Ageing Fangirl 2.0

The shift was subtle at first. Little things. You reacting to sounds no one else seemed to notice. Turning your head before footsteps rounded a corner. Catching things mid-air without really trying. Knowing who was coming up on deck without looking. At first, the crew chalked it up to nerves. Then instinct. Then something… else.

It was Beckman who found the documents. Old, worn papers tucked into a locked chest they’d hauled off the slave ship—ledgers, transaction logs, notes written in clipped, clinical handwriting. The kind that didn’t see people as people. He didn’t say anything right away. Just read. Then read again.

“…Shanks.”

Shanks glanced up from where he was sitting with Lucky Roux. “Hm?”

Beckman held up a page. “You might want to see this.”

—

The infirmary felt different this time. Not tense. Not chaotic. Just… quiet. You sat on the edge of the cot while Hongo moved around you, far more serious than usual. Not the dry irritation you were used to—this was focused. Careful in a different way.

“Relax your jaw,” he said.

You hesitated, then did.

He leaned in slightly, examining your teeth. There was a pause. Then another. “…I see.”

Shanks, leaning against the wall nearby, tilted his head. “That bad?”

Hongo didn’t answer immediately. He straightened, pulling off his gloves slowly. Then he looked at you—not alarmed, not frightened. Just thoughtful. “…your canines,” he said. “They’re not fully human.”

You froze.

Shanks blinked. “I mean, I noticed they were sharp.”

“Yes,” Hongo said dryly. “You would’ve.”

Beckman, standing near the doorway, held up the papers. “That’s not all.”

Shanks pushed off the wall. “Alright, now I’m interested.”

Beckman handed one over. Shanks skimmed it—then slowed. His expression didn’t drop, exactly. But the ease in it shifted.

“…‘genetic infusion trials,’” he read. “Subjects selected at infancy…”

Your hands clenched slightly against the fabric of your clothes.

Hongo’s voice cut in, steady. “It aligns.”

Shanks looked up. “You’re sure?”

“I can’t confirm everything from a visual exam alone,” Hongo said, “but the physical markers are there.” He glanced back at you. “Enhanced dentition. Subtle differences in bone structure.” He paused, then added, “And it would explain the rest.”

Shanks frowned slightly. “The rest?”

Hongo gestured lightly. “Her senses.”

As if on cue, a laugh from the deck above drifted down—faint. You flinched. Everyone else didn’t even react.

Hongo watched that, then looked back at Shanks. “You’ve noticed it.”

Shanks was quiet for a second. “…yeah,” he admitted. “She hears things before anyone else does.”

“Not just hearing,” Hongo continued. “Her eyes track movement faster than average. 

Her reaction time is heightened.” A brief pause. “And I’d wager her sense of smell is far beyond ours as well.”

You went very still.

Shanks glanced at you. “…that true?”

You hesitated. Then, slowly, nodded. “It’s… loud,” you said quietly. “Everything is.”

That earned a brief silence. Not uncomfortable. Just… heavy.

Beckman crossed his arms. “The documents mention animal integration.”

Shanks looked back at the page in his hand. “…wolf.”

The word sat there. Simple. Wrong.

Hongo didn’t soften it. “It would explain the dental structure. And the bite force.”

Shanks huffed faintly. “Yeah, I can confirm that part.”

Normally, that would’ve earned a reaction. This time, it didn’t. Your gaze had dropped, shoulders tight—not in the same way as before, but close. Waiting. For the shift. For the moment, it all changed.

Shanks noticed. Of course he did. He folded the paper once, then again, before setting it aside. Then he stepped forward—but stopped. Not too close. Not this time.

“…so,” he said, tone deliberately light, “you’ve got better hearing, better eyesight…” He tilted his head. “Stronger bite.”

Hongo gave him a look.

“What?” Shanks shrugged. “I’m listing facts.”

You didn’t smile. Didn’t react. Just watched him carefully.

Shanks’ expression softened a fraction. “…doesn’t really change much,” he added.

That made your brows knit slightly. “…doesn’t it?”

Hongo glanced between you both but didn’t interrupt.

Shanks shook his head. “You’re still you.” Simple. Direct. Like before.

Beckman exhaled quietly through his nose—approval, maybe. Hongo crossed his arms, but didn’t argue. You searched Shanks’ face for something else. Suspicion. Doubt. Anything. But there wasn’t any—just that same steady certainty.

“…okay,” you said, softer this time.

And for once, it didn’t feel like you were bracing for something after.

ONE WEEK LATER

It happened fast. Too fast for most people to notice. The ship rocked gently under a steady wind, sails full, the crew scattered across the deck in their usual rhythm—some working, some talking, some doing a bit of both.

You were near the railing. Not doing much. Just… listening. It was quieter now than it used to be. Not because the world had softened—but because you were starting to understand how to exist in it without flinching at every sound.

Voices blurred into the background. Footsteps mapped themselves without effort. The creak of wood, the pull of rope, the shift of sails—You stilled. Something was off. A strain. Sharp. Tight. Wrong.

Your head snapped upward. There—A rope stretched taut above, fibres pulling past their limit, the sound just on the edge of snapping—No one else reacted.

Below it, Yasopp stood with his back turned, laughing mid-sentence, completely unaware.

You moved before thinking. “—!” Your voice didn’t even fully form.

You lunged—Grabbing his arm—Shoving him hard. He stumbled back with a startled shout—And then—CRACK. The rope snapped. A heavy beam dropped with a violent slam exactly where he had been standing, the deck shuddering under the impact.

Silence hit like a wave. Then noise.

“—what the hell—?!”

“Watch it!”

“Where’d that come from—?!”

Yasopp blinked, half on the ground, staring at the splintered wood inches from where he’d been. “…huh.”

Your breathing was uneven. Not panicked. Just… sharp. Focused. You were still half-crouched from the movement, hand outstretched where you’d shoved him. Everyone was looking now. You froze. For a split second, something old flickered—like you’d done something wrong.

“Well,” Yasopp said, pushing himself up slowly, brushing off his coat. “…that would’ve been bad.” He looked at the beam. Then at you. Then back at the beam. “…yeah. That would’ve been really bad.”

A grin broke across his face. He laughed. “Oi! Guess I owe you one!”

The tension snapped—just like the rope had. A few crew members chuckled. Someone whistled low.

“Nice catch!”

“Didn’t even see that coming—”

“You alright, Yasopp?”

“I’m good, I’m good!”

You blinked. That wasn’t—That wasn’t what you expected. No anger. No accusation. Just…Relief.

Shanks’ voice cut through the noise as he stepped forward, gaze flicking from the fallen beam to the frayed rope above—then to you. “…you heard it, didn’t you?”

You hesitated. Then nodded—a beat of silence.

Then Shanks grinned. “Good ears.”

It was simple. Easy. But this time, the crew didn’t brush it off. They noticed. Not just the action.But what it meant.

Beckman exhaled quietly, already looking up at the rigging. “That rope was worn. Should’ve been replaced.”

Hongo crossed his arms. “It nearly cost us.”

Yasopp clapped a hand on your shoulder—light, brief, not trapping. “Didn’t, though.”

You flinched—just a little—but didn’t pull away. He noticed that too. So he stepped back just as easily. “Thanks,” he added, more casually this time.

The morning air in Loguetown felt heavier than usual. You kept your head down as you walked into the Marine office, the dull ache in your jaw pulsing with every step. The bruise around your eye had darkened overnight, and your split lip stung each time you breathed too sharply. You had tried to cover it—powder, careful angles—but there was only so much you could hide.

The door creaked open. Silence fell almost instantly. At the far end of the room, Smoker sat behind his desk, a cigar already lit, smoke curling lazily around him. His sharp eyes flicked up—and froze.

The cigar snapped between his teeth. In an instant, he was on his feet. “...Who did this to you?” His voice wasn’t loud. That made it worse.

You hesitated, offering a weak shrug as you set your papers down. “It’s nothing serious—”

“Was it them?”

You met his gaze, steady despite the knot forming in your chest. “They’re not worth your time, Vice Admiral.”

The room felt like it dropped ten degrees. “I’m going to kill them.”

Your breath caught. You stepped forward quickly, placing a hand on the desk between you, grounding yourself. “You said you wouldn’t.” That stopped him—barely.

His jaw tightened, smoke spilling from his lips in a slow, controlled exhale. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think this isn’t enough to change my mind?”

There it was—the fury he kept buried under discipline and rank. Not reckless. Not wild.

Focused. Dangerous.

You softened your voice. “If you go after them like that, it won’t just be them who pays for it.” You held his gaze. “I’m fine. Really.”

He didn’t answer. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint crackle of his cigar.

Then, He turned. And walked out.

“Vice Admiral—!” you called after him, but the door slammed shut before you could say anything else.

The office buzzed back to life in nervous murmurs. You exhaled slowly, already reaching for the den den mushi on your desk. “…Tashigi? Yeah. It’s me.” You glanced at the door. “Can you… keep an eye on him?”

—

The next time you saw Smoker, the sun was already setting. You were still at your desk, finishing reports, when the door opened again. He stepped inside as if nothing had happened. Same coat. Same cigars. Same unreadable expression. But there was something… settled about him. Final. You didn’t ask.

He approached your desk, dropping a stack of documents in front of you. “Those need filing.”

You nodded, sliding them into place. “Of course.”

A pause. Then, more quietly— “No one will bother you again.”

Your hand stilled for just a second. You looked up at him. There were a hundred questions you could’ve asked. You didn’t ask a single one. Instead, you gave a small nod. “Thank you, Vice Admiral.”

And just like that, you handed him the next set of paperwork. He took it without comment.

—

Later, as the office emptied, Tashigi lingered by your desk. She adjusted her glasses, clearly debating how much to say. “…He found them,” she admitted finally, voice low.

You didn’t look up from your work. “I figured.”

Tashigi hesitated. “He used his Devil Fruit.” Your pen paused. “That’s… all he told me to say,” she added quickly.

You nodded once. That was enough—more than enough. Outside, the wind carried the faint scent of smoke through Loguetown’s streets. And for the first time since that night, you felt safe.

—

The next morning, Loguetown carried on as if nothing had happened. Orders barked. Papers shuffled. Marines moved in and out of headquarters with the usual urgency. And at the centre of it all, Smoker pushed open the door to his office. Something was… off. It took him half a second to spot it. Right in the middle of his desk sat a neatly wrapped bento box—and beside it, a small wooden case he recognised immediately.

His eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, boots heavy against the floor, and set his jitte against the desk with a quiet thunk. The cigars in his mouth shifted as he stared down at the items, as if they might explode. He didn’t touch them at first.

Smoker wasn’t a man for gifts. Didn’t trust them. Didn’t need them. And yet— His gaze flicked toward your desk. Empty. “…Tch.”

He reached for the wooden case first, flipping it open with his thumb.

Inside, lined perfectly, were his favourites. Rare. Hard to get, even for someone of his rank. His jaw tightened. Then, slower this time, he pulled the bento box toward him. The lid came off. Steam no longer rose from it, but the scent lingered—familiar, unmistakable. 

His favourite. Not store-bought. Not rushed. Made. Carefully. Smoker stared at it in silence. No note. Of course, there wasn’t. You weren’t the type. …Neither was he. For a long moment, he just stood there, shoulders squared, smoke curling upward as if waiting for some kind of explanation that wasn’t coming.

Then he clicked his tongue under his breath. “…Idiot.”

It wasn’t clear who he meant. He sat down heavily in his chair, dragging the bento a little closer. His gaze lingered on it a second longer before he reached for his chopsticks. A bite. Another. He didn’t rush. Didn’t comment. But the tension in his shoulders eased—just slightly.

—

By the time you returned—later than usual, arms full of files as if nothing had changed—the office door was already closed. You knocked once.

“Enter.”

You stepped inside. Smoker sat behind his desk, exactly as always. The bento box was gone. The cigar case, too. Only a faint trace of food remained in the air—and a fresh cigar burning between his fingers.

You set the files down. “Apologies for the delay—”

“Next time,” he cut in, not looking up, “don’t waste your money.”

Your lips twitched faintly. “It wasn’t a waste.”

A pause. He signed a document, sharp and precise. “…Food was decent.”

That was as close to a thank you as you were ever going to get.

You inclined your head slightly. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

Another silence settled between you—but it wasn’t tense. Just… understood.

The waves rocked the ship in a slow, lazy rhythm, lantern light swaying overhead as laughter spilt across the deck of the Red Hair Pirates. Someone had long since dragged out the good sake.

Benn Beckman leaned against the railing, bottle loose in his hand, watching the chaos with that usual unreadable calm. Across the deck, Shanks was already loud, arm slung around Lucky Roux, while Yasopp argued about something no one else cared about.

And you— You were in the middle of it, laughing, head tipped back, one of the newer crewmates saying something just a little too charming.

Beckman’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for him to take another slow drink. You eventually slipped away from the crowd, stepping toward the quieter side of the deck. You didn’t need to look to know he’d follow. He always did. Bootsteps. Then the familiar weight of his presence beside you. For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the ocean. The distant shouting. The creak of wood.

“You’re popular tonight,” he said finally, voice low, almost casual.

You snorted. “Jealous?”

A pause. Then, blunt as ever, “I want to shoot every man who flirts with you.”

You turned your head, raising a brow. “That so?”

He took another drink, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

You leaned your shoulder lightly against the railing, smirking. “And I want to hit every woman who hits on you.”

That got the faintest huff of amusement out of him. Silence again—but heavier this time. Not uncomfortable. Just…full. The kind that had been building for years.

You stared out at the horizon. “We’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Another stretch of quiet. Then he spoke again, slower this time. “We never named it.”

Your chest tightened a little. “I think you knew that naming it would make it real enough to lose.” You let out a quiet breath. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m not.”

You laughed under your breath, but it faded quickly. Because he wasn’t joking.

He rarely did when it mattered.

You looked at him then, really looked. “So what is it, Beck?”

His gaze shifted to you, sharp and steady even through the haze of alcohol. For once—just once—he didn’t have an immediate answer. That alone said too much.

You swallowed, voice quieter now. “You were never mine.” The words hung there, fragile. “But you weren’t not mine either,” you added. His jaw tightened slightly. “And that in-between…” You exhaled, shaking your head faintly, “is the part I can’t explain.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the ocean. Then he moved. Not much—just enough to set the bottle aside, to step closer, to close that distance that never really existed between you anyway.

His voice dropped, rougher now. “Then stop trying to explain it.”

You blinked. “That’s your solution?”

“Yeah.”

A beat. “Make it simple.”

You searched his face, trying to find the usual deflection, the easy escape route.

It wasn’t there. “What are you saying?” you asked quietly.

His hand came up—hesitated for the briefest second before resting against your arm, grounding, certain. “I’m saying I’m tired of pretending it’s nothing.”

Your breath caught. Behind you, somewhere across the deck, someone shouted—probably Shanks—but it felt miles away.

“I don’t like seeing them look at you like that,” Beckman continued, voice low, steady “And I don’t like that I don’t get to say anything about it.”

You tried to joke—reflex. “You already said you’d shoot them.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself.

Then he leaned in just slightly, enough that his voice dropped to something meant only for you. “I want you. Not just when we’ve been at sea too long. Not just when it’s easy.”That hit harder than anything else. “I want all of it.”

Your heart stuttered. “That’s… dangerous,” you said softly.

“We’re pirates,” he replied. “Everything is.”

You held his gaze, searching for doubt. There was none. Just certainty. The kind he brought to every battlefield—now turned on you. Or maybe for you. “…You’re serious,” you murmured.

“Yeah.”

You let out a slow breath, something in your chest finally loosening after years of being tied too tight. “Then say it properly,” you challenged quietly.

A flicker of something—almost a smile—touched his expression. “You’re mine,” he said.

Your pulse jumped. A pause. Then, softer but no less certain— “And I’m yours.”

That was it. No grand speech. No flourish. Just truth.

You shook your head slightly, a breath of laughter escaping you. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah,” he admitted.

You reached for him then, fingers catching in his shirt, pulling him closer without hesitation this time. “Alright,” you said. “Let’s make it real enough to lose.”

His hand settled at your waist, firm. “Good,” he murmured.

Somewhere behind you— A sudden, deafening cheer erupted. You both froze. Then slowly turned. The entire crew was staring. Grinning. Half-drunk, completely invested.

Shanks was standing on a barrel, pointing dramatically. “FINALLY!”

Lucky Roux was laughing so hard he could barely stand. Yasopp threw his arms up like he’d just won a war.

“I TOLD YOU IT’D BE TONIGHT!” someone shouted.

Coins changed hands. A lot of coins.

Beckman stared at them, unimpressed. “You’ve been betting on this?”

“FOR YEARS,” Yasopp yelled.

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Unbelievable.”

Beckman just sighed, already reaching for his bottle again. But his other hand didn’t leave you. Not this time. And judging by the roar of celebration from the crew, No one was surprised it finally happened. Just relieved it took you long enough.

—

Morning came late for most of the crew. Not for you. You were already up on deck, leaning against the railing with a cup of something strong enough to wake the dead, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead. The air was calmer than last night—but the ship itself?

Not a chance. A snicker broke the quiet. You didn’t even turn. “Say it. I dare you.”

A few of the crew froze mid-whisper. Then, from somewhere behind— “Morning, Mrs Beckman.”

You moved before the laughter even finished. A sharp flick to the forehead of the unfortunate speaker rang out across the deck.

He yelped, stumbling back, clutching his head. “OW—!”

You finally turned, expression flat. “Try again.”

Another voice, braver—or stupider—called out, “Mrs Benn sounds better—”

A well-timed kick to the back of his leg dropped him instantly. “Next,” you said calmly.

Now the whole crew was watching. And, because they had absolutely no survival instincts— “Mrs Beckman!” someone else shouted.

You didn’t even hesitate this time. A quick step forward, a clean punch to the shoulder—not enough to injure, just enough to hurt—and he staggered back with a groan. “Keep talking,” you warned. “I’m just getting warmed up.”

That should’ve ended it. It didn’t. Because from the centre of the chaos, already laughing too hard for his own good— Shanks cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “OUR VICE CAPTAIN’S WIFE—!”

You pivoted. He bolted. The chase lasted all of three seconds before you caught the edge of his coat and yanked him back just enough to land a solid hit to his arm. “Respectfully,” you said through a smile that wasn’t friendly, “try that again.”

“I REGRET NOTHING,” he laughed, even as he retreated behind Lucky Roux for cover.

“Coward,” you shot back.

The crew was in pieces—half laughing, half trying not to become your next target.

And through all of it— A pair of familiar arms slid around you from behind. Steady. Warm. Completely unbothered. Benn Beckman rested his chin lightly near your shoulder, like the chaos wasn’t even worth his attention.

“They’re not wrong,” he murmured.

You elbowed him lightly in the side. “You’re not helping.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him.

Across the deck, someone tried one last time—clearly unable to resist.

“Mrs Beck—”

You didn’t even look. Your foot shot out just enough to knock him clean off balance.

He hit the deck with a dramatic groan. “…worth it,” he mumbled.

Beckman’s arms tightened slightly around you, not restraining—just there. Solid. Certain. “That’s my woman,” he said, calm as ever.

The words weren’t loud. But they carried. The crew immediately lost it again—cheering, laughing, someone shouting about “confirmed status” and “pay up.”

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“Yeah,” Beckman said easily.

You leaned back into him just slightly despite yourself. “They’re your idiots.”

“Still yours too.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. Behind you, Yasopp was already arguing about who owed what from last night’s bets. Shanks was still trying—and failing—to rally support for calling you “Mrs Beckman” permanently.

The hum of the Polar Tang was steady, almost soothing—until it wasn’t. You pushed open the door to Trafalgar Law’s office with more force than necessary, the metal creaking in protest. Inside, nothing had changed: papers neatly stacked, instruments laid out with surgical precision, and Law himself seated behind his desk, pen moving calmly across a report.

He didn’t look up.

“What is the heaviest and most useless item you have in this room?” you asked, arms crossed, voice tight with irritation.

Law’s pen didn’t pause. “Aside from you?”

“Hey.”

There was the faintest shift of his eyes, though his head remained down. “I’ve got an old textbook on the shelf. But aim with your other hand if you intend to throw it at Shachi.”

“…I wasn’t going to throw it.”

“…If you’re going to beat him with it, then I’d suggest something lighter.”

You stared at him for a moment, waiting—hoping—for some sign he was joking. He wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t.

A deep breath. In. Out. “Shachi replaced all my notes with doodles,” you muttered, already moving toward the shelf. “Every page. Do you know how long that took me?”

“Yes,” Law replied flatly. “Long enough that you should reconsider damaging your dominant hand again.”

You ignored that part entirely, grabbing the thick, dusty textbook he’d mentioned. It was heavier than you expected—solid, unwieldy. Perfect.

Behind you, Law finally glanced up, just briefly. “You’re proving my point.”

“Too late,” you said, already heading for the door.

—

The next time you walked into his office, it was quieter. Not because the submarine had changed, but because you had. Specifically, because you were clutching your hand and trying very hard not to look like you were in pain.

Law noticed immediately. “…What did you do?” he asked, already standing.

“Nothing.”

“Sit.”

You sat.

He crossed the room in a few steps, gently but firmly taking your injured hand. The bandages you’d previously had were undone, faint spots of red seeping through where stitches had clearly been reopened.

Law exhaled slowly, something between annoyance and resignation. “You ignored my advice.”

“I handled it,” you said defensively. “Mostly.”

“You reopened the wound.”

“Only a little.”

He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he moved with practised efficiency—cleaning, re-stitching, rewrapping. His touch was precise, careful, but not overly gentle either.

“You need to stop doing this,” he said after a moment.

“Doing what?”

“Choosing the worst possible option when better ones are available.”

You huffed. “He deserved it.”

“I’m not disputing that.” A pause. “I’m disputing your execution.”

Despite yourself, you snorted faintly.

Law tied off the final bandage and leaned back slightly, assessing his work. “There.”

You flexed your fingers cautiously. It stung, but it was stable again. “…Thanks.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, already turning back toward his desk—then stopped. “I’ll assign Shachi additional maintenance duties,” he said, as if it were an afterthought. “Cleaning the engine room should keep him occupied.”

Your eyes lit up. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Provided you take it easy and don’t undo my work again.”

You hesitated—just for a second—then nodded. “Fine. Deal.”

Law sat back down, picking up his pen once more. “Good.” A beat passed. “…And next time,” he added without looking up, “if you need a weapon—ask for one that won’t send you back here.”

You glanced at your hand, then at the heavy textbook still tucked under your arm. “…No promises.”

The night air hung thick with smoke, salt, and the low hum of drunken laughter. Cross Guild’s latest hideout had already devolved into chaos—Buggy’s crew shouting over one another, music clashing with arguments, glasses breaking somewhere in the background.

You moved through it all like it didn’t touch you. You’d seen worse. Built worse. From the quiet, calculated rise of Baroque Works to the suffocating depths of Impel Down, and now here—standing among pirates who mistook noise for power. Through all of it, you had stayed the same. Steady. Present. At his side. Most of them knew better than to interrupt that. Most.

“Hey,” a voice slurred, stepping into your path. One of Buggy’s newer men—too comfortable, too unaware. “You’re always around the boss, yeah? Didn’t think someone like you would—” He leaned closer. Too close.

You didn’t step back. Didn’t need to. The shift in the air came first—subtle, but unmistakable. Sand gathered at the man’s boots before he even noticed the shadow that fell over him.

“Do you want me to kill them?” Crocodile’s voice was low, measured. Calm in a way that made it far worse.

The man went rigid. Slowly, he turned—and whatever he saw erased the drunken grin from his face.

You regarded him for a moment, thoughtful. Not frightened. Not angry. Just… deciding.

Then you gave a small shake of your head. “No,” you said. “He’s not worth it.”

A pause. The sand fell away. The man didn’t wait for anything else—he stumbled back and disappeared into the crowd, the energy around him parting like instinct told it to.

You exhaled quietly, then turned. Crocodile was still watching you. “Thank you,” you said, simple and sincere.

His gaze lingered for a second longer before he turned away. “Tch. You’re too lenient.”

“And you’re too efficient,” you replied.

That earned the faintest hint of a smirk.

The noise pressed in again, louder now after the brief silence. You glanced around, then nodded toward the far end of the room. “Come on.”

He didn’t ask. Just followed. You led him away from the worst of it—down a dim corridor and into a quieter side room. The difference was immediate. The walls muffled the chaos outside, leaving only a dull echo of it behind. A small table, a few chairs, low light. Manageable. Familiar.

You moved to the cabinet without thinking, already reaching for the bottle you made sure was always stocked. His glass was there too—where you’d left it. Of course it was. “You’d think they’d learn to keep things under control,” you murmured, pouring his drink with practised ease.

“They’re Buggy’s men,” Crocodile replied dryly. “Control isn’t their strength.”

You huffed softly at that, stepping closer and handing him the glass. He took it, fingers brushing yours briefly—an accident that neither of you acknowledged.

“I haven’t felt unsafe since meeting you,” you said after a moment. It came out quieter than you expected. Not fragile—just honest.

Crocodile stilled slightly, the glass pausing just short of his lips. His eyes shifted to you. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d kill for you, you know?” There was no theatrics in it. No exaggeration. Just fact.

You held his gaze, something unreadable flickering behind your expression. “I’m starting to get that…” you said slowly. “How many people have you killed for me?”

A beat passed. Then, faintly, he smirked. “Enough.”

You sighed, leaning lightly against the table. “That’s not a number.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

There it was—that wall. Not cold. Just… deliberate. You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Figures.”

Silence settled, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was with him. Outside, the noise carried on—distant now, irrelevant. Crocodile took a slow sip, then set the glass down, his attention returning to you in that sharp, unwavering way of his.

“Stay close tonight,” he said.

You raised a brow. “I always do.”

“I know.”

The words were quiet, but certain. Like everything else between you—unspoken, understood, and far more dangerous than either of you ever bothered to explain.

—

Crocodile didn’t always say he was avoiding people. He didn’t need to. After long enough at his side, you learned the signs—the slight impatience in his voice when Buggy got too loud, the way his cigar burned a little faster when Mihawk lingered just a bit too long in silence. He respected Mihawk more than anyone else here, but even that had its limits. Today was one of those days.

“I’m not in the mood,” Crocodile had said flatly, sliding a small stack of documents across the desk toward you. “Take these to Mihawk.”

You didn’t question it. You never did. Now, you stood outside Mihawk’s quarters, the noise of the Cross Guild base fading the further you got from Buggy’s chaos. It was quieter here. Controlled. Predictable. You knocked once.

“Come in.” His voice carried easily through the door—calm, measured.

You stepped inside to find Dracule Mihawk seated near the window, a glass of wine resting loosely in his hand. His sharp gaze flicked toward you the moment you entered, taking in everything as it always did.

“You’re not Crocodile,” he observed.

You crossed the room without hesitation, holding out the documents. “He’s busy.”

A faint pause. Mihawk set his glass down, accepting the papers. “Busy,” he repeated, the word carrying just enough scepticism to make it clear he didn’t believe that for a second. You said nothing. He flipped through the documents with quiet efficiency, but you could feel his attention shift—not entirely on the pages.

“You’ve become quite the intermediary,” he said. “He sends you when he doesn’t wish to deal with Buggy… or me.”

“He trusts me to deliver things properly,” you replied.

“That, I don’t doubt.” Another page turned. Then, just slightly, the corner of Mihawk’s mouth lifted—not quite a smile, but close enough to count. “I hear the crew has taken quite an interest in you,” he added.

You didn’t react immediately. “They should find something better to do.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Rumours tend to thrive in environments like this.”

You crossed your arms lightly. “If this is about Buggy’s crew gossiping again—”

“Oh, it is,” Mihawk said smoothly. “Though I must admit, the variety is impressive.”

You sighed, already tired of it. “Let me guess,” you muttered. “Crocodile’s lover.”

“That one seems popular,” Mihawk acknowledged. “Though not my personal favourite.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Of course not.”

“There’s also the theory that you are his secret daughter,” he continued, entirely unfazed. “Alternatively, the illegitimate child of a former Marine, he took an interest in.”

You stared at him. “…You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

There was a beat of silence. Then you exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “They’re all ridiculous.”

“I assumed as much.”

“Buggy’s crew have more important things to talk about than inventing stories about people they don’t understand,” you added, irritation slipping into your voice now.

Mihawk regarded you for a moment, expression unreadable but attentive. “Do they?” he asked mildly.

You frowned slightly. “They’re pirates,” you said. “They should be focused on survival. Strategy. Not—this.”

“Yet here they are,” Mihawk replied. “Talking.”

You huffed under your breath. “They’ll get bored eventually.”

“Unlikely,” he said, setting the documents aside at last. “You and Crocodile make for… an interesting subject.”

You shot him a look. “You too?”

“I didn’t say I believed any of it.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

That almost earned a real smile. Almost. Mihawk leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same sharp, cutting awareness he brought to everything.

“For what it’s worth,” he said after a moment, “Crocodile does not delegate lightly.”

You still just slightly. “I know,” you said.

“I imagine you do.”

Silence settled between you for a brief moment—not tense, just thoughtful.

Then you straightened. “If that’s all, I’ll let him know you’ve received the documents.”

Mihawk inclined his head faintly. “You may.”

You turned to leave, already reaching for the door.

“Ah,” he added just before you stepped out. You paused, glancing back. “If any new rumours arise,” Mihawk said, tone as dry as ever, “I’ll be sure to inform you.”

You gave him a flat look. “Please don’t.”

This time, the faint smile was unmistakable. As you stepped back into the corridor, the noise of the base creeping in again, you couldn’t help the quiet sigh that escaped you.

Rumours, gossip, speculation— Pointless. And yet… You had a feeling they weren’t going away anytime soon.

—

Crocodile hadn’t moved from where you’d left him. That wasn’t unusual. When he settled into a space, it became his—quiet, controlled, untouched by the chaos elsewhere. The low light cast long shadows across the room, his figure half-lost in them as he sat back, cigar burning steadily between his fingers.

His eyes flicked up the moment you entered. “Well?”

You shut the door behind you, already exhaling. “Mihawk got the documents.”

“And?”

You hesitated just a fraction, then gave him a look. “He also mentioned the crew has been… talking.”

Crocodile’s brow twitched faintly. Not quite interested. Not quite annoyance. “Talking,” he repeated.

You crossed your arms. “Rumours. About us.”

That got his attention. He leaned back slightly, smoke curling upward as he studied you. “Go on.”

You almost didn’t want to. But the look on his face—mild curiosity, edged with something sharper—told you he wasn’t letting it go.

“Apparently,” you said flatly, “I’m either your lover… your secret daughter… or the illegitimate child of some Marine you got involved with.”

A beat. Silence. Then, Crocodile huffed a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not dramatic. But real enough to make you narrow your eyes.

“Creative,” he muttered.

“They’re idiots,” you shot back.

“Mm. Perhaps.” He took a slow drag from his cigar, clearly more amused than he should have been. Then, with a glance back at you, that faint smirk crept in. “Well,” he said, almost lazily, “if I had you young enough… You could technically be my daughter.”

You stared at him. Then immediately gagged. “Absolutely not.”

That only made the smirk deepen. “Unfortunate,” he went on, tone dry. “It would certainly simplify things.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

You made a face, turning away with a sharp exhale. “I’m serious. That one’s the worst.”

“Worse than being my lover?” he asked.

You paused. “…Yes.”

That earned you another low chuckle. You shook your head, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort, but one part of it stuck.

You glanced back at him, eyes narrowing slightly. “…How did you even meet a Marine?” you asked.

It came out more casually than you felt. But the reaction wasn’t. Crocodile stilled.

It was subtle—anyone else might’ve missed it. But you didn’t. His shoulders tensed just slightly. The cigar paused halfway to his lips. Then, faintly— He shivered. Not dramatic. Not obvious. But real.

Your brows knit together. “…You’re not going to answer that, are you?”

A beat. Then he exhaled slowly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. Whatever that reaction was, it vanished behind the usual composed exterior. “No,” he said flatly.

“Thought so.”

You didn’t push. You never did, when he shut something down like that.

Instead, you leaned back against the wall, quieter now. Because the truth—

The real truth was so much simpler, it almost felt ridiculous compared to the rumours.

No secret Marine. No hidden past scandal. Just a street. Heat rising off the sand. Hunger clawing at your ribs. Fingers quick and clever enough to survive another day.

And him. Not a saviour. Not a hero. A man who had looked at you—not with sympathy, not with kindness—but with calculation. Potential.

You could pickpocket without being noticed. Lie without hesitation. Slip through crowds like you belonged anywhere you chose to be. Useful skills. Worth investing in. So he had. Pulled you off the street, not to save you—but to shape you. And you had let him. Because it was better than starving. Better than disappearing. Better than being nothing.

You glanced at him now, watching the way he settled back into himself like that brief flicker had never happened.

“…They really should find something better to do,” you muttered.

Crocodile gave a quiet hum of agreement, smoke curling lazily into the air. “They won’t,” he said. “People like stories.”

You sighed. “They’re still ridiculous.”

“Of course they are.”

Another pause. Then, after a moment— “…You’re not dismissing the lover one,” you pointed out.

His gaze shifted to you again, sharp and unreadable. “…Should I?”

You held his eyes for a second. Then looked away first, clicking your tongue. “Don’t start.”

The Thousand Sunny swayed gently as the late afternoon sun dipped low, casting gold across the deck. The usual chaos had settled into something quieter—Luffy napping, Zoro training, Usopp tinkering with something that would probably explode later.

You leaned against the railing, arms folded, watching the sea. You hadn’t meant to skip lunch. Or the one before that.

From behind you, a familiar voice cut through the breeze. “Aren’t you going to get some food?”

You didn’t have to turn around to know it was Sanji. The faint clink of dishes and the smell of something warm and perfectly seasoned gave him away instantly.

“No, it’s okay,” you replied, keeping your tone casual. “I need to eat less anyway.”

There was a pause—too long for him. Sanji set the tray down beside you with a soft thud. “That’s a terrible reason,” he said, quieter than usual.

You shrugged, still not looking at him. “It’s not a big deal.”

It felt like one, though. You’d noticed it weeks ago. The way he spun hearts around Nami, the poetry he practically recited to Robin, the way he tripped over himself for every woman they met. It was ridiculous, over-the-top… and completely absent when it came to you. At first, it hadn’t bothered you. You weren’t like them—you didn’t dress like them, didn’t act like them. You were a fighter. Practical. Focused. But somewhere along the line, you stopped taking the extra portions he made for you. Stopped lingering when he cooked. Stopped wondering.

Sanji let out a small sigh. “You figured it out backwards, you know.”

That made you turn. “What?”

He wasn’t smiling like usual. No hearts in his eyes, no dramatic swooning. Just… him. “I noticed you avoiding my cooking,” he said. “Took me longer than it should’ve to realise why.”

You frowned. “It’s not—”

“It is,” he cut in gently. “You think I don’t treat you like the others because I don’t find you attractive.”

Your silence answered for you. Sanji ran a hand through his hair, looking oddly… embarrassed. “I’ve been an idiot,” he admitted. That definitely wasn’t what you expected.

“I treat every woman like they’re something out of a dream,” he continued, glancing out at the sea. “It’s a habit. A bad one.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “Didn’t think about how it might look to someone I… respect.”

You blinked. “Respect?”

He looked back at you then, meeting your eyes fully. “You’re strong. You don’t need the same nonsense I throw at everyone else,” he said. “You stand beside us in fights, not behind. You don’t need me acting like you’re made of glass.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re beautiful.”

That landed harder than you expected.

Sanji picked up the tray again, holding it out—not like an offering to be admired, but like something meant for you, specifically. “I like you,” he said simply. “A lot, actually. Probably why I’ve been… different.”

You stared at the food, then back at him. “Different how?”

He exhaled slowly. “Because with you, I don’t want to be that guy. The usual flirt. The exaggerated gentleman. The walking heart-eyes disaster. I want to get it right.”

The sincerity in his voice made it hard to argue.

“…You could’ve just said something,” you muttered.

Sanji gave a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah. Working on that too.”

There was a quiet moment between you, the sea stretching endlessly beyond the ship.

Then he nudged the tray slightly closer. “Eat,” he said. “Not because I made it. Not because you think you should.” A small pause. “But because you deserve to.”

You hesitated only a second this time before taking it. Sanji’s smile softened—no hearts, no dramatics. Just quiet relief. Maybe different wasn’t so bad after all.

—

It starts small. At first, it’s just instinct. Sanji’s mid-swoon—practically melting into a puddle at Nami’s feet, hearts in his eyes, voice climbing three octaves too high—and before you even think about it, your hand comes up and flicks. Right to his forehead.

“OW—?!” He snaps upright, clutching his head, spinning toward you in shock.

You shrug. “You were being annoying.”

Nami snorts. Robin hides a smile behind her hand.

Sanji stares at you for a second, stunned… and then, unexpectedly, he laughs. A quiet, breathy kind of laugh, like he didn’t mind at all. “…Fair enough.”

—

It becomes a habit after that. Not an official one. No one talks about it. But it happens often enough that the crew starts to notice. Whenever Sanji tips too far into his usual theatrics—spinning, crying, shouting declarations of eternal love to someone he met thirty seconds ago—you’re there. A flick to the forehead. A tug on his sleeve. Or, occasionally— You pluck the cigarette right out of his mouth.

“Hey—!”

“You’re about to embarrass yourself,” you say flatly, holding it just out of reach.

“I am always embarrassing myself,” he shoots back.

“Yeah, but now you’ve got an audience.”

He pauses. Glances around. Realises you’re right. “…Give that back.”

“Say please.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real bite to it. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You grin, just a little. “Maybe.”

After a beat, he sighs dramatically—but softer than before. “Please.”

You hand it back.

—

At first, the others think it’s hilarious. Usopp calls it “taming the cook.” Luffy just laughs every time it happens, usually with food in his mouth. Zoro pretends not to care, but there’s a smirk hiding in there somewhere.

But over time… something shifts. Sanji still flirts. Still dotes. Still spins hearts around Nami and Robin like it’s second nature. But it’s… less. Less overwhelming. Less constant. Like he’s catching himself before going too far. And sometimes—just sometimes—you catch him glancing your way first. As if checking whether you’re about to intervene.

—

One evening, you find him alone on the deck, cigarette between his fingers, staring out at the horizon. You walk up beside him, leaning against the railing.

“…You didn’t flick me all day,” he says after a moment.

“You behaved,” you reply.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “That so?”

“Mostly.”

There’s a pause. Then, without looking at you, he says, “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”

“Do what?”

“Keep me in line.”

You glance at him. “Someone has to.”

He smiles faintly, but there’s something more thoughtful behind it now. “I meant what I said before,” he adds. “About wanting to change.”

“I know.”

Another quiet beat, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead. “…Does it bother you?” he asks. “The way I still act sometimes?”

You consider it. “It used to,” you admit. “Not because of what you were doing.”

He finally looks at you.

“But because I thought it meant something about me.”

His expression softens immediately. “It doesn’t,” he says, firm and certain.

“I know that now.” You reach over without thinking—and take the cigarette from his fingers.

He raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t even doing anything.”

“You were about to overthink.”

“…That’s not a crime.”

“It is if I have to listen to it.”

He exhales a small laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

But he doesn’t take the cigarette back right away. Instead, he watches you for a second—really watches you—like he’s still figuring something out, even now. “…You’re terrible at being subtle, you know,” he says.

You hand the cigarette back. “Good.”

He takes it, brushing your fingers for just a second longer than necessary. “Guess I’ll have to get used to it.”

“Guess so.”

The tavern was loud, warm, and smelled like spilt ale and sea salt—typical. Luffy was halfway through a mountain of food, Usopp was already telling exaggerated stories to anyone who’d listen, and Sanji… well, Sanji was being Sanji.

And then there was Zoro. Leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, completely unbothered as yet another group of women hovered around him.

You watched from across the room, gripping your drink a little too tightly. One of them laughed—too loud. Another touched his arm—too casually. Zoro didn’t even react much, just gave the occasional grunt or half-lidded glance, clearly uninterested.

That should’ve made it better. It didn’t. Your face felt warm. No—hot. Why were you even staring? It wasn’t like it mattered. It definitely didn’t matter.

“…You’re gonna crack the glass if you keep squeezing it like that.”

You snapped your head toward Nami, who was watching you with a knowing look.

“I’m not squeezing it,” you muttered.

“You are.”

“I’m not jealous!” you blurted, way too fast. You froze, then frowned. “I’m just… it bothers me that—” You stopped mid-sentence, realisation hitting you like a cannonball. “…oh shit, I’m jealous.”

Nami smirked. “No shit, idiot.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. This was awful. You hated this. You especially hated how obvious it apparently was.

Across the room, one of the women leaned even closer to Zoro, practically draped over him. That was it. You stood abruptly. “I’m getting some air.”

Nami didn’t even try to stop you. “Try not to pick a fight on the way out.”

“No promises.”

—

The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but it didn’t help nearly as much as you hoped. You paced a little, arms crossed, replaying the scene over and over in your head. It was stupid. Completely stupid. He didn’t even care about them.

So why did you?

The tavern door creaked open behind you. “Thought you might be out here.”

You turned—and there he was. Zoro stepped out, hands tucked into his pockets, looking annoyingly calm.

“You left,” he said simply.

You scoffed. “Yeah, I noticed.”

He studied you for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. “You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m not—” You stopped yourself, exhaling sharply. “…okay, maybe I am.”

Zoro’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. That only made it worse.

“What’s so funny?” you snapped.

“You.”

That did it. “You had women practically throwing themselves at you in there!”

“And?”

“And—” You gestured wildly, words tripping over themselves. “—and you just sat there like it was nothing!”

“It was nothing.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Zoro watched you struggle, clearly entertained now. And somehow, that was the final push. “I like you, okay?!”

The words hung in the air. Silence. Then— “Yeah,” Zoro said.

You blinked. “…yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Your eye twitched. “That’s it? ‘Yeah’?!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know—something more than that!”

Zoro huffed a quiet laugh, finally letting that smirk show. “You’re slow, you know that?”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

“I figured it out ages ago.”

“…What?”

“Months.”

“Months?!” you repeated, horrified. “How did you realise I had feelings for you before I did?!”

Zoro shrugged. “You’re not subtle.”

You stared at him, betrayed. “No one told me that.”

“They didn’t have to.”

You groaned, covering your face. “This is so embarrassing…”

Zoro stepped a little closer, close enough that you could feel his presence more than just see it. “I don’t mind,” he said.

You peeked through your fingers. “…you don’t?”

He shook his head. “It’s kinda… entertaining.”

“Entertaining?!” you echoed, incredulous.

“Yeah.” His smirk sharpened slightly. “Especially when you’re mad.”

You dropped your hands, narrowing your eyes. “Oh, I’m mad, alright. Next girl who flirts with you? I’m fighting her.”

Zoro let out a low chuckle at that, clearly amused rather than concerned. “I know you can,” he said, looking you up and down like he was assessing actual damage. “You’ve definitely got it in you to break a nose. Maybe an arm if you’re really pissed.”

You blinked, thrown off. “…You’re not even going to try to stop me?”

“Nah.” His grin widened slightly. “Just give me a heads up first.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“So I can place a bet with the others.”

There was a beat of silence. Then your face went bright red. “You are unbelievable.”

Zoro shrugged like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. “Might as well make some money off it.”

Your glare sharpened—but there was no real bite behind it now, just flustered frustration. “I’m serious, you know.”

“I know,” he said easily.

And somehow, the fact that he took you seriously—and found it funny—made your heart race even more.

Zoro leaned in just a bit, his expression shifting—still amused, but something warmer underneath it now. “I don’t need to worry about them,” he added.

Your anger faltered, just a little. “…you don’t?”

“No.”

A pause.

‘…Oh.”

Zoro straightened, giving you one last look—this time less teasing, more certain. “But you?” he added. Your heart skipped. “You’re interesting.”

Your face immediately betrayed you, heat rushing back tenfold. “…Don’t say things like that so casually,” you muttered.

The training yard behind the Cross Guild base rang with the clean, measured sound of steel cutting through air.

Dracule Mihawk didn’t waste motion. Every swing of Yoru was deliberate, controlled—power held on a leash so tight it was almost more intimidating than if he let it loose.

You had absolutely meant to just drop off the wine. That was the plan. Instead, you’d been standing in the doorway for… longer than you were willing to admit. Watching.

“I can practically feel your eyes on me.”

You froze. He hadn’t even turned. Right. Of course, he hadn’t. This was Mihawk. You forced yourself forward, lifting the glass slightly like it would somehow justify your existence here. “I am looking respectfully.”

The blade stopped. Slowly—very slowly—he turned to face you. Golden eyes locked onto yours with unnerving precision, flicking over your expression, your posture… lingering just enough to make your heart stutter. “You are absolutely not.”

Your grip tightened on the glass. “I am not.”

He stepped closer. Not fast. Not threatening. Just enough. Up close, it was worse. Much worse. There was no distance to hide behind now—no safe vantage point. Just you, him, and the quiet weight of his attention pressing in. “You’re staring at my arms,” he said calmly, gaze dipping for half a second before returning to your face. “Not my sword.”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “I—That’s—” You cleared your throat, trying to recover even a shred of dignity. “I can multitask.”

That did it. That faint, rare smirk appeared—subtle, but unmistakably amused. “Is that so?”

He took the glass from your hand, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to feel intentional. You should pull back. You didn’t.

“I don’t mind,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

That made it worse. “What?”

“The attention.” His tone was even, but his eyes gave him away—sharp, observant, clearly enjoying this far more than he let on. “It’s… refreshing.”

Your face burned. This was not how this was supposed to go. “You’re—” You gestured vaguely at him, words failing you entirely. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

A slight tilt of his head. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. There was no winning here.

His smirk deepened just a fraction. “Careful,” he said, voice dropping slightly, quieter now. “You’re getting flustered.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” he repeated, completely unbothered—and clearly correct.

You took a step back. Then another. “This was a mistake,” you muttered.

“Mm.” No denial. No argument. Which somehow felt like him winning.

You turned quickly, deciding retreat was the only option left with your dignity even remotely intact—and immediately walked straight into a wooden support beam.

The dull thunk echoed louder than any sword strike.

You froze. For one long, horrifying second. Behind you, silence. Then—A quiet exhale. Not quite a laugh. But dangerously close. You didn’t turn around.

“I meant to do that,” you said, already walking faster toward the exit.

“Of course you did.”

You could hear it in his voice now—that restrained amusement, sharper than any blade. You escaped the yard before things could get any worse.

Behind you, Mihawk lifted the glass, watching the doorway long after you’d disappeared. He took a slow sip of the wine, expression settling back into something composed—but the smirk remained. “…Honest,” he murmured to himself.

For a man who rarely found anything worth his attention anymore, life within Cross Guild had been… tolerable at best. Until now. He glanced once more toward the empty entrance, eyes glinting faintly. A new kind of game, perhaps. Cat and mouse. And for once, He didn’t mind playing.

TWO WEEKS LATER

It started, annoyingly enough, with convenience. At least that’s what Buggy insisted.

“I’m not scared of him,” he had said loudly, gesturing wildly as usual. “I just think delegation is what great leaders do!”

No one believed that. Not even him. And so, somehow, you became the “delegate.”Which really meant: the person who went to see Dracule Mihawk because—according to Buggy’s increasingly bitter logic—“he doesn’t immediately try to kill you.” It wasn’t a high bar. But still.

At first, you tried to keep it strictly professional. Deliver the item. Leave immediately. No lingering. No eye contact if possible. No incidents. It did not go to plan. The first time, it was paperwork. You walked into the training yard, handed it over, and tried to leave before he even acknowledged you.

“You’re avoiding me.”

You stopped mid-step. “I’m not avoiding you,” you said carefully. “I’m just efficient.”

A pause. Then, calmly: “You walked into a support beam last time.”

“That was—contextual.”

His gaze lifted slightly. “Mm.”

You left faster than intended.

The second time, it was supplies. You made it halfway through the exchange before he spoke again. “You’re tense.”

“I’m not tense.”

“You’re holding the tray like it might attack you.”

“I respect gravity,” you replied immediately.

That earned you the faintest curve of his mouth again. And then, somehow, your hands forgot how to exist. One bottle shifted too far. You caught it too late. Glass clinked sharply against glass. Silence.

“…I meant to do that,” you said.

“You’re getting worse at lying,” he observed.

You left quickly. Again.

By the third time, you started planning exits before you even entered the room.

Which was a mistake. Because now he noticed.

“You rehearse your escape routes,” he said one afternoon, watching you as you placed down a folded cloak.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You looked left before you entered.”

“I was checking the weather.”

There was a pause. Then, quieter: “There is no weather inside.”

That one almost got you. Almost. You turned too quickly after handing him the item, caught your foot on uneven ground, and stumbled. You recovered—technically. But only after a very undignified moment of windmilling your arms.

From behind you: a slow exhale that was absolutely amusing this time. You didn’t look back. You absolutely did not look back. But you still heard him say, “Careful.”

As if he expected you to trip again. Which, unfortunately, you kind of did.

The fourth time, you brought wine again. “Buggy’s idea,” you said immediately. “Not mine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“…Right.”

You handed it over. Your fingers brushed his again—barely, accidentally, too brief to mean anything.

Except he paused. Just slightly. “You’re steadier today,” he said.

“I practised.”

“With wine delivery?”

“With not embarrassing myself.”

A faint pause. Then “Progress.”

That should have helped. It did not. Because you smiled. And he noticed.

Which, somehow, made everything worse. You left in a hurry—again—only this time the corridor outside felt narrower than it used to. You made it exactly three steps before your shoulder clipped a hanging rope pulley system. It swung. Lightly. Harmlessly. Right into a stack of wooden crates. Which fell. Loudly.

There was a beat of silence from the yard behind you. Then, unmistakably, a quiet sound from Mihawk. Not laughter. But definitely not nothing. You didn’t turn back.

But you did hear him say, almost thoughtfully: “You’re consistent, at least.”

Back in the yard, he lifted the glass of wine again, eyes briefly following where you’d disappeared. The faint smirk returned—this time lingering a little longer. Within Cross Guild, most things were loud, chaotic, and predictable. This wasn’t any of those. And for someone like him… That was starting to feel like the most interesting thing in a long time.

ONE WEEK LATER

Over time, the arrangement stopped feeling accidental. Not because you wanted it to stop—but because Dracule Mihawk clearly allowed it to continue. He could have dismissed you. Ended the errands. Sent you away from the training yard permanently if he found you even mildly inconvenient. Instead, he didn’t.

Which, in Mihawk terms, was practically encouragement. And the worst part was that he knew exactly what Buggy was doing. A test of patience. A way to avoid him. A convenient shield wrapped in your willingness to walk into danger. He tolerated it anyway. Not for Buggy. For you. That was something you only started to understand later.

It was late afternoon when he passed the training yard. He hadn’t intended to stop.

But sound carried well across open stone—especially the sharp thunk of wood striking wood in controlled rhythm. He paused at the edge of the yard. You were there. A wooden staff in your hands, turning through the air with precision that didn’t belong in “delivery duty.” Each strike was measured. Clean. Repeated forms, practised until they were instinct rather than thought.

No hesitation. No wasted motion. Mihawk’s gaze narrowed slightly. That was… real control. Not flashy. Not loud. Just efficient, grounded skill. You pivoted, staff, sweeping low, then snapping upward into a perfect stop at shoulder height.

Stillness. Then, without turning your head, you spoke. “You’re watching again.”

Silence. Mihawk didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped forward from the edge of the yard, fully visible now. “So you noticed.”

You finally looked at him. Not surprised. Not startled. Just mildly amused, like this had been expected for a while.

“I notice a lot of things,” you said, rolling your shoulders once as if loosening tension “You’re not subtle.”

A faint pause. That earned the smallest shift in his expression. Not quite irritation. Not quite interested. Something in between. “You’re observant,” he said.

“I have to be,” you replied, twirling the staff once before resting it against your shoulder. “Working for Buggy builds survival instincts.”

A flicker of something like dry amusement passed through his gaze. “And yet you still come here.”

“Someone has to keep you fed and mildly hydrated.”

That time, the corner of his mouth actually did move. Slightly. “You’ve grown comfortable,” he said.

“I’ve grown adapted,” you corrected. Then, before he could continue—You tilted your head. “Though I have to say, your staring habit is getting predictable.”

A pause. The yard went still in a different way now. Mihawk’s eyes sharpened just a fraction. “…Is that so.”

You shifted your grip on the staff, spinning it idly now. “Mm. I can practically feel your eyes on me.”

There it was again. That line. The one you had once said flustered, embarrassed, half-panicked. Now it came out like ammunition. Mihawk studied you for a moment longer.

Then he stepped fully into the yard.

“You’ve improved,” he said finally. Not about the staff. Not about your stance. About you. 

You didn’t deny it. Instead, you tapped the staff lightly against the ground. “So have you,” you said casually. “You’re less… obvious about watching now.”

A beat. Then—“…I was never obvious.”

“Sure.”

That single word. Flat. Unbothered. It landed harder than any accusation. For the first time, something like genuine surprise crossed his expression. Brief. Contained. But there. You smiled slightly. Not flustered now. Not retreating.

“You know,” you added, “for someone who’s supposed to be intimidating, you’re very easy to read when you’re bored.”

That did it. A quiet exhale left him. Not annoyance. Not dismissal. Something closer to reluctant approval. “You’re bold today.”

“I’m consistent,” you corrected, echoing him from days before. “Progress, remember?”

A pause. Then Mihawk looked at you differently—not as Buggy’s errand runner, not as someone amusingly out of their depth, not even as an interruption. As a variable he hadn’t accounted for. “…Perhaps,” he said at last, “you are not entirely wasted on errands.”

You rested your staff lightly on your shoulder. “That sounds like praise.”

“It isn’t.”

“Mm. Noted.”

You turned slightly, as if preparing to leave the yard. Then, glance back over your shoulder. “But just so you know,” you added, “if you’re going to keep watching, you should probably be less predictable about it.”

A faint silence. Then, very quietly: “You think you can predict me.”

You smiled. “No,” you said. “I think I can read you.”

The kitchen aboard the Moby Dick was usually a loud place—but not this kind of loud.

From the hallway, you paused. A muffled thud. A strained grunt. Another voice—low, irritated. “…hold still, will you?!”

Your stomach dropped. That was Ace. And… Thatch? You edged closer, heart starting to pound. The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the crack. Another noise—closer this time. A scuffle. A sharp exhale.

You didn’t think. You pushed the door open. And froze. Ace and Thatch were way too close together. Thatch had Ace by the arm, both of them leaning over the counter, bodies practically pressed together as they struggled. Ace’s face was flushed, teeth clenched as he twisted, clearly trying to pull away.

“Just let me go already!” Ace snapped.

“Not until you admit you were stealing again!” Thatch shot back, tightening his grip.

Your brain did not process “food theft.”

It processed everything else. Your face went blank. “…wow…okay then,” you said slowly, already backing toward the door. “I’m just gonna…leave you to it, yep.”

Ace blinked. “…huh?”

You turned to leave.

“WAIT—!” Ace yanked hard, finally breaking free from Thatch’s hold—only to stumble forward, nearly knocking over a stack of plates in the process. “It’s not what it looks like!” he shouted, pointing wildly between himself and Thatch. “I was just trying to grab food and he—!”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re calling it now?” Thatch cut in dryly, crossing his arms with a grin.

Ace looked like he might actually combust.

Before he could explain further, another voice drifted in from the doorway behind you.

“Well, well,” came the amused tone of Marco, who leaned casually against the frame. “Didn’t realise the kitchen doubled as a private meeting room, yoi.”

Ace’s soul visibly left his body. “IT’S NOT LIKE THAT EITHER!”

Marco raised a brow, clearly unconvinced—and very entertained.

You hesitated. Something about the scene finally clicked. The overturned pantry crate. The scattered bread rolls. Thatch’s grip was more exasperated than anything else. Ace’s very real look of panic—not guilt.

Oh. Oh no. Your shoulders dropped. “…oh.”

Ace turned to you immediately. “Oh?? That’s all you’ve got?!”

You walked back into the kitchen, now seeing it clearly for what it was: Ace, caught red-handed trying to sneak food again.

Thatch snorted. “Told you this would happen eventually.”

You pressed a hand to your face, half-laughing, half-mortified. “I thought— I mean, you two were— and the noises—”

“I was being attacked!” Ace protested.

“By consequences,” Thatch corrected.

Marco chuckled softly from the doorway. “This is better than I expected.”

You stepped up to Ace and, without another word, wrapped your arms around him.

He stiffened for a second—then relaxed instantly, burying his face into your shoulder with a groan.

“…you thought I was cheating on you with Thatch,” he muttered.

You nodded into his chest. “For, like… five very confusing seconds.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, incredulous. “Thatch?!”

“Hey!” Thatch said, offended.

You laughed, tightening your hug. “You’re an idiot.”

Ace huffed. “…yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

Marco clapped slowly from the doorway. “Touching. Truly. Now, can someone explain why half the kitchen looks like it lost a fight?”

“Ask him,” Thatch said, pointing at Ace.

The deck of the Polar Tang still smelled like gunpowder. Smoke curled lazily into the cold air as the last of the enemy ship disappeared beneath the waves. The fight was over—but the tension hadn’t quite left.

“You got shot.” Law’s voice cut through the quiet, sharp as a blade.

You looked up from where you were sitting against the railing, one hand pressed rather casually to your side. “Relax. Grazed.”

Law’s eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat. “Don’t downplay it.”

“I’m not,” you said, shrugging slightly. “It barely—”

“You have a hole in you.”

That got a few glances from the crew. Penguin, who had been hovering nearby, winced like he’d been the one hit.

You huffed. “Okay, that sounds worse than it is.”

Law stepped closer, boots heavy against the deck, coat shifting with the motion. His gaze dropped to your hand, where blood had already soaked through your fingers. “A ‘grazed’ wound doesn’t bleed like that.”

You tilted your head, studying him instead of the injury. He looked… furious. Not loud, explosive anger—but that tight, controlled kind that made the air feel thinner. “Captain,” you said lightly, “it’s just a small character-building hole.”

A beat of silence. Somewhere behind him, Shachi choked.

Law’s expression didn’t change—but something in his eyes flickered, caught between disbelief and irritation. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know,” you said, softer now. “But I’m fine.”

“You took a bullet.”

“For Penguin.”

That shifted the mood instantly. Law’s gaze snapped sideways. Penguin froze.

“I— I didn’t ask her to—” Penguin started, hands raised defensively.

You cut in before Law could respond. “He didn’t. I moved.”

Law looked back at you, jaw tightening. “Reckless.”

“Strategic,” you corrected.

“Stupid.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re going to fix me anyway.”

That stopped him. For a moment, the frustration in his expression just… stalled. Like you’d pulled the wind out of it. “…That’s not the point.”

“But it is,” you said gently. “You always do.” The words hung there—simple, certain.

Law exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze lingering on you longer than necessary. Then, with a quiet click of his tongue, he crouched in front of you. “Don’t move.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

A faint blue glow sparked to life as he activated his ability, the familiar hum of his power settling over the deck. His hands were steady—always steady—as he worked, though the tension hadn’t fully left his shoulders.

“You’re careless,” he muttered.

“You’re predictable,” you shot back.

“I’m a doctor.”

“Exactly.”

You winced slightly as he worked, but didn’t complain. He noticed anyway.

“…Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Liar.”

You grinned. “A little.”

Law finished the procedure with precise efficiency, the glow fading as quickly as it had come. When he pulled back, the wound was already closed—no trace left but torn fabric and dried blood. “Done,” he said.

You stretched slightly, testing it. “See? Good as new.”

Law didn’t respond immediately. His gaze shifted past you again. “You,” he said coldly, “we’ll be having a conversation.”

Penguin straightened. “Captain—”

“You let her take the shot.”

“I didn’t let her—!”

“You were the target.”

“And she moved before I could—!”

Law stood, towering now, the earlier anger redirected with surgical precision. “Then you should’ve been faster.”

Penguin groaned under the weight of that.

You pushed yourself up, brushing off your clothes. “Hey, don’t blame him. I made the call.”

Law didn’t even look at you. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying to.”

“You’ve done enough.” That almost sounded like concern again.

You sighed, stepping between them just slightly. “Everyone’s alive. That’s what matters.”

Law’s eyes flicked back to you, quieter now—but still intense. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

“No promises.”

“…Don’t.”

You smiled, softer this time. “Alright. I’ll try.”

He held your gaze for a second longer, like he wanted to argue again—but didn’t.

Instead, he turned sharply. “Penguin. Training. Now.”

“What? Now?!”

“You’re slow.”

“I am not—!”

“Prove it.”

Penguin groaned as he was dragged off into what was clearly going to be a very long session. “Wait—wait—Captain, hold on a second—!” he yelped, twisting around desperately. “Guys? A little help here?!”

You didn’t even look up. Instead, you leaned back against a crate with a slow, exaggerated sigh, one hand resting over your now-healed side like it still demanded attention. “I really shouldn’t exert myself right now,” you said, voice suddenly delicate. “You know… after getting shot.”

Shachi blinked at you—then immediately caught on. “Yeah, yeah, she’s right,” he added, nodding seriously. “Doctor’s orders. She needs rest. Probably hydration too.”He crouched beside you. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Thank you,” you said, as if you hadn’t been perfectly fine two seconds ago.

Penguin stared at both of you, utterly betrayed. “Are you serious right now?!”

Law didn’t slow down.

“Bepo!” Penguin tried again, twisting toward the navigator like a man clinging to his last hope. “Bepo, come on, you’ve got my back, right?!”

Bepo opened his mouth— Then Law glanced at him. It wasn’t even a long look. Just a brief, cold flick of his eyes.

Bepo immediately shrank in on himself. “S-sorry…” he mumbled, stepping back and covering his face. “I can’t…”

Penguin’s jaw dropped. “You— all of you—!” he sputtered, pointing accusingly as Law continued dragging him across the deck. “Traitors! Every single one of you!”

You gave him a small wave. “Good luck.”

Shachi raised a hand in farewell. “Try not to die.”

“I’M NOT THE ONE WHO GOT SHOT—!”

“Keep talking,” Law said flatly, not even turning around. “You’ll need the breath.”

Penguin’s protests faded as he was hauled further away, his voice echoing down the corridor as he continued to argue his innocence.

You leaned your head back, closing your eyes for a moment, a faint smile tugging at your lips. Shachi returned a second later, handing you a bottle. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You cracked an eye open. “A little.”

Somewhere in the distance— “THIS ISN’T FAIR—!”

You took a sip of water, unbothered.

NIGHT

The Polar Tang had gone quiet hours ago. Engines hummed low and steady beneath your feet, the only sound cutting through the stillness of the deep sea. Most of the crew had long since turned in—exhaustion finally winning after the chaos of the day.

You, however, found yourself outside a very familiar door. A faint line of light slipped through the gap beneath it. Of course, he was still awake. You knocked lightly—more out of habit than necessity—before pushing the door open.

Law didn’t look up from his desk. “If it’s important, come in. If it’s not, leave.”

You stepped inside anyway, closing the door behind you. “What if it’s somewhere in the middle?”

“That usually means it’s not important.”

You leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed. “You’re harsh tonight.”

“Busy,” he corrected, flipping a page without much interest.

There was a pause. You shifted slightly, then sighed. “...I wanted to say sorry.”

That got his attention.

Law’s pen stilled, just for a fraction of a second, before he finally looked up at you. “For what?”

“For earlier.” You gestured vaguely to your side. “Getting shot. Acting like it was nothing.”

His gaze lingered on you, sharp and assessing, like he was trying to decide if you were serious.

“I know how everyone gets,” you added, quieter now. “If I’d made a big deal out of it, the whole crew would’ve spiralled. Panic doesn’t help anyone in the middle of a fight.”

Law leaned forward in his chair, eyes narrowing just a bit. “So your solution was to pretend it didn’t matter.”

“It didn’t in the moment,” you said. “You handled it.”

A beat. Then another. And then— Flick. “Ow—!” You jerked back, hand flying to your forehead. “What was that for?!”

“Idiot,” Law said flatly.

You stared at him, half-offended, half-amused at the sudden head flick. “I just apologised.”

“And I accepted it,” he replied coolly. “That doesn’t mean I agree with your reasoning.”

You huffed, pushing yourself off the wall and stepping closer. “You fixed it, didn’t you? No harm done.”

“That’s not the point,” he said again, though there was less bite to it this time.

You nudged his shoulder with yours, grinning. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy redirecting all that frustration onto Penguin.”

Law didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

Your grin widened. “I knew it.”

“He was slow,” Law said, like that justified everything.

You laughed under your breath. “You dragged him off like he’d personally offended you.”

“He nearly got you killed.”

“But didn’t.”

“That’s not a margin I tolerate.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a second—the tension still there, just quieter now. “…I meant what I said earlier,” you added, softer. “I knew you’d fix me.”

Law’s eyes flicked to yours again, something unreadable passing through them. “…Don’t rely on that.”

“Too late.”

Another pause. This one longer—but not uncomfortable.

You eventually stepped back, stretching slightly. “Anyway. I’ll try not to make it a habit.”

“Try harder than that.”

You smiled. “No promises, Captain.”

He exhaled faintly, shaking his head just a fraction. “Get some sleep,” he said. “You’re still recovering.”

“Yes, doctor,” you replied lightly, already heading for the door. Your hand rested on the handle for a second before you glanced back. “…Thanks.”

Law didn’t respond right away. But he didn’t tell you to leave faster, either. “…Just don’t make me do it again,” he said at last.

The deck still smelled like smoke and salt. Broken chains clinked softly where they’d been tossed aside, and the last of the captured crew had already been dealt with—either tied up or knocked out cold. The sea had gone quiet again, like it always did after chaos, but you hadn’t caught up to that part yet.

You were pressed against the mast, knees pulled in, eyes flicking at every movement.

“Easy,” someone said gently nearby.

Hongo. He crouched a few feet away, not pushing closer, hands visible, voice calm in a way that didn’t scrape at your nerves. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

You didn’t answer. Your grip tightened around the torn fabric you’d wrapped around yourself. Across the deck, laughter rang out—loud, booming, careless. Too loud. Your head snapped toward it just as red hair came into view.

“Oi! So this is her?” Shanks’ voice carried easily as he strode over, boots thudding against the wood. “Didn’t expect her to be so small—”

“Captain,” Hongo cut in sharply.

Shanks either didn’t hear him or chose not to. He crouched down right in front of you, far too close, his presence filling the space like a storm you couldn’t step away from. 

“Hey,” he said, grinning like this was nothing. “You’re safe now. No need to look like you’re about to bolt.”

Too close. Too loud. Too much. Your vision tunnelled. Before he—or anyone—could react, you lunged. Chomp. Silence. Everyone froze. Shanks blinked. You had his arm in your mouth.

Hongo stared. “…she bit you.”

Shanks slowly looked down at where your teeth were very firmly sunk into his forearm.

Then, just as slowly, he looked back up. “…affectionately?” he offered.

You immediately let go, scrambling back as you’d just realised what you’d done, eyes wide and breathing uneven.

Hongo was already moving. “There are teeth marks, Shanks.”

Shanks turned his arm, inspecting it with mild curiosity. “Huh. Yeah. Guess there are.”

“They broke skin.”

“Did they?” He squinted. “Oh. Yeah, a little.”

Hongo grabbed his wrist, frowning. “You shouldn’t have gotten in her space like that. I told you—”

“She’s expressive,” Shanks said easily, completely unfazed.

Hongo looked like he was reconsidering several life choices.

Meanwhile, you were staring at Shanks like you expected retaliation—like you were bracing for it.

He noticed. His grin softened—not gone, just quieter. “Good bite,” he said, as if complimenting a skill. “Means you’ve still got some fight in you.”

Hongo sighed. “That’s not helping.”

Shanks ignored him, this time staying exactly where he was—no closer. “No one’s going to touch you without you wanting them to,” he added, tone still light but steadier now. “Not on my ship.”

The deck remained still for a moment. Then someone in the background snorted. “…Captain got bit.”

“Shut up,” Hongo snapped, already digging through his bag for bandages.

Shanks just laughed.

INFIRMARY

The infirmary was quieter than the deck—but not by much. Wood creaked, bottles clinked, and Hongo’s voice carried in a steady stream of irritation as he worked.

“Hold still.”

“I am holding still.”

“You’re talking.”

“That doesn’t make you still.”

Shanks grinned anyway, sprawled back on the cot like this was all far more entertaining than it should’ve been. His arm rested out toward Hongo, who was cleaning the bite with the focus of someone trying very hard not to strangle his own captain.

From the corner of the room, you watched. Not as tightly wound as before—but not relaxed either. Your gaze flicked between them, tracking every movement. The cloth. The bandage. The faint tightening of Shanks’ jaw when the disinfectant hit.

“There,” Hongo muttered. “Broken skin. Exactly what I wanted to avoid.”

Shanks glanced down. “You’d think I got attacked by a sea king.”

“You were bitten by a person,” Hongo replied flatly. “Do you know how many infections that can lead to?”

“Feels like you’re exaggerating.”

“I am not.”

Shanks huffed a quiet laugh.

You kept staring. He wasn’t angry. There was no tension in his shoulders, no sharp edge in his voice. No warning signs at all. That didn’t make sense.

“…done,” Hongo said at last, tying off the bandage. “Try not to get bitten again.”

“No promises, doctor.”

Hongo gave him a look, then turned to you. His entire demeanour shifted again—slower, careful, giving you time to see every movement. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to your arm.

You hesitated, then nodded. He approached at your pace, gently taking your arm to clean the cuts. The sting made you flinch, but you didn’t pull away. Behind him, Shanks watched. Still not angry.

Your confusion built until it finally slipped out. “…why aren’t you mad?”

The question came quietly, but clear. Hongo’s hands paused for just a second.

Shanks blinked, like he hadn’t expected that. “Mad?” he repeated.

You frowned slightly, searching his face. “I bit you.”

There was a small silence. Then Shanks let out a short breath—almost a laugh, but softer this time. “That?” he said, lifting his bandaged arm a little. “That was my fault.”

Hongo resumed wrapping your arm, but you could tell he was listening.

You stared. “How?”

Shanks tilted his head toward Hongo. “He told me not to crowd you.”

“I did,” Hongo muttered.

“I ignored him,” Shanks continued easily. “Got too close, too loud.” A small shrug. “You reacted.”

You didn’t respond right away. That… wasn’t how that usually went.

Shanks met your gaze, expression easy but steady. “If anything, I should apologise.”

Hongo snorted quietly. “That would be a first.”

“Oi.”

But there was no bite to it. You looked between them again—at the bandage on his arm, at Hongo finishing yours. No anger. No punishment. Just… acceptance. It didn’t fully make sense yet. But it wasn’t as frightening as before.

ONE WEEK LATER

It took time. A week, to be exact—though no one said it out loud, you could feel the difference between the first day and the seventh. The first day, every laugh made you flinch. By the fourth, you stopped bracing every time someone walked behind you. By the seventh, you could sit on deck without feeling like you needed to run.

The Red Hair Pirates were… strange. Too loud. Too relaxed. Too kind. No one shouted orders at you. No one grabbed you. Food was handed to you without expectation. Space was given when you needed it—and somehow, they always seemed to know when that was. You didn’t understand it. But you were starting to believe it. …mostly.

There was one problem. You kept avoiding Shanks. It wasn’t intentional at first.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. But every time he came near, you found a reason to move. Every time his voice carried across the deck, your attention snapped elsewhere. You didn’t look at him longer than a second. Which was difficult. Because he noticed everything.

“She’s avoiding you.”

Shanks sighed, tipping the bottle as he poured. “I noticed.”

Beside him, Benn Beckman leaned against the railing, arms crossed, completely unsurprised.

“You did get bitten,” Beckman added.

Shanks shot him a look. “You too?”

“I’m just saying—it made an impression.”

Shanks huffed, handing him a cup. “I told her it was fine.”

“Did you?” Beckman asked.

“…not directly.”

Beckman took a slow sip, then glanced across the deck—right to where you were sitting with Yasopp and Lucky Roux, listening more than talking. “She’s probably waiting to apologise,” he said.

Shanks blinked. “For biting me?”

“Yes.”

“But I told her it wasn’t a big deal.”

“You told Hongo that,” Beckman replied. “Not her.”

Shanks opened his mouth, then paused. “…oh.”

Beckman exhaled faintly, like this was exactly the level of thought he expected. “She’s not used to how things work here. She’s trying to figure out the rules.”

Shanks leaned back against the railing, glancing your way. You laughed—quiet, uncertain, but real. His expression softened slightly. “I’ll just tell her,” he said.

Beckman shook his head immediately. “No.”

Shanks frowned. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll corner her again,” Beckman said flatly. “And we both know how that went.”

“…that was one time.”

Beckman raised an eyebrow.

Shanks sighed. “So what, I just wait?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Shanks took a drink, clearly unsatisfied—but he didn’t argue further.

Across the deck, you didn’t notice the conversation. But you felt it. The occasional glance. The space he was giving you. The fact that he wasn’t approaching anymore.

It made something twist in your chest. Because now it felt like you were the one doing something wrong.

It took until night. Most of the crew had settled—some below deck, some passed out where they sat, the quiet hum of the sea filling the spaces between soft conversations.

Shanks was alone near the stern, one arm resting over the railing, cup in hand.

You stood a few steps away. For a while. Too long, probably. Your hands clenched slightly at your sides before you forced yourself to move. One step. Then another. Slow. Careful. Like approaching something that might bolt.

“…Shanks.”

He turned—not abruptly, not loud. Just enough to look at you. “Hey,” he said. Simple.

Easy. Like always.

You hesitated under his gaze, words catching in your throat. Then you forced them out. “…I’m sorry.” Your eyes dropped briefly before lifting again. “For… biting you.”

There was a small pause. Shanks blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he let out a quiet laugh—not mocking, not loud. Just… soft. “Is that what this is about?”

You stiffened slightly. “I—yes.”

He scratched the back of his head, shifting his weight. “I thought Beckman might be right,” he muttered.

“…what?”

“Nothing.” He waved it off, then looked back at you properly. “I’m not mad,” he said.

You frowned faintly. “You should be.”

“Nah.”

“I hurt you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I earned that.”

You stared at him.

He gestured lightly with his bandaged arm. “Hongo told me not to crowd you. I ignored him.” A small shrug. “Got too close. Too loud.” He met your eyes. “That’s on me.”

The words landed differently this time. Not confusing. Not distant. Just… clear.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Shanks tilted his head slightly, watching your expression shift. Then, a little more gently, “You don’t have to avoid me, you know.”

Your shoulders tensed. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he said, but there was no accusation in it. If anything, it sounded amused.

You looked away. “…I didn’t know if you’d… change your mind.”

“About not being mad?”

You nodded faintly.

Shanks huffed a small breath, something softer than his usual laugh. “If I was gonna be mad,” he said, “I would’ve done it already.”

That… made sense. Simple. Honest. You glanced back at him. He hadn’t moved closer.

Hadn’t pushed. Just stood there, giving you the space to stand your ground this time.

“…okay,” you said quietly.

The rain had stopped days ago, but the cold, damp feeling from that fight still clung to everything. The streets of Tokyo Manji Gang territory were dry again, yet Baji still looked like he’d walked straight out of the storm.

You spotted him leaning against his bike outside the convenience store, arms crossed, hair still messy from sleep. Or maybe from not sleeping.

‘Oi,’ you called.

He glanced over, smirking as usual, ‘You’re late.’

‘I wasn’t late. You’re early.’ you walked closer, eyeing him. Something felt…off.

He looked tired. More than tired. His skin had a strange flush to it, and his shoulders kept twitching like he couldn’t get warm.

‘You look like crap,’ you said bluntly.

Baji scoffed, ‘Thanks. You always know how to make a guy feel good.’

‘You’re hot.’

He froze. Then his smirk slowly crept back, lazy and teasing, ‘Are you flirting with me?’

You roll your eyes and step forward. Before he could react, you reached up and pressed your hand to his forehead. He jolted.

‘…no,’ you said flatly, ‘I think you have a fever.’

For a second, he just stared at you. His skin was burning. Way too hot.

‘I’m fine,’ he said immediately, turning his head away, ‘It’s nothing.’

‘You’re literally shaking.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘I said I’m fine.’

You grabbed his sleeve before he could walk away, ‘Keisuke.’

He paused. He always did when you used his name.

‘You fought in the rain. You were soaked for hours. And now you’re burning up. You’re sick.’

‘I’m not sick,’ he muttered, ‘I just didn’t sleep.’

‘You’re delirious.’

He snorted, ‘You wish.’

You tightened your grip, ‘we’re going to your place.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘I have stuff to do.’

‘You have pneumonia to do if you don’t get in bed right now.’

He blinked, ‘That’s not even—’

‘Bed. Now.’

Baji stared at you, clearly trying to decide if he could outrun you. He probably could. But he also knew you well enough to know you’d chase him down and drag him back.

‘…You’re scary,’ he muttered.

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re enjoying this.’

‘A little.’

He sighed dramatically, ‘You’re bossy.’

‘You’re stubborn.’

‘…You’re hot when you’re like this.’

You pointed at him, ‘do not start.’

He smirked again, though it wavered slightly, ‘What? I can’t flirt when I’m dying?’

‘You’re not dying.’

‘I might be.’

‘You have a fever, drama queen.’

Still, he let you drag him along.

HIS ROOM

His room was a mess. Of course it was.

You pushed him toward the futon, ‘sit.’

‘I can sit on my bike.’

‘Sit,’ you say more firmly.

He dropped down, grumbling. Up close, he looked worse. His eyes were glassy, and his movements slower than usual.

You grabbed the extra blanket and shoved it into his arms, ‘lie down.’

‘I don’t need—’

You shoved his shoulder. He fell back with a soft oof.

‘…You just assaulted a Toman captain,’ he mumbled.

‘File a complaint later,’ you say with a snort.

You moved around the room with practised ease, opening windows slightly, grabbing water, and finding medicine. He watched you the whole time, quiet for once.

‘You’ve done this before,’ he said.

‘My little brother gets sick a lot.’

‘Hm.’

You returned and sat beside him, handing him the glass, ‘drink.’

He drank.

‘Again.’

He obeyed.

‘You’re weird,’ he muttered.

You’re worse.’

He studied your face, ‘you worry too much.’

‘You don’t worry enough.’

Silence fell. Then his hand reached out, weak but deliberate, and caught your wrist. You looked at him. His grip was warm. Too warm.

‘You really came all this way just because I looked a little sick?’ he asked.

‘You looked like you were about to collapse.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘You would.’

He huffed, ‘…You always take care of me.’

‘Someone has to.’

His eyes softened. For a moment, the usual wildness was gone, replaced by something quiet, ‘You should get a reward.’

‘You getting better is the reward.’

‘That’s boring.’

You flick his forehead.

He winces, ‘Ow.’

‘Don’t be dramatic.’

He smirked faintly, ‘…Stay.’

It wasn’t a demand. Not a joke either.

You hesitated only a second before sighing, ‘Fine. But only until you fall asleep.’

He shifted, clearly satisfied, ‘good.’

A few minutes passed. His breathing slowed.

Just when you thought he was asleep, his voice came again, rough and sleepy.

‘You really weren’t flirting earlier?’

You groan, ‘Go to sleep, Keisuke.’

‘…You should, though.’

‘Sleep.’

‘…You’re definitely hot.’

‘Keisuke.’

He chuckled softly, then finally drifted off, still holding your wrist like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

SOME TIME LATER

Baji was finally asleep.

You watched him for a moment, making sure his breathing stayed steady. Even now, he looked restless, brows twitching like he was fighting someone in his dreams. You sighed quietly and dipped the cloth back into the bowl of cool water before wringing it out and placing it on his forehead.

He shifted, mumbling something incoherent, but didn’t wake.

‘Idiot,’ you whispered.

You stood and stretched, glancing around his messy room again. There was no way he’d taken care of himself these last few days. No proper food. Probably no rest either. Typical.

Your gaze dropped to your phone. There was one person who should have noticed this before you. You dialled. The call barely rang twice before he picked up.

‘Hello?’ Chifuyu’s voice sounded normal. Cheerful, even, ‘Hey, is something wr—’

“WHAT THE HELL CHIFUYU?”

There was a long pause.

‘…I’m sorry?’

‘What. The hell. Is wrong with you?’

Another pause. You could almost hear the panic setting in.

‘I—did I do something???’

‘Yes. You did.’

‘I don’t even know what I—’

‘You’re his vice captain.’

‘…Yes?’

‘And you let your captain walk around with a fever for days?’

Silence. You could practically hear his soul leaving his body.

‘…He has a what?’

‘A. Fever. A bad one.’

‘WAIT, WHAT?!’ His voice shot up, ‘he said he was fine! He told me he just didn’t get enough sleep after the fight!’

‘And you believed him?’

‘…I—’

‘Chifuyu.’

His name came out calm. Too calm. You had learned a long time ago that you didn’t need to be strong or loud to be terrifying. Silence worked just fine.

‘I trusted you to look after him when I’m not around.’

‘I DO!’ he blurted, ‘I mean—I try! He just—he doesn’t listen to anyone!’

‘You’re supposed to make him.’

‘How?! He’s Baji!’

‘And you’re his vice captain.’

Another pause.

‘…You’re scarier than him,’ Chifuyu said weakly.

‘Good.’

‘I’m coming over right now.’

‘You should have already been here.’

‘I DIDN’T KNOW!’ he cried, ‘If I had known, I would’ve dragged him to a doctor myself!’

You glanced at Baji. He had started shivering again, hands curling in the blanket.

Your voice softened just slightly, ‘Bring groceries.’

‘Groceries?’

‘He hasn’t eaten properly.’

‘…He really hasn’t,’ Chifuyu admitted quietly.

‘And medicine. And something easy to digest.’

‘Got it.’

‘And Chifuyu?’

‘Yes?’

‘If he gets worse, I’m blaming you.’

‘I accept full responsibility,’ he said immediately, sounding like he was seconds from tears, ‘please don’t be mad at me.’

‘I am mad at you.’

‘I KNOW,’ he whines.

You hang up.

Twenty minutes later, there was frantic knocking at the door. You opened it to find Chifuyu standing there, slightly out of breath, bags in both hands. He looked terrified.

‘…Is he alive?’ he whispered.

You step aside, ‘he’s sleeping.’

Chifuyu rushed in, immediately lowering his voice as he spotted Baji on the futon. His expression shifted from panic to guilt.

‘…He looks awful,’ he muttered.

‘Because he is,’ you say calmly.

‘I should’ve noticed,’ he said quietly.

You crossed your arms, ‘you should have.’

‘I thought he was just tired,’ Chifuyu said, ‘after the fight… he kept brushing it off. I didn’t think—’

‘You can’t take his word for things like this.’

‘I know.’

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then Chifuyu straightened, determination replacing the guilt, ‘Okay. What do we do?’

You pointed at the bags, ‘you cook. I monitor.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

You raise a brow at the sudden formality.

‘…Sorry,’ he mumbles.

A few minutes passed as he started unpacking. Then, after a moment, he glanced at you.

‘You really scared me on the phone.’

‘Good.’

‘You should join Toman,’ he said, ‘no one would mess with us if you were around.’

You snort softly, ‘I don’t need a uniform to boss you all around.’

He laughed quietly. From the futon, Baji stirred. Both of you froze.

His eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, then landed on Chifuyu.

‘…Why are you here?’ he croaked.

Chifuyu panicked, ‘YOU HAVE A FEVER!’

Baji blinked. Then he looked at you, ‘You told him?’

You smiled sweetly, ‘Of course. He’s your vice captain.’

His expression darkened slightly, ‘…Traitor.’

‘You’re welcome.’

He tried to sit up. You pushed him back down immediately.

‘Don’t even try.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not.’

‘I said—’

‘Keisuke.’

He stopped. Chifuyu watched the whole exchange as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

‘…Captain,’ he said slowly, ‘I think she outranks you.’

Baji glared weakly, ‘Shut up.’

But he didn’t argue again. Instead, he settled back into the pillow, eyes half-lidded.

After a moment, he muttered, ‘…You both are annoying.’

You adjusted the compress on his forehead, ‘And yet we’re still here.’

He didn’t reply. But the faint, relieved look on his face said everything.

By the fourth day, the worst of Baji’s fever had broken. His shivering fits were gone, his colour was returning, and he actually managed to sit up without clutching the blanket like it was his lifeline.

You were there, as usual, sitting on the edge of the futon with a bowl of soup in your hands. Baji reached for it, but you held it just out of reach.

‘Not too fast,’ you warned, eyes sharp, ‘eat slowly. I’m not about to watch you choke because you’re impatient.’

Baji rolled his eyes but smiled faintly, ‘Yeah, yeah… nurse mode’s still on, huh?’

‘You had a bad fever and couldn’t get out of bed for days, yes, I’m still in nurse mode,’ you replied, pressing a hand to his forehead, just to make sure he wasn’t faking.

‘I feel fine now,’ he said, though you could see the remnants of fatigue in his eyes.

‘You better,’ you said, tone softening slightly, ‘Because if you scare me like that again…’

‘I know, I know,’ he muttered, looking down at the blanket, ‘…I won’t.’

‘Not just because you promised me,’ you said, voice quiet, almost gentle, ‘Because I… I don’t want to lose you. You’re my best friend, Baji.’

His eyes flicked up, meeting yours. The mischievous spark he usually carried was softened by something raw—grateful, humble, maybe a little guilty, ‘…You’re scary,’ he said quietly.

‘I’m scary because I care,’ you replied simply, ‘And I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t get hurt again. Understood?’

‘…Yeah,’ he said. He reached out tentatively, letting you help him sit upright while he took a careful sip of soup, ‘I… get it. Thanks… for everything.’

You smile, letting a rare warmth soften your usual stern demeanour, ‘Just… don’t make me worry like that again. No more fighting in the rain without proper backup. No more ignoring fevers. You hear me?’

Baji nodded, swallowing another sip, ‘…Promise.’

You ruffle his hair gently, a small but firm gesture, like staking your claim that you’d always look out for him, ‘Good. Because someone has to keep you alive. And I’m not letting anyone, not even you, mess that up.’

He let out a soft laugh, low and almost shy, ‘You’re… kind of terrifying when you care this much.’

‘And you’re lucky I care this much,’ you tease, tugging the blanket snug around him again, ‘Now eat, rest, and stop making me worry. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ he said, finally leaning back, letting himself relax under your watchful eye.

Takemichi didn’t think much of it at first. His sister had always been friendly. She liked people. She talked a lot. She got along with most of the Toman members.

So when she started saying Chifuyu’s name more often, he brushed it off.

‘Chifuyu recommended this one to me.’ ‘Chifuyu said this character is overrated.’ ‘Chifuyu likes this café too.’

Totally normal. Right?…Right.

The first red flag came a week later. Takemichi walked into the living room and froze.

His sister was sitting on the floor, surrounded by manga, smiling at her phone in a way that felt illegal for a little sister to do.

‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked suspiciously.

You jumped, immediately hiding your phone behind your back, ‘Nothing!’

‘…Nothing?’ Takemichi repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘Why are you blushing?’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are.’

‘I’m warm.’

‘It’s winter.’

You stare at him, ‘Go away.’

Takemichi narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong.

The second red flag came during a Toman meeting. Chifuyu was late. Chifuyu. Late. This was the same guy who showed up early, organised everything, and made sure everyone else was in line.

Takemichi was already nervous when Chifuyu finally ran in, slightly out of breath.

‘Sorry! I got held up!’

‘Held up by what?’ Takemichi asked immediately.

Chifuyu froze for half a second, ‘…Traffic?’

‘You walked today.’

‘…People traffic?’

Takemichi’s eyes narrowed further. From the corner, Baji was watching with a grin like this was the greatest entertainment of his life.

The third red flag sealed it. Takemichi had gone to the manga café to pick up his sister. He expected to find her alone. Instead, he saw her and Chifuyu sitting together on the couch. Too close. Way too close. Their shoulders were touching. They were arguing about something completely serious.

‘I’m telling you, he’s the best character,’ you said.

‘He literally committed crimes,’ Chifuyu argued.

‘He had character development!’

‘He had one emotional speech!’

Takemichi stood there, staring. Slowly, both of them noticed him. They froze. Then, in perfect sync, they scooted apart. Too fast. Way too fast.

Takemichi pointed at them, ‘What is this?’

‘Normal,’ they both said immediately.

Takemichi blinked, ‘Normal?’

‘Yes,’ his sister said sweetly, ‘We like the same manga.’

‘Yeah,’ Chifuyu added, nodding way too seriously, ‘totally normal.’

Takemichi looked between them, “Then why did you move away from each other like you were caught committing a crime?’

They both froze. Takemichi stared at them for a long moment. Then—

‘…You know what? I’m going to trust you.’

They both smiled in relief. As Takemichi turned away, he muttered, ‘But if anything weird happens, I will know.’

They both froze again.

Five minutes later, Takemichi walked past the window. He glanced inside. And saw them leaning close again, whispering and laughing. He stopped. Stared. Slowly, he pulled out his phone and opened the Toman group chat.

Takemitchy: I think something is happening between my sister and Chifuyu

Baji: FINALLY

Mitsuya: We’ve known for weeks

Draken: You’re slow

Mikey: Invite her to dinner again. I like her cooking

Takemichi stared at the screen in horror, ‘…I’m the last one to know?!’

Behind him, through the window, his sister and Chifuyu were still laughing, completely unaware.

That night, Chifuyu had been staring at his phone for a solid twenty minutes. He had typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again.

He had even asked Baji for advice, which was a mistake because Baji only laughed and told him to ‘stop being lame and just text you.’

Chifuyu groaned, flopping backwards onto his bed.

‘Why am I so nervous?’ he muttered, ‘It’s just a message. Just manga recommendations. Totally normal. Not weird. Not life-changing.’

His phone buzzed. He froze. Slowly, like he was defusing a bomb, he picked it up.

Unknown (but very much not unknown):

Hey :) Did you get home safe?

Chifuyu shot upright so fast he almost fell off the bed. He stared. Then reread it. Then reread it. You texted first. His fingers hovered over the screen.

Chifuyu:

Yeah! I mean—yes. I did. Did you?

He winced. That wasn’t smooth at all. Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Y/N:

Yep! Also…ignore my brother, he was joking…mostly…but he really couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.

Chifuyu burst out laughing, clapping a hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t wake anyone.

Chifuyu: 

Hey! Takemitchy can fight when he needs to…there may be crying and dramatic speeches involved.

Y/N:

I really liked talking to you today. It’s not often I meet someone who likes the same things as me.

Chifuyu’s heart skipped. He stared at the words, suddenly feeling shy all over again.

Chifuyu: 

I liked talking to you, too. Like a lot

Y/N:

Good, because I wouldn’t mind doing it again

Chifuyu buried his face in his pillow, muffling a groan. He was smiling like an idiot.

Chifuyu:

We can trade manga recommendations. Or go back to the café

Y/N:

Yeah, I’d like that…Also…you looked really cute when you got flustered

Chifuyu choked.

Chifuyu:

I DID NOT!

Y/N:

You absolutely did

Chifuyu:

I’m never showing my face there again

Y/N:

Too late. I’ll drag you there

IZANA

On White Day, he gives you a simple silver bracelet with a tiny charm that reminds him of you, ‘I wanted it to be something you could wear every day,’ he says softly, and you feel touched by his thoughtfulness.                                                                                         

When he sees you wearing it everyday he feels protective, knowing that it means enemies would leave you alone if they thought you were with him.

KAKUCHO

On White Day, he gifts you a book you mentioned wanting to read and slips a little note inside: ‘I hope this makes you smile’ You hug him, loving how simple and meaningful he made it feel.                                                                                                                             

When he sees you reading the book and using the note as a bookmark, he feels something in his chest he hasn’t felt in a long time.

SANZU

On White Day, he gives you a small keychain that matches something he carries. A small switchblade that had to be custom since no shop would sell something like this, ‘Thought you might like this… keeps us connected, yeah?’

You laugh and hug him, appreciating the gesture without needing extravagance.

KOKO

On White Day, he gives you a pendant with a photo of him and you inside, ‘I wanted it to be personal… like this friendship,’ he says quietly. You feel your heart warm at his effort and thoughtfulness. Knowing this was hard for him after losing Akane.

You always wore the pendant, and saw him smile briefly whenever he saw you wearing it.

RAN

On White Day, he gifts you a high-quality silk scarf from a designer you once mentioned liking, wrapped in a sleek box, ‘Thought this would suit you… something classic, like you,’ he murmurs, smiling.

You hug him, feeling spoiled in the best way—luxury that feels personal. Some people would say it was overkill, but that was Ran in a nutshell.

RINDOU

For White Day, he gives you a designer leather wallet with your initials embossed inside and a matching card explaining why he thought of you, ‘Something useful, elegant… like us,’ he says quietly, looking pleased at your reaction.

You hug him tightly, laughing at how thoughtful he is without being flashy. You wouldn’t expect anything less from a Haitani brother.

KISAKI

On White Day, he gifts you a minimalist luxury watch—sleek, timeless, and perfect for everyday wear. Alongside it is a small handwritten note: ‘For someone I never want to lose track of’

You feel touched by the sophistication and thoughtfulness, loving how it reflects him. 

HANMA

On White Day, he brings a high-end leather cardholder with his tattoos engraved inside, paired with a small bouquet of elegant flowers, white orchids, your favourite, ‘I like it when it’s simple but nice… like you,’ he says, leaning close.

MIKEY

A month later on White Day, Mikey surprises you with a custom necklace shaped like a tiny taiyaki, with your initials and his engraved on the back, ‘I wanted to make sure you knew how much you mean to me,’ he says, tugging you into another warm hug.             

You can’t help but feel like the luckiest person alive. Especially when you figure out he took inspiration from Takemichi and the clover charm he got Hinata, showing you how much he loved you.

DRAKEN

On White Day, he gives you a sleek leather bracelet, the kind he’d wear himself, with a tiny dragon charm, ‘So you can think of me whenever you wear it,’ he murmurs, and your heart practically melts.                                                                                                  You make sure to wear it every day, and Draken can’t help but feel things whenever he sees you wearing his gift, as if it were your whole world.

TAKEMICHI

On White Day, he fumbles, handing you a small charm bracelet, ‘Uh… this is for you. I mean… not like, a couple thing… unless you want it to be…’ His stuttering only makes you giggle, and you both share an awkward but sweet hug.                                                 

You wear it proudly and show it off to your friends, which makes Takemichi happy. The two of you are officially and unofficially a couple.

CHIFUYU

On White Day, he surprises you with a simple scarf, wrapped carefully, ‘It reminded me of you… I hope it keeps you warm,’ he says, a hint of nervousness in his voice. You smile, realising how much he genuinely cares about you. And you don’t bring up the fact that it's the same scarf he wears, but in a different colour, so you unofficially have matching couple clothes.

BAJI

A month later, he hands you a small keychain with a heart charm, ‘It’s… kind of dumb, but I wanted to get you something. Don’t tell anyone, okay?’ He’s trying to hide how nervous he is, but you can see right through him, smiling at the effort.                                

You put it on your school bag handle, not showing off or telling any of your friends who got it for you. But when Baji sees it, he realises how lucky he is to have you by his side.

KAZUTORA

On White Day, he gives you a little sketchbook, saying, ‘I remembered you liked drawing… I hope this makes you happy.’ His quiet thoughtfulness leaves you feeling warm and appreciated.                                                                                                         The first sketch in your new book is him, and when you show it to him privately, he nearly combusts but manages to keep his cool.

MITSUYA

On White Day, he gifts you a set of scented candles and a handmade card, ‘For all the cosy nights we’ll spend together,’ he says, snuggling close. Everyone expected him to sew you something, but this gift was even more thoughtful and showed you that he saw you two spending lots of time together.                                                                                     

‘So romantic,’ you gush, hugging him back.

HAKKAI

On White Day, he surprises you with a small plushie, one he carefully picked because it reminded him of your personality, ‘I… I hope you like it,’ he says softly, and you hug him immediately, delighted by his sweet gesture.                                                                   

You hold the plushie close to your chest, ‘I love it, and it’s going to stay on my bed to remind me of how thoughtful and sweet you are.’

SMILEY

On White Day, he gifts you a big bouquet of your favourite flowers with a handmade card, ‘I wanted to make you as happy as you make me,’ he says, eyes sparkling. You giggle and kiss his cheek, hugging him back tightly.                                                         

You put the flowers in a vase in your bedroom and place the card on your memory board on your desk, next to a Polaroid photo of the two of you when he first asked you on a date.

ANGRY

IZANA (Close Friend)

You hand Izana a small box of chocolates with a handwritten note, ‘It’s just something small, but I wanted you to have something and know how much you mean to me.’

He opens it calmly, giving a small smile, ‘You really thought this through… I appreciate it,’ he says quietly, already calculating what he was going to get you on White Day.

KAKUCHO (Close Friend)

Kakucho accepts your Valentine’s gift with a grin, ‘This… is really sweet of you. Thanks.’ He doesn’t overreact, but you can see he genuinely likes it.

The two of you have been close since you met at the orphanage along with Izana all those years ago.                          

'You deserve something sweet in your life,’ you say casually, like you hadn’t just dropped a ticking time bomb.’

SANZU (Close Friend)

Sanzu chuckles as he takes the chocolates, ‘So you remembered… not bad, I’ve trained you well.’ His tone is teasing, but his eyes are soft as he flicks your forehead like he always does.                                                        

You grin, knowing he secretly loves thoughtful gestures, ‘You’d pout if I didn’t get you anything, remember last year?’

KOKO (Close Friend)

Koko accepts your chocolate with a quiet, small smile, ‘Thanks… you didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.’                                                               

He knew money was a little tight for you, and you’d never ask him for help, so it made the chocolates extra special, even if they were small and cheap from the convenience store. 

RAN (Girlfriend)

Ran’s eyes sparkle as he takes your chocolates, his grin wide, ‘You really went all out for me? Amazing!’                                                               

You blush, ‘I made all your favourite flavours. You should see the state of my kitchen.’            

Ran leans down and kisses the top of your head, ‘Everyone needs to know I have the best girlfriend in Tenjiku.’

RINDOU (Girlfriend)

Rindou accepts your Valentine’s chocolates with a cheeky smirk, ‘You’re cute when you do stuff like this,’ he says, taking your hand briefly, interlocking his fingers with yours.         

You pout, ‘I’m always cute, you just don’t notice.’                                        

He laughs, ‘Yeah, you are. I can’t wait to rub these chocolates in Ran’s face later.’

KISAKI (Girlfriend)

Kisaki opens your gift with an elegant smile, a box of homemade chocolates, ‘You didn’t need to…’ he murmurs, but his eyes shine with happiness, ‘I don’t need material things, I just need you by my side.’ 

You smile, eyes crinkling slightly, ‘You’re the most attentive and thoughtful boyfriend, so you deserve a gift.’                                                

You were the only person in his life he didn’t have to manipulate.

HANMA (Girlfriend) 

Hanma accepts your Valentine’s gift, a simple engraved lighter, since he was always losing his, giving a soft, teasing smirk, ‘Not bad… You remembered.’