the entrance, arms crossed, watching you as you moved between the shelves, your fingers tracing the brittle leaves.

“This, Marco,” you said, plucking a handful of long, thin leaves from a hook, “is Artemisia absinthium. Wormwood. Bitter as hell, but useful for settling the stomach and traditionally used against intestinal parasites. Just a tiny pinch in hot water - too much and you’ll regret it.”

Marco hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. “And this one?” He pointed to a dark, crinkly cluster.

“That’s Atropa belladonna,” you replied, your voice soft, almost reverent. “Beautiful purple flowers, right? Just one berry can kill a child though. But in the right hands, its alkaloids can calm spasms and serve as powerful medicines.” You held it up, admiring its sinister beauty. “Respect it, or it will kill you.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on you and you only. “You learn these things on your travels, yoi?”

“Among others,” you confirmed, setting the belladonna back with care. You moved to another shelf, where brightly colored petals were drying in neat rows. “This is Calendula. Pot marigold, if you prefer the common name. Good for skin inflammation and as an antiseptic. And these little blue ones? Viola tricolor. Wild pansy. A mild diuretic.”

“Impressive,” Marco murmured. “Most people just see weeds.”

You shrugged. “Well, weeds can save your life. Or end it. Depends on how well you know them.” You picked up a small, dried root, gnarled and dark. “This, though, is special. Ginseng. True ginseng is rare. Boosts energy, aids recovery. Good for… well, for when you’re washed ashore half-dead.” You glanced at him, a small, wry smile playing on your lips.

He chuckled, a deeper, more resonant sound this time. “So, your crew relied on your knowledge of local flora for their health, yoi?”

“More than they probably realized,” you admitted. “Though our ship’s cook was fond of trying to make tea out of everything. Once nearly poisoned us all with a batch of Cicuta virosa.”

“Water hemlock?” Marco repeated, his brow raising slightly. “Nasty stuff. Good thing you were there.”

“He learned to ask me first after that,” you said, a ghost of a smile. The silence stretched for a moment, filled with the rustling of dried herbs.

“Speaking of nasty stuff,” Marco began, his voice taking on a different tone, “I know now that you were a navigator with a huge knowledge of the greenery. But you don’t seem like the type to just stand by and let others fight your battles.” He paused, looking directly at you. “Can you fight, Y/N?”

You met his gaze, a flicker of something ancient and primal igniting within you. The question wasn't accusatory, just curious.

“I can,” you stated, simply. “I’m not… physically strong, not like some of the brutes you find on the seas. But I know how to hold my ground.” You flexed your fingers, remembering the familiar tingle of power. “I’ve learned Observation Haki and would say I’m quite good with it,” you said and shrugged with your shoulders. It wasn’t something you usually boasted about. “And I can use Armament Haki as well when needed.”

Marco’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ah, I see, yoi. So, a navigator with an extra layer of protection. That explains a few things.” He leaned forward slightly, his posture shifting, a hint of his former commander self showing through the relaxed doctor. “Not many know how to tap into that. You must have faced some tough situations.”

“The Grand Line has a way of teaching you quickly, or not at all,” you replied, a bitterness creeping into your voice as you remembered some of those situations. You turned back to the herbs, wanting to change the subject. “What about these? These look like they need to be sorted into smaller bundles for tinctures.”

“Indeed,” Marco agreed, moving closer. He reached for a large bundle of dried chamomile that hung slightly above your head. As he did, his broad arm brushed lightly against your shoulder. The accidental contact sent a jolt through your still-healing body, making you flinch.

“Oof!” you gasped, stepping back abruptly. Your foot caught on a stray bundle of ginseng that had fallen to the floor. You wobbled, arms flailing, a small shriek escaping your lips as you lost your balance.

Before you could fall, Marco’s large hands shot out, catching you firmly by the waist. You collided with his chest with a soft whumpf, your face pressing against the surprisingly soft fabric of his shirt, right over that distinctive tattoo. His arms encircled you, holding you steady and so preventing your fall.

You froze, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from his body, the faint scent of antiseptic and something uniquely him – manly and subtle spiciness. Your hands instinctively flattened against his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. For a moment, you were pressed impossibly close, and your breath hitched in your throat.

Marco’s grip tightened momentarily, then eased. You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, a slow, steady rhythm. He didn’t immediately let go. There was a strange stillness about him, a sudden tension that was completely at odds with his usual relaxed demeanor. His breathing seemed to deepen slightly, and for a fleeting second, you could have sworn you felt a tremor run through his tall, powerful frame.

When he finally pulled back, his hands were lingering on your waist for just a beat too long, and his eyes were wide, almost startled. A faint flush, barely noticeable, crept up his neck and across his prominent cheekbones. He cleared his throat.

“Careful there, yoi,” he mumbled, his voice a little rougher than before. He quickly stepped back, putting a respectable distance between you two. He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting your eyes yet. “Still a bit wobbly, huh? Best be careful with those ribs.”

You watched him, a strange curiosity blossoming in your chest. His reaction was… telling. He was usually so composed and professional. But for a split second, he looked completely taken aback, almost… flustered. A small, knowing smirk twitched at your lips.

“Right,” you managed, your own voice a little breathless. “Wobbly. Thanks for… catching me.”

He merely grunted in response, turning abruptly to examine a hanging bundle of dried leaves with an almost exaggerated intensity. It was then you realized, with a sudden, startling clarity, what that fleeting moment of awkwardness had truly meant.

This man, this legendary former pirate commander, the legendary Marco the Phoenix, looked like he hadn't been this close to a young woman in... well, a very, very long time. The “young women” on Sphinx were mostly mothers, their youth long since folded into the responsibilities of family life, or they had already departed the island for the wider world. Marco, living a quiet life as a doctor after years of pirate life, had likely been starved of such simple, casual intimacy he had. A dry spell, you mused, that must have lasted a century. Or at least must feel like one for him. Being a pirate didn't exactly come with abstinence, so this must be quite hard to get used to. And the thought, for some inexplicable reason, made a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with your healing wounds but everything with the man in front of you.

The sun was barely up on the horizon when the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of footsteps echoed in the hallway. You sat up, the stiffness in your ribs a dull, nagging reminder of your recent tumble. 

Marco entered the room slowly this time. For once, he didn’t look like a legendary commander; he looked like a man who had been wrestling with sleep… and was definitely losing. The shadows under his eyes had deepened into violet crescents, and his hair was nothing but a frantic nest of blonde locks.

“Coffee’s on the stove. I didn't have time to make a proper pot, just... just a quick brew today, I apologized,” he muttered, his voice raspy. He was busy stuffing various vials into a leather medical bag.

“Marco,” you called out, your voice sounding more awake than you actually felt. “When was the last time you actually closed your eyes? Like… really slept?”

He paused, his shoulders dropping an inch. “I have rounds. Mrs. Gable’s inflammation is acting up, and the boy from the docks has a fever that won’t break.” A heavy sight left him. “It’s fine, yoi.”

“It’s not fine! You’re like… vibrating,” you pointed out. “You’re so caffeinated and sleep-deprived you’re practically humming at a frequency that could shatter glass.”

He let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Ha. If only.” He moved toward the door, pausing only to grab a piece of toast on his way out. “Stay put. Don’t try to go on any adventures. I’ll be back when the sun goes down.”

The door closed, leaving you in the sudden, heavy silence of the cottage.

As if, was the only thought you had.

An hour later, feeling significantly more capable, you decided to venture out. The air was sweet, but the village of Sphinx felt strangely stagnant. As you walked toward the central well, you passed a cluster of women sitting on a sun-bleached stone wall.

“Oh, look! The little bird is walking!” Mrs. Gable, the woman Marco had mentioned earlier, chirped, her eyes twinkling behind thick spectacles. “Hehe!”

“She’s looking much better, isn’t she?” another woman added, leaning forward. “A bit of fresh air is better than any tonic Marco can whip up.”

“Speaking of our Marco,” a third woman whispered, though in the quiet morning, it was anything but a whisper. “Did you see him this morning? The poor man looked like a ghost!”

“He needs a woman, that’s what he needs,” Mrs. Gable sighed, a dramatic sound. “A strong woman to keep him fed and warm his bed so that the poor lad can relax for once! A handsome bachelor like that... it’s a tragedy, I tell you. A tragedy!”

“Ho-ho! A tragedy indeed!” the others joined in, their laughter like a flock of crows startled from a fence.

You blushed, hurrying past them, but their words stuck. It wasn’t just gossip; underneath it, these women really cared for their doctor. Marco was a pillar of the community, but he was a lonely one, standing entirely without anyone at his side.

You continued your way and slowly wandered toward the edge of the village where the children played. A group of them were engaged in a fierce game of tag, their shouts and shrieks filling the air. You watched them for a while in silence, a faint smile laying on your lips at the display of childish youth.

A young boy, perhaps seven years old, tripped over a protruding root and landed hard in the dirt. You expected him to cry, but he didn't; he just sat up, dusting himself off with practiced, weary movements. Then, as if nothing had ever happened, he picked up a discarded wooden crate that had a faded, painted label on the side. He stared at the letters for a long time, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, his lips moving silently.

“What’s it say, Leo?” a girl asked, running up to him.

The boy shook his head, a look of profound frustration crossing his face. “I don’t know. It’s just... lines. Squiggles.”

“Mmmph,” the girl grunted, kicking a stone. “My papa says the squiggles don’t matter as long as you can pull a net.”

You froze. You watched as another child tried to count a pile of pebbles, losing track after four and starting all over again with a frustrated “Ugh!”

The realization hit you with the force of a harsh wave. There was no school. No books. No sense of structured learning. The children were bright, fueled by a restless curiosity normal for their age, but they were being left to wander in a fog of illiteracy. There was no one on this island acquitted enough to teach them.

You looked back toward the clinic, where Marco was likely currently creating a dozen different ailments. He was saving their bodies, a noble task indeed, but no one was feeding their minds.

A slow, determined smile spread across your face. You weren't just a navigator; you were someone who knew how to map out a course through uncharted territory - and this was one of them.

“Well,” you whispered to yourself, watching the boy Leo struggle with his ‘squiggles.’ “If there’s no school here, I suppose I’ll just have to start one.”

The charcoal from the communal cookfire you found felt gritty and dark against your fingertips. It was a messy, primitive tool, but it served the purpose for now. You found a relatively flat patch of untouched earth beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient, shade-giving tree near the village square. 

The sound of the charcoal dragging against the dirt was rhythmic and almost hypnotic. You were kneeling in the dust, drawing large, deliberate shapes, when a shadow fell over your work.

“What are you doing, lady?”

You looked up to see Leo, the boy from earlier, standing there with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Behind him, a small troupe of children hovered with wide and suspicious eyes.

“I’m drawing,” you said, wiping a smudge of black from your forehead. “But these aren't just drawings. They’re letters.”

Leo leaned in, squinting at the large, angular A you had etched into the ground. “It looks like… a tent with a belt on it!”

A few of the children giggled and agreed.

“It is a bit like a tent,” you conceded, offering a small smile. “But if you know how to read it, it can tell you where the next ship is coming from, or what a medicine bottle says, or even how much gold is in a treasure chest.”

The mention of treasure made a young girl’s eyes go wide. “Oooooh! Real gold?”

“As real as the sun,” you promised. You picked up a smaller piece of charcoal. “Now, look. This is A. It makes an ah sound. Like in Apple or Anchor. Can you say it?”

“Ah!” Leo barked, his voice cracking slightly.

“Good! Now, let's try B, as in Bird or Beach.”

For the next hour, the usual quiet of the afternoon was replaced by a chaotic symphony of learning children. There were shouts of frustration and bursts of triumphant laughter alike when a child finally managed to mimic a shape. You moved between them, guiding small, dirt-stained hands, showing them how to turn a simple line into a letter over and over again.

“Look! I made a circle!” a little girl squealed, pointing to a wobbling O she had labored over. “Yay!”

“Excellent, Maya,” you encouraged. “That O is very important. It’s in Ocean and Oven.”

It continued like this for several more minutes. And as the sun began to dip lower, casting long, amber shadows across the square, a heavy, rhythmic footfall approached behind you.

You looked up to see Marco. He looked even more exhausted than he had this morning. His shoulders were slumped, and he was carrying a crate of empty glass bottles. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the circle of children huddled around you in the dirt.

“What is all this noise, yoi?” he asked, though his voice lacked the edge of irritation he probably meant to convey. He sounded more bewildered than anything.

“We’re having a lesson, Marco,” you said, wiping your hands on your trousers, leaving dark streaks behind.

He walked closer, his eyes scanning the charcoal drawings on the ground. He looked at the A, the B, and the messy, beautiful O Maya had drawn. He stayed silent for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the children's focused, dirt-smudged faces.

“A… school?” he murmured, a low, soft hum vibrating in his chest. “In the middle of the square?”

“They don’t have one,” you said simply, standing up and brushing the dust from your knees as best as you could. “And they're bright. It seemed a waste to let all that potential just be wasted away.”

Marco looked from the children to you, and for the first time, the exhaustion in his eyes seemed to be overpowered by something else. It wasn’t just curiosity; it was a profound, quiet sort of respect. 

“The elders... they might grumble about the noise,” he said, though he made no move to stop you. He set the crate down with a dull clunk. “But the mothers... they’ll likely thank you.”

He turned his gaze back to the charcoal A on the ground. “A navigator teaching them how to find their way through words and letters,” he mused, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “That’s a good path to set them on, yoi.”

He reached out, his hand hovering near yours for a second before he pulled it back, clearing his throat. “I have to finish these bottles. But…” He paused, looking at the children. “If you need more charcoal, there’s a fresh pile by the smithy.”

“Thanks,” you smiled, and he nodded and walked away with a simple wave you reciprocated.