ISLAY

“You are clearly overreacting to a situation that was completely in my control-”

“I don’t care if it was in your ‘control’ Sherlock. You put my life in danger!” you argued back angrily. “Do you not understand that? If one thing, just one, had gone wrong, I could have died.”

“But you didn’t die.” He responded flatly, with no ounce of emotion in his tone. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard what you had said. As if he hadn’t comprehended the severity of the situation. Or he simply didn’t care. A thought that shattered your heart into a million pieces.

“Is that seriously all you have to say?” you asked, voice now taking on a broken tone. “You don’t care do you? What would you have done if I had drunk it? If I had drunk that poison?” you waited. Waited for a reasonable answer, an answer that showed he cared. An answer that proved he actually felt something for your life. 

“But you didn’t. I controlled it. And if you had, by some miraculous idiocy on your part. Then you wouldn’t be having this erratic display of emotions that are clearly unnecessary.” You blinked. Idiocy. Your idiocy. Not his. Not his mistake. Not a reasonable mistake on his part. No. Your idiocy. You had no words. Nothing you could think of in your mind that could explain the rush of emotions swimming through you. To describe the hurt, the pain, the heartbreak at his words. 

“Right,” you whispered. Your eyes brimmed as you silently grabbed your bag, stuffing your phone into the side pocket and grabbing your keys from the table. Your body turned towards the door, not bothering to take a second glance at the man you had spent four years loving with every fiber of your being. Not bothering to answer his call as he shouted down the stairs of 221B asking where you were going. Not bothering to reply to John as you passed him in the doorway asking you if everything was okay. Your feet moved on autopilot. Your phone buzzed in your bag as you walked.

You had walked for hours, going nowhere specific, with no end goal in mind. Your tears had since dried against your cheeks, your skin flushed from the cold. You hadn’t checked your phone, you knew that the texts and calls had come from John, you doubted any were from Sherlock. As he has explained quite clearly, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Your feet fell to a stop as you stared at the figure in front of you. His eyes, usually cold, held a warmth of understanding as he looked at you, his fingertips twisting the umbrella in circles. 

“What did my dear brother do this time?” The light smirk on his lips was just for show. You had known Mycroft long enough to recognise his facade. Despite being the ‘ice man’ Mycroft had come to like you. You were his favourite goldfish in a pond of goldfish. 

“He could’ve killed me.”

Weeks. Radio silence. He knew Mycroft had something to do with it. He knew that Mycroft had covered your tracks somehow. You weren’t answering his texts, his calls. You weren’t at your apartment. Your landlord had said something about a suitcase and leaving late in the evening. You were still paying the rent but you weren’t there. He had tried your work next. An extended leave of absence. John had been badgering you about taking some time off for a while, you had been saving up your holiday days since you had started at the library, that seemed to have paid off now you wanted to disappear. 

He knew going to Mycroft would be futile. He should have known that Mycroft was helping you in some way. ‘She’s safe.’ That's all he said. He knew where you were. He knew and he wouldn’t tell Sherlock, no matter how much he asked. 

He didn’t know when the smoking started again, he couldn’t pinpoint it with his hazy mind, the cocktail of drugs dulling the loud voices in his head. Dulling the memory of the argument. Sherlock had been over the argument exactly twenty-three times since you walked out and he realised you were missing. Each time left him just as confused as the last. Why were you so upset? You had been in the firing line on numerous cases, some worse than this. So why did this upset you so much?

“Because this time, she wasn’t complicit in your act.” The tone of his brother's droning voice echoed behind him. “It seems you have finally pushed away the one person who could stand your games without being affected. How does that feel, Sherlock, knowing Y/N is gone?” Sherlock twisted angrily only to find an empty doorway. “Must feel agonising knowing you don’t know where she is and I do.” He spun back towards the windows, the voice moving with every breath. But again, there was nothing. Sherlock stood, pacing, his eyes darting across every corner of the room. “You lost her. Sherlock. Now you’re all alone. Again. In a world full of goldfish who can’t stand you.” Sherlock whipped back and forth as the voice continued to taunt him. 

Finally his hands grasped the cup that had sat on the mantlepiece. The milky coffee had turned an awful green colour, with fur growing steadily on the surface. He hurled the cup against the wall with a loud smash, mouldy coffee spreading across the sofa. His hands grabbed anything within reach, hurling it at the voice wherever it moved. 

The banging and crashing echoed through 221B, so loud that Sherlock didn’t even hear his flatmate speaking on the phone urgently.

‘He needs you.’ The words spun around your mind continuously on the ride to 221B. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t argued. You hadn’t reminded Mycroft of the hurt Sherlock had caused you. You just moved. Just as you had that night. Just as you did whenever he needed you. Your heart couldn’t take ignoring him when he was in need. Was he an idiot? Yes. Had he hurt you unimaginably? Yes. Did you love him? Yes. You hadn’t answered John’s texts telling you how Sherlock was beside himself, you hadn’t answered Mrs Hudson, or Molly or Lestrade. But Mycroft. Mycroft always believed in some ways he was above Sherlock. There was no denying that Mycroft often enjoyed teasing and taunting Sherlock. And if he asked you to help his brother, then there was something seriously wrong. 

The cab had arrived at Baker Street in the late evening, the lights in 221B still on despite the time. Mycroft’s car sat outside the home of your detective, the front door open as he stood in the doorway, his eyes waiting for your arrival. The second the cab stopped, the shouting echoed down onto the street. Your feet sped forwards taking you up the stairs, you didn’t listen to Mycroft as he tried to explain. You didn’t stop when you found John standing outside the door of 221B using the slab of wood as a shield. Another smash. A crash. A shout. 

You nudged John aside, despite his protests, and pushed the door of the flat open. The flat you had once called home, a safe place after a case, a place for you and Sherlock to talk about his cases, was now reduced to rubble. You dreaded to think what Mrs Hudson would say if she saw it. You assumed she hadn’t since the light under the door of her flat was still off. She has spent the weekend on a holiday with her friends. 

Your eyes scanned the mess for your detective. His chest heaved his eyes frantic, his hand reaching for whatever was in reach. His gentle curls which usually framed his face, stuck in all directions. It broke your heart all over again.

“What did you take?” Your voice seemed to cut through whatever was happening in his mind, his eyes finding you. 

“Y-You, you’re not here-”

“What did you take, Sherlock?” When he didn’t answer, you stepped closer, your hands reaching for his, and gently prying his grip off of the controller which was already damaged, you knew this wasn’t the first time the controller was being launched across the flat. The mirror had a massive crack in it and you didn’t have the time to count all of the different breakages and smashes filling the place. 

The second your skin touched his, he snapped. His chest slowing, his eyes focusing on you. 

“I’m here, right here with you, okay?” you spoke slowly and softly. “What did you take?”

His hand fumbled with the corner of his pocket and you slipped the folded paper out, eyes breaking their gaze from his for a moment as you scanned the list. You reached back and handed it to John and Mycroft who had joined him in the doorway. You guided Sherlock to the coffee stained sofa, sitting him on the corner. “When did you take it?” 

“L-Lunch.” he mumbled. “The voices wouldn’t stop-” His body slumped forwards, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you balanced his weight. 

“John, could you take him whil-”

“No, no!” Sherlock tightened his grip on your hands. “Stay.” You nodded.

“John, could you grab me the Naloxone? It should be in the second drawer of the right nightstand.” You instructed with a smile. 

“I’m not leaving, okay?”

“I-I sorry,” Sherlock mumbled against your shoulder. “I hurt you. I nearly- sorry.” You knew it wasn’t perfect, you knew it wasn’t an ideal apology. But it was Sherlock. It didn’t matter how he said it, as long as he said it. He didn’t apologise. It wasn’t like him. So he meant it.  But as John returned with the Naloxone shot, you forgave him. As you cleaned up the flat whilst he slept on the couch, you continued returning to him as he reached out in his sleep. Because he meant it. No one else would forgive him like you did, because no one else knew and loved him like you did. 

He still had some groveling to do, but he’d do it in his own way. When he was sober, when he knew what was real. And you’d forgive him. Because he was your detective. He made mistakes, he made errors but you’d love him through them.

When you were eight, you figured it out. The absences, the injuries, the nights when his house went silent and the air felt heavy with something unspoken. And one day, he finally admitted it.

“I’m a monster,” he whispered, curled on the floor of your room after the worst full moon you’d ever seen him return from.

You remember the rage that sparked in you. Not at him - never at him, but rather, at the world.

“You’re not a monster,” you said, voice steady even though your hands were shaking. “You’re just Remus. That’s enough.”

He didn’t believe it, not then. Maybe he still doesn’t, but you meant it.

You always have.

Now, as the boats drift toward the stone docks and the castle towers above you like a dream, your fingers brush against his. You squeeze gently, a silent reminder: I’m still here.

Inside, the Great Hall takes your breath away with its floating candles, enchanted ceiling, golden plates that shine even without food on them yet. It’s everything you imagined and more. Everything you have read paled in comparison.

Then names are called.

One by one, first years step forward, trembling under the Sorting Hat’s scrutiny.

And then -  “_______, _____”

You turn to Remus and try to smile, but your chest feels like it’s caving in.

“Wish me luck,” you whisper.

He nods. “You don’t need it.”

You sit on the stool. The Sorting Hat drops onto your head, and immediately a voice purrs in your ear.

“Well, aren’t you an interesting one… Clever, sharp, fiercely loyal. Curious about everything. You’d do well in Hufflepuff. Maybe even Gryffindor... but no, you don’t just want to be brave. You need answers. You want to understand the why behind everything. And that, dear one, means only one thing…”

A pause. You feel the Hat probing something deeper.

“You’re thinking about someone else… the Lupin boy. Hmm. Very protective, I see.”

“He’s my best friend,” you think fiercely. “I want to stay close to him.”

The Hat chuckles, deep and amused. “A noble thought. But you’ll both need to grow. Apart, if you must. Don’t fear it. You’ll find your way.”

Then, aloud, it shouts: “RAVENCLAW!”

You slide off the stool, applause ringing in your ears. The Ravenclaw table welcomes you with warm smiles and curious glances. But your eyes scan the room, following Remus as he soon takes his turn.

The Hat takes longer this time. You bite your lip.

Then - “GRYFFINDOR!”

He looks toward you, unsure. You give him a thumbs-up and a grin that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’d promised to stick together, but Hogwarts, it seems, had its own plans.

Weeks pass. You find your place among the Ravenclaws, high in their airy tower. You answer riddles to get into your common room and lose yourself in books, ancient spells, and strange magical theories. It suits you, in its way.

But you miss him.

You make time where you can - which is between classes, after curfew, beside the Black Lake under starlight. He’s always tired after the full moon, always quiet. You notice the fresh scars even when he tries to hide them under long sleeves.

You’re always the first to notice, you doubt there’s a detail you’d miss when it came to him. 

Then he makes new friends. James Potter. Sirius Black. Peter Pettigrew. Loud boys with loud laughs and even louder personalities. They’re always getting into trouble, always pulling Remus into it. And he lets them.

You don’t blame him. Not really. But sometimes, when you see him laughing with Sirius or whispering to James during class, something tightens in your chest.

They don’t know, not like you do, and they could never.

One evening, you meet him by the lake. You sit in silence, watching the ripples in the water. The moon is almost full.

“They don’t know, do they?” you ask, finally.

He flinches. “No.”

“Do you want them to?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then softer, “I don’t want them to look at me and be afraid they’re sleeping with a monster.”

You nod, lips pressed together. “You’re not a monster, Rem, you don’t have to pretend either when you’re with me.”

He sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m not pretending. I’m just… trying.”

“You’re still you, Remus,” you say. “And I still see you. Even when no one else does.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, “Sometimes I think you see too much.”

“Someone has to.”

He looks at you, really looks, and for a moment everything else fades - the Houses, the castle, the distance. He’s still the boy from Whispermere, hiding from the world in your attic, clutching your hand after the worst nights of his life.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

You smile. “Always.”

And in that moment, you know: it doesn’t matter what the Hat said, or where you sleep, or what friends you make. You’re still his anchor, and he’s still yours.

Even if the world tries to pull you apart, even if the moon rises and falls and tries to make him something else - you’ll always be there, reminding him of who he is.

Not a monster. Just Remus, and that’s more than enough.

You knew things would never be the same the moment you got sorted into different houses, but you hadn’t expected it to happen right in second year. The first-year, he was stuck to you somehow his budding friendship with his dorm mates.

Only, this year, it’s different. It happens slowly, the way most changes do. A missed lunch here, a half-written letter there. The space between you and Remus doesn’t appear all at once. It drips in like rain under a cracked window, which is quiet, subtle, and easy to ignore at first.

You tell yourself it’s normal. You’re in different houses. You have different classes, different friends. He has James, Sirius, and Peter now - boys who’ve somehow wrapped themselves around his days like ivy on stone. You’re happy he’s laughing more. You want him to have people.

Still, there are times it stings.

You see them in the courtyard, shoulders pressed together as they whisper about some prank or plan or whatever mischief they’re always knee-deep in. Remus laughs at something James says, head thrown back, the sound real and full and bright.

It should make you happy. It does, but only to some extent. You supposed it was childish, because you are a child, but sometimes, you wish he’d laugh like that with you again.

You still have your moments. After all, some things don’t change.

Full moons still come. And Remus still suffers.

He tells them he’s visiting his “sick mother” or going home for the weekends, but on weekdays he’ll just be sick and staying in the hospital wing. The Marauders, to their credit, don’t press. Not yet.

But you know the truth, you knew it was only a matter of time before they found out. Before Remus shines a light on that he so badly wishes wasn’t true.

You sneak out on those nights, Invisibility Cloak or not. Madam Pomfrey has stopped scolding you when she finds you curled in the chair beside his bed in the hospital wing. You’ve been doing this for years now, long before Hogwarts.

Sometimes you stay awake all night, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint shimmer of silver scars healing across his arms. Sometimes you just hold his hand and wait for the shaking to stop.

You bring chocolate, potions from your own stash, and books he pretends to be too tired to read but always opens the second you leave.

There is no miracle potion yet. Nothing to make it easier. But there was you, so you stay.

Because love - whatever kind of love this is - means showing up. Especially when it’s hard.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he tells you one morning, voice hoarse and broken around the edges.

You hand him a warm compress and raise an eyebrow. “You say that every time.”

“And you ignore it every time.”

“Because it’s a stupid thing to say.”

He lets out a dry laugh that turns into a cough. “I mean it. You’ve got other friends. Classes. You don’t need to spend your nights watching me bleed all over the bed.”

You sit beside him, brushing his hair back gently. “No, I don’t need to. I want to. That’s different.”

He doesn’t look at you. He’s gotten good at that lately. He used to always meet your eyes, no shame in that now that you have seen everything he had to offer. Hogwarts seemed to have changed a lot between you and him.

After a while, you ask, “Why don’t you tell them?”

He stiffens. “Tell who?”

“You know who. Potter, Black and Pettigrew. Your little chaos club.”

“They’re not - ” He stops, then sighs. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Because if they find out, they’ll look at me differently. Or worse, they’ll stop looking at me at all.”

“You don’t know that.”

He meets your eyes then. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be this. To be something people fear.”

“No,” you say gently. “But I know what it’s like to watch someone I care about tear themselves apart for being something they can’t control.”

That shuts him up. He hates how you know exactly which words to use, what to say, how to say it. He hates how he can’t resist the warmth you offer, even at the tender age of 13, Remus knew that craving you and your comfort was not good.

He couldn’t depend on you so much. You’ve been enduring full moons with him since you both were 8, it would be too unfair to demand you keep doing it forever. Hogwarts is a new era, a new start. 

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to tell them now. But you can’t keep carrying this alone forever.”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then, softly: “I’m not carrying it alone.”

You smile at that. It’s the first real smile you’ve had in days, and right then and there - wall has barely built.

Still, the distance continues.

You write him notes in class and find them folded carefully in his bag later, but he rarely writes back. You sit by him at meals when you can, but more often he’s wedged between Sirius’ smirks and James’ flying stories.

He doesn’t mean to leave you behind. That’s what makes it harder.

Because he’s not cruel. Just… busy. Distracted, even. Caught in the glow of something new and good and easy, and you? You’re the constant. The one who patches him up in secret, who carries the burden he’s still too scared to share with anyone else.

You wonder sometimes what would happen if you stopped showing up, but you already know the answer. You never would, you could never do that to him.

One night, weeks after a particularly brutal full moon, you find him on the Astronomy Tower, arms crossed against the wind, eyes trained on the stars like they might have answers.

You step up beside him.

“They asked again,” he says without turning.

“About the absences?”

He nods.

“What did you say?”

“That I get migraines. Bad ones. I said I needed quiet.”

You lean against the wall beside him. “You think they bought it?”

He shrugs. “James looked like he wanted to argue. Sirius just nodded.”

“They’re not stupid, Remus. They’re going to figure it out eventually.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I know.”

You glance at him. “What then?”

He doesn’t answer.

You rest your chin on your arms. “They’re your friends. They care about you. Maybe they’d surprise you.”

He gives you a look, half amused, half broken. “You always believe the best in people.”

“No,” you say. “Just in you.”

He turns away, blinking hard. He tries not to think too much about it and you try to act like it never held much weight than intended.

You know he’s scared. You also know that trust doesn’t come easy when your entire life has been a series of closed doors and hidden scars. So you keep showing up.

In the quiet moments. In the hospital wing. In the spaces between his laughter with the Marauders and the silences that follow the moon. You stay.

Because even if he doesn’t say it, even if he forgets sometimes, you know he needs you.

The Marauders became legends long before you realized you’d been left behind.

It started innocently with little tricks, charmed ink, floating teacups in the Great Hall. But by fourth year, it was chaos on demand. James and Sirius led the charge, Peter cheered from the sidelines, and Remus followed behind with that half-smile he wore when he was trying not to be complicit.

He was never the loudest. But he was always there and you had no doubt that a majority of the pranks were his ideas with that brilliant imagination of his.

And you? You were somewhere else entirely.

You’d fallen in love with Potions during your third year. You were completely taken by it, it was constant - it was measured and specific, you will only go wrong if you do it wrong, you liked the assurance in that. The discipline of it, the balance. The quiet language of simmering and stillness. The way ingredients interacted like people. Some enhanced each other. Some repelled. Some needed careful handling or they’d break.

You understood that. You didn't mind the solitude. Not at first.

You still saw him, of course. Shared looks across the Great Hall. A nod in passing between classes. He still sought you out during full moons - less often now, but enough to remind you that something tethered you together, even if the rope frayed more each year.

Then came fifth year.

It was a brutal moon. You knew it before the term started. You’d read the cycle and seen how close the eclipse would fall. Too long in wolf form. Too little recovery time.

You were already waiting when Madam Pomfrey carried him in, bleeding and half-conscious, his leg at a wrong angle and the smell of blood in his clothes. He was fevered for days. You didn’t leave.

But when he finally woke, cane leaning beside his bed and the weight of reality setting into his body like cold iron, something inside him snapped.

You remember it too clearly.

“Remus,” you said, gently wrapping the bandage around his hip. “You’re going to need to rest for a while. Let your body catch up.”

He looked away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t get to say that.”

Your hands froze. “I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help,” he snapped, voice raw. “I don’t need you watching over me like some sad nursemaid waiting for the broken boy to fall apart. I don’t need your pity.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut bone.

You stood slowly, heart loud in your ears. “It’s not pity, Remus. It never was.”

He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t then, he was too drunk on his pain to really consider you and your words, as well as his own.

You left without another word.

He apologized two days later. He limped to where you sat in the library, cane in hand, eyes rimmed with sleepless regret.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, quietly. “I was angry, and scared. Not at you… never at you.”

You nodded, nudging the empty seat beside you, which he took.

“I know,” you said.

And you did. You forgave him. Of course you did, it was hard not to when it was Remus. But the wound between you stayed, despite you forgiving him. It might have been the first real crack in the relationship that never fully went away.

You passed each other in the corridors and shared tired smiles. Sometimes, you sat beside each other in the hospital wing in silence, both knowing you’d never quite find your way back to where you’d been.

Seventh year came faster than you expected. Your N.E.W.T.s consumed you - Potions, Transfiguration, Transfiguration. You poured yourself into your studies like they were the only things still within your control.

Remus, meanwhile, was surrounded by noise. Always someone beside him, always laughing, always planning something with parchment and ink-stained hands. He was loved, admired even. And you were happy for him.

Throughout the years he grew to be a Remus that was nowhere near the one you knew. He got tattoos, piercings too and you would even see him smoke in the Gryffindor common room parties you’d be dragged into attending.

You never really spoke there, just exchanged greetings and then off you were to mingle with your usual circle while he stuck close to his Gryffindor lot.

Outside of common room parties, you spoke now and then. Swapped books, and would even shared tea on a rainy afternoon near the end of spring term. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the attic in Whispermere. It wasn’t late-night confessions or moonlit truths. It was… polite.

But sometimes, he’d look at you like he was remembering something. Something he thought he lost, and you’d smile gently, pretending not to feel it.

Graduation came not so long after.

You stood in a sea of students in dress robes and polished shoes. The sky was too blue. Your throat too tight. All you could think was: This is the end of something we forgot to finish.

After the ceremony, he found you standing alone by the edge of the courtyard, clutching your acceptance letter from the Potions Guild. It was everything you worked so hard for, yet you didn’t feel as accomplished.

“So,” he said, softly. “St. Mungo’s or lab work?”

You looked up at him. The sun caught his hair. He still leaned on the cane sometimes, out of habit more than need now.

“Both,” you said. “They offered me a hybrid apprenticeship. Field work and brewing. It’s… everything I wanted.”

He smiled, and it was real. “You deserve that. You always did.”

“What about you?” you asked. “Still planning to be underpaid and overworked for the Ministry?”

“Sadly,” he said, smirking. “I think that’s the werewolf-friendly career track.”

You both laughed, and it almost felt normal again.

Then came the pause. The one that wrapped around everything you hadn’t said for years. Seven years ago, he was yours - in all the ways that mattered, and yet he couldn’t be farther from that now.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice quieter. “I never told you that enough.”

You blinked hard. “You didn’t have to. I always knew.”

Another silence. This one longer. More final. You allowed yourself to sit through it no matter how much it stings.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For pulling away. For ruining what we had.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” you whispered. “We just… grew differently. That’s not anyone’s fault.”

He nodded, eyes shining. “Still. I never forgot what you were to me.”

You stepped forward, brushing his sleeve gently. “I’ll always be here, Remus. Maybe not beside you, but… you’ll never be alone. Not really.”

He looked at you like he wanted to say a thousand things. Instead, he just said, “Thank you.”

And then he hugged you, arms around your shoulders, his chin in your hair. For a moment, you were kids again, hiding from storms, trading secrets, pretending the world couldn’t touch you.

Then you let go.

And you both walked into the rest of your lives.

Apart.

Not exactly best friends like you once were. But never strangers.

You hadn’t set out to cure werewolves. That was a lost cause.

In truth, you hadn’t even set out to be a name anyone outside a medical conference would know. All you ever wanted was to understand. To fix what broke, to ease what hurt.

Maybe it started with Remus - those early days at Hogwarts, when he’d stumble into the hospital wing torn apart by the moon. Maybe it was the way he tried to hide the pain, or the way he smiled like it cost him something. You’d sat beside his bed too many nights to count, watching him sleep with clenched fists and a furrowed brow.

You’d never forgotten the way he looked at you after his worst full moon - fifth year, cane by the bed, his voice sharp with shame.

"I don’t want your pity."

That stayed with you. Not as a wound, but a weight. A suffocating reminder.

So no, you hadn’t started out trying to change the world. You were just trying to make it a little easier for someone like him to live in it.

And somewhere along the way, you did.

St. Mungo’s had offered you an apprenticeship the summer after graduation. A split program which consisted of two days a week in the field and three in the Potions wing. You’d taken it eagerly, diving into your studies with the same quiet focus you’d had at Hogwarts.

But the moment you had freedom to choose your own research, you knew what your first project would be.

Lycanthropy.

The transformations. The injuries. The trauma.

The stigma.

There were no quick fixes, no clean solutions. The thing resisted almost everything. Existing treatments were garbage, if they were even treatments, almost none existed due to the image painted of werewolves in the wizarding society.

The werewolf's body changed, but the tragedy was in the mind. The slipping of identity. The violent erasure of the person inside.

So you studied. And you failed. And you studied more. And you kept failing.

You burned through ingredients, scorched cauldrons, collapsed more than one test dummy with unstable fumes. You didn’t care, you pushed on.

There were whispers around the lab. That you were obsessed. That you should focus on safer, more respectable branches of medicine. That lycanthropy was a curse and werewolves are scary creatures that kill without reason.

They said it wasn’t worth pursuing and their scrutiny almost drowned you.

But you remembered Remus. And that was reason enough too keep going, to keep fighting for a world that he won’t be pushing people away in fear that they’d see all the ugly and run away.

It took three years to get your first successful result.

By then you were twenty-one, exhausted, and running on tea and stubbornness. But the batch worked - just barely. It stabilized the subject’s mental state for nine full minutes during the transformation. Nine minutes of lucidity, control. Enough to test again.

You built from there.

Nine became fourteen. Fourteen became thirty. Eventually, you crossed the hour mark - and then something clicked.

It was monkshood. That had always been obvious. But it wasn’t the only key. It was how it mixed with valerian, how the infusion had to be added at exactly 74 degrees Celsius, how the brew had to be stirred counterclockwise before sunrise.

A thousand tiny details. None of them obvious. But together?

Together, they became the thing.

You cried when the final test subject looked up after the full moon and said, “I remember everything. I didn’t lose myself.”

It was a werewolf volunteer, a girl a bit older than you are named Lyka. She had short blonde hair that was curled in coils and her eyes were a piercing grey in colour, she was reserved and strong. She volunteered for the tests right away.

You think she also held out hope to see the future you had envisioned, so she endured the tests however dangerous they may be and you both pushed through and jumped over numerous hurdles.

She’s become somewhat of a friend to you all these years. You even trusted her with stories of Remus, of the boy who was behind everything you’ve been building towards.

And when the press finally got hold of the announcement, you didn’t hide. You didn’t let the hospital PR team bury your name in a headline. You stood in front of the flashbulbs and the questions and said clearly, proudly:

“My name is ______, and I created the Wolfsbane Potion.”

You didn’t stutter, nor did you blink once.

You just thought: Remus. I hope you see this.

He did.

Remus Lupin had not cried since he was seventeen.

Not when he’d graduated. Not when he’d buried his parents at the ripe age of 19. Not even when he’d broken up with someone who said she “couldn’t live with the risk.”

But he nearly cried in the Potter living room the moment he saw your face on the front page of The Daily Prophet.

It had been a peaceful morning. James and Lily’s home which happens to be Potter Manor was warm, lively with the sound of baby Harry’s hiccupy giggles and Sirius humming off-key in the kitchen. Remus had dropped by with a stack of paperwork and a worn copy of Beedle the Bard - a gift for Harry, who immediately drooled on it with affection.

They were laughing over tea when Peter stumbled in, windblown and pink-cheeked.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m late,” Peter said, shrugging off his cloak. “Weather’s foul. Couldn’t apparate in these weathers.”

He dropped a bundle of newspapers on the table, along with a bag of jam tarts. Remus reached for a tart without thinking, flipping the top newspaper toward him.

Peter, halfway through unwrapping a sweetroll, said casually, “Isn’t that your mate from school?”

Remus glanced down.

His hand stopped.

There you were - front and centre, smiling widely and proudly. Not some blurry byline photo or a profile sketch. A real picture, wand in one hand, flask of potion in the other, hair pulled back. Behind you was a cauldron bubbling away.

It was all too staged if he were being honest.

BREAKTHROUGH IN LYCANTHROPY TREATMENT: WOLFSBANE POTION CREATED BY FORMER HOGWARTS STUDENT

Remus’s heart kicked like it remembered how.

The article’s subhead read: ‘I wanted to create something that could preserve identity. Lycanthropy shouldn’t be a life sentence.’

He read your name, printed boldly beneath the headline. It was written in full. You had claimed it all.

Lily noticed first. “Remus?”

He didn’t look up.James tilted the paper so he could see. “Bloody hell. That’s _____, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Remus said. His voice was quiet.

Peter blinked. “Wait, you know her?” He barely remembers you from school.

“I grew up with her,” Remus replied. “We were friends. Best friends. For a long time.”

Sirius leaned against the table. “And now she’s apparently a genius.”

“She always was,” Remus murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He stepped outside soon after, briefly, to get some fresh air.

It had been four years. Four years since Hogwarts. Four years since you’d spoken beyond the occasional stiff letter or exchanged holiday greetings. You had gone and done the impossible.

You’d given people like him hope. You’d changed lives, and you’d done it without ever asking for praise or apology or permission. You had stood there, face lit by flashbulbs, and told the world that werewolves mattered.

That he mattered.

Remus laughed softly, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure whether to feel stunned or guilty. He hadn’t written in over a year. Hadn’t asked how you were. Hadn’t known the thing you were building in the dark would end up this… bright.

And still - he felt seen.

Even from across the silence.

He reread your quote at the bottom of the page, just above your signature:

“I don’t think we should be afraid to try  . Not when people are still suffering. Not when we can do better.”

You hadn’t named him. But Remus felt your words like they were spoken straight to him. Because he knew better, he knew you were speaking right to him.

Back inside, Sirius gave him a long look. “You alright, mate?”

Remus nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

He folded the paper carefully, tucking it beneath his arm. For a long time, he’d lived with the quiet grief of being forgotten. A side effect of his condition. Of fading away into the margins of other people’s stories.

But here you were, reshaping the narrative entirely.

You hadn’t just remembered him. You had remembered all of them - the ones who lived in the shadows, who never thought they’d be more than cautionary tales or footnotes in Ministry reports.

And maybe… just maybe… you’d done it for him. He stared down at your picture again, his smile quiet and unshakable.

“Godric’s beard,” James muttered behind him, reading the headline over his shoulder. “She really made a Wolfsbane Potion.”

Sirius let out a low whistle. “That’s going to change everything.”

Remus didn’t speak, but in his chest, something shifted. A pressure he’d carried for years lightened. And somewhere deep down, he knew this wasn’t the end of the story. You were out there. Living, thriving, blazing a trail.

And for the first time in a long time, he found himself wanting to reach out, outside of obligation and nostalgia. Because something real had reignited between you.

It didn’t take long for Remus to find you.

The moment he saw your name on the front page of the Prophet, he knew it wouldn’t be enough just to read the article ten times, to keep the paper folded on his night stand like some relic. He needed to see you.

For the ache in his chest that hadn’t gone away since fifth year. The one he thought he could outgrow, bury beneath the pages of law books and Ministry memos. But there it was, alive and sharp and hopeful again.

So he asked around.

He was discreet, as always. But not shy.

You were easy to trace once he learned about your position at St. Mungo’s. The Potioneering Department kept strict visiting hours, but Remus had never been one to blindly follow signs that read Authorized Personnel Only. He lingered until your shift ended, until he saw you push through the ward doors with your satchel slung across your shoulder, hair messily pinned back, a smudge of something silvery at your temple.

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

You stopped when you saw him.

The quiet stretched as you stared in disbelief. He took one step closer.

"Hi," he said.

Your breath hitched. "Remus."

He offered a careful smile, the kind that trembled at the edges. "I hope it’s alright. I didn’t want to owl. I thought maybe... maybe you wouldn’t answer."

You swallowed. You looked older, of course. Grown into yourself. But your eyes were still the same. He could see the traces of that little girl still as he watched your grown self scan him, he bet he must look different as well.

"I might not have," you admitted softly. "I’m glad you didn’t give me the choice."

That made him laugh. Not a loud one, but real. He looked down. "You really did it. You actually - "

"Yes."

"I don’t even know what to say."

You smiled faintly. "Then don’t. Let me."

He blinked as you stepped closer.

"I invented it for you," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "So you’d stop suffering the way you used to. That’s all it ever was. All I ever wanted."

Remus looked at you like you’d peeled the years back with a single sentence.

He didn’t hug you, despite desperately wanting to. He didn’t wanna offend you or cross boundaries.

He just said, very quietly, "Thank you."

And that was enough.

He started taking the Wolfsbane Potion a week later, full seven days leading up to the full moon.

You brewed it yourself, of course. There were still regulatory delays, red tape the Ministry insisted on. But you had your licence. You had your clearance. More importantly, you had him.

You gave it to him with a note attached: Sip slowly, or it’ll make your throat burn. Seven days, don’t miss it.

Remus made sure to drank every single day of the week leading up to the full moon. It was still painful. The bones still bent. The skin still pulled and tore and reshaped.

But he remained. He was still there.

He could remember the walls. The sounds. The feel of the floor. He didn’t thrash, didn’t bite himself raw, didn’t wake up choking on blood and dirt.

And when morning came, he cried.

You were there.

Sitting in the armchair beside the bed in his tiny flat, watching him with quiet concern and a cup of now-cold tea in your hand.

"You stayed," he rasped.

"Of course, I stayed."

He swallowed, throat dry. "You didn’t have to."

You raised an eyebrow. "Remus Lupin, I have stayed with you in worse states than this. Don’t be daft."

He huffed a weak laugh. Then he looked at you. His tired brown eyes meeting yours. You hadn’t slept. Your eyes were shadowed, your robe wrinkled. But you looked proud, and somewhat tender. And maybe a little scared.

"I always missed you," he said.

You stilled.

He continued, voice low. "Even when I didn’t say it. Even when we stopped writing. I never stopped thinking about you."

You opened your mouth, then closed it.

He sat up slowly, wincing. "I loved you, you know. Even back then."

"Remus - "

"I didn’t say anything because I was scared. Because I thought... if I ever hurt you, if I ever lost control, and it was you in the way - "

"I’ve known since we were eight."

He blinked.

You smiled sadly. "Of course I knew. I knew you loved me. I knew you were afraid. But if anyone was ever going to understand, Remus, it was always going to be me."

He looked down. His hands shook. "I just didn’t want to be the monster in your story."

You moved to sit beside him on the bed.

"You’ll never have to worry again," you whispered. "Because I found a way."

He looked at you, eyes glassy. "Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me."

"I do. I don’t deserve it."

You snorted. "Remus Lupin, you deserve the bloody stars and the moon and the sun. But I can’t give you that. So instead... I give you the potion."

He stared at you, long and quiet. Then he reached out, cupped your face in one trembling hand, and kissed you.

It wasn’t perfect. It was cracked with tiredness and ache and too many lost years.

But it was real, so real that it undid all the distance that grew between you two all these years. You thought you had lost him 7 years ago, but he was still yours.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "Thank you for giving me something I can never pay back."

You hummed. "Buying me a drink would do."

He laughed against your skin. "I’ll buy you all the drinks in the world."

He was walking right behind you. You couldn’t hear his footsteps but instead listened to the whispers and rustles of large shrubbery as he made his way through the foliage. At first, his offer sounded chivalrous – he wanted to be able to keep an eye on you, in case one of the hungrier islanders decided to make their move. Now, as your thoughts circle around dextrous hands firmly holding a large knife, Sanji’s “good manners” were nothing but a farce. His sweet gestures and even sweeter words had only one goal: gain your trust. Once your guard was down, Sanji could choose the most convenient moment to finally strike. You never would have seen it coming. You would have neither the time nor the sense to defend yourself. The fight would have been over before your heart could ever suffer the reality of such devious betrayal.

You realised he had the perfect opportunity. It’s just you and him, all alone, far away from any of your other crewmates. On an island with dinosaurs and assassins, another regrettable death wouldn’t raise an eyebrow. It was all too convenient for a man with Sanji’s resolve.

The question slipped past your lips: “Why did you bring me here?”

“The views are rather nice, don’t you think?” he answers, voice filled with amusement. “Although the hospitality could be a bit better.”

It struck you how normal he sounded. Nothing about his words or tone hinted at anything malicious. Sanji was relaxed, in full control of himself. You didn’t dare glance over your shoulder to see his expression. As it was with an abyss, when you stared into a murderer’s eyes, he stared right into yours. If he had realised that you were wise to his farce, you would have met your end right then and there. He couldn’t risk anyone else finding out.

He reminded you of strange flowers, bladderworts, that Nami had once told you about: inconspicuous white petals growing on lakes, waiting for anything small to get close. Once it does, the bladderwort momentarily swallows it whole. There is no escape, no warning, no second chance. Just a second of curious eyes enchanted by the pristine flowers. You could only wonder whether that was what the unfortunate fruit fly must feel.

Only then did you understand just how stupid it was to ask Sanji about his intentions. Truly, if he were cruel and smart enough to await the right moment, he’d never let in on the truth – even if you had seen right through him. Any and all denials would only work in his favour. He had everyone fooled. No one would ever believe you that Sanji was like a bladderwort. It was hardly their fault, really. You were the only one to get close enough to him. All the shared intimacy, secrets and beds… They had led you straight into his honeyed trap. And the fool that you were, you just revelled in how sickly sweet and slow the world became in Sanji’s embrace. 

There was no chance for you to fight him or outrun him. That only left you with one option: hide. Still, that included a fateful chase, where you’d have to get far enough to lose him. Even that sounded ridiculous at best but the terror gnawing at your mind only grew, pushing out all reason.

You stopped suddenly. Sanji, not expecting that, bumped his chest into your back. The heat coming from his body engulfed you. Once upon a time, it was a welcome sensation. Now, it was starting to choke you. He stood over you like a twisted guardian angel: there was nowhere you could go where he couldn’t get his hands on you.

“What is it?” he asked softly, hot breath brushing against the side of your face.

“I think something moved over there.” You pointed at a dense bush a few meters ahead. That distance and element of surprise should be enough to give you a head start. “I don’t know, maybe it’s nothing.”

Sanji laid his hand on your shoulder, giving you a slight squeeze. Maybe it was faux comfort, or maybe a warning that he’s still in control. “Alright,” he said with a heavy sigh. “You stay back, I’ll check it out.”

His steps are slow, yet sure. Seeing his cautious prowl only proves what you already knew: Sanji is smart enough to be patient. The good opportunity will find him. His bloodthirst will be satiated, just you wait…

It was now or never.

You broke for escape. Sanji yelled something after you but you couldn’t hear him clearly. No matter, you weren’t going to give in to his sweet words again. Not when you’ve seen right through him.

Twigs smacked your face as you ran through the jungle. Thorny bushes cut your skin. There was a continuous rustling somewhere behind you. You couldn’t be sure whether it was Sanji chasing you or some local animal making its way through. You weren’t going to check. There was only the forest ahead of you.

There was a distinct burn in your thighs and calves. A searing pain in your chest forbade you from taking deep breaths. You had no way of knowing how long or how far you’ve run. The jungle looked exactly the same wherever you looked: thick shrubbery, sprawling foliage, robust trees almost covering the sky with their leaves. It felt like running in place. Still, you pushed on.

You just have to find cover, somewhere to hide for a while.

The protest of your body became unbearable. Your knees buckled underneath your weight, sending you crashing to the ground. Cut, bruised and beaten down, you’ve wondered if you have ever felt anything different than this ache. The pain delved deep inside you, wrapping around your muscles and bones until it found your soul; the pain of ultimate defeat.

Crawling, you made your way to the closest tree. The trunk was wide enough to hide your body when you rested your back against it. Your eyes travelled upwards, for a moment taking in the lucious crowns. The large leaves swayed in the wind, rustling far above your head. They remained indifferent to your plight. Many have lived and died in their shade, why should they care?

Sanji called out your name. The echo of the forest kept repeating it, as though the genius loci of the jungle was wondering where you had gone. Sanji called out again, asking where you were and pleading for your return. Some forgotten part inside you wanted to give in. Perhaps there still was a piece of your soul naive enough to believe that man’s farce. 

The rustling of the shrubbery grew louder as Sanji unknowingly made his way towards you. Tears streamed down your face. All of that, for nothing. A grand escape just to end up where you were always going to end up: at the mercy of a man revelling in building trust just to end it with a swift flick of the knife. Although after your little “escapade”, perhaps Sanji’s hand wasn’t going to be swift at all. Maybe your getaway changed his mind and as his final triumph over you, Sanji was going to take his sweet time. He could make you beg. Your pleading for your life will be the music to his ears. He will listen closely, taste the delicious despair, only to grant none of your pleas. Yes, a man of his resolve was more than capable of turning death into mercy.

Sanji stopped. He called out for you once again. There was a sound of worry in his tone. You could only assume that he was concerned about losing track of you. That would only make his goal harder to achieve. As much as he doubted anyone believing your story, he couldn’t put it past his crewmates that they have been wise to his plan. He had to find you quickly and end this useless, theatrical chase. Sanji always got what he wanted. That wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

The rustling resumed but instead of louder, it became quieter. The man was retreating.

Seeing this chance, you leaned against the trunk to help you get up. Your legs were still shaking. You won’t be doing much running in that state. On the other hand, if you stay too long in one place, finding you will become easier. It didn’t matter whether you walked or crawled. Anything, just to add distance between you and him.

Snap.

The dried twig under your foot broke in half. The echo carried that little sound as far as it could, announcing to every pair of listening ears, “She’s right here!”.

Sanji called out your name for the third time. You could hear him marching towards you. With your desperation outgrowing the searing pain in your legs, you attempted to continue your escape. There was no strength left in your body. You fell to the ground again. The final time, perhaps.

Sanji didn’t know what to think. Everything was happening so quickly, he didn’t have time to make sense of your strange behaviour. All he knew was that you were running away from him, never even checking if he was following. The only thing that made sense to him, at the time, was to chase you.

As you lay on the ground, he stood high above you, ready to scold you for pulling such a sad excuse of a prank and making him worry. Then, he noticed something truly out of  place: paint on your arm. He recalled how Zoro couldn’t stop laughing and Nami became completely apathetic. For a short second, Sanji wished you did pull a bad joke on him. It would be much better than the pair of terrified eyes watching his every move like a deer staring down a hunting rifle. Tears pooled in your eyes, flowing down your cheeks as though you were mourning a tragedy that hasn’t yet happened. There were cuts all over your skin. Some already scabbed, others still bleeding. Even your face… It was the first thing Sanji saw in the morning and the last thing he saw before falling asleep. He knew it better than anyone, even yourself. But now, standing above you like an executioner over the block, he couldn’t recognize it. That face he’s grown to know so well had never stared at him with such horror. You never trembled in fear under his gaze.

Sanji took a small step forward, only for you to crawl away from him.

“Stay away from me!” you yelled through sobs.

He felt his throat tighten. It was almost impossible to hold back his own tears. “I’m sorry but I can’t do that,” he managed to answer in a slow, serious voice. 

In some way, it was all absolutely hilarious. Picture, if you will, a man about to die, awaiting his turn at the gallows. When asked about his final words, he tells a joke. The crowd is silent. When the noose tightens around his neck, the man doesn’t lose his humor. He simply says “Hey, now! Don’t leave me hanging!”. Sanji loved to play the distinguished role of your knight in shining armour. Every wish he granted, every question he answered, every threat he defeated. It brought him immense satisfaction to always be the one you turn to, no matter the situation. Whether it was cooking something for you or standing up to someone, the sweet peck he’d get afterwards was always worth the trouble. Although to Sanji, nothing to do with you was “trouble”. Despite all of his efforts to be the only person you will ever need, he is the cause of your fear. He had become the bad guy he’s sworn to protect you from. Sanji knew that your change is the effect of the paint. Still, as irrational as it was, he couldn’t help but feel intimate disgust towards himself. The only way to make things right was to wipe the paint off your arm. To do that, he had to get closer to you, intensifying your fear to a degree you shouldn’t ever feel. In some way, it was all absolutely hilarious.

Pushing through his own feelings, Sanji made his way towards you. As before, you kept crawling away. Tears streaming down your face, breath catching in your throat, glistening eyes begging for mercy – some part of Sanji wanted to let you go. Turn around and go the other way, just so he will never have to suffer your fear of him. His chest tightened, making it harder to breathe. 

“No, no! Please, don’t!” you yelled out. “Please!”

Sanji was crying. It was wrong, everything was wrong! He was meant to be that one person you could trust with everything, someone to lean on when you had nothing left. The one constant in your life. The man you deserved.

You couldn’t crawl away fast enough. Sanji’s strides were too long. As he got closer and loomed over you, you tried to kick him. He was faster and grabbed your ankle before your boot could make contact with his thigh. You tried to wrestle your leg out of his hold but his grip was too strong. He had you imprisoned. Using little to no strength, Sanji pulled you towards him and kneeled on the ground, right next to your hip. One of his hands pinned you down.

Your screams pierced the silence of the otherwise serene jungle. They were animalistic, in no way resembling a sound befitting a human. The shriek rang in Sanji’s head, clawing at his mind, heart and spirit. Although it wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help the dull ache of guilt and regret gnawing at him. To some degree, he didn’t care that it was the paint that made you afraid. After all, you were screaming at him. It was his chest you were hitting in desperate attempts to fight back. It was he who had to hold you down using so much more force than he wanted. Whether real or imagined, it was Sanji who was the monster.

Sanji finally reached the paint on your arm. It smeared with a flick of his wrist. Momentarily, deep silence engulfed the two of you. There weren’t any screams, there was no rustling. Only steadying, laboured breathing. That lack of sound was deafening, like a warning siren that rattles your bones rather than pierces your ears.

With a wince and a whine, you sat up. Sanji instinctually reached out to help you but stopped himself just before his hand made contact with your back. For the first time in his life, he hesitated to show his care for you.

“Sanji,” you whispered. Your lips remained parted, as though there was something else you wanted to say; something that never came.

“I’m here,” he answered equally low. “I’ll always be here.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a tight hug. His hands hovered for a moment, only for Sanji to give in to something much stronger than his doubts. One of his palms rested on your back, keeping you close to him; the other lay on the back of your head, as your face hid in the crook of his neck.

Sobs shook your body. Sanji tried to calm you down, reminding you that the two of you were safe, that he loves you and that you have nothing to worry about as long as he’s next to you. Little did he know, you weren’t crying over yourself. No, you kept remembering the heartache written all over his face. The way he looked as though he was about to collapse and give up on sanity altogether. But isn’t that what lovers always do? Take the other’s pain and make it their own? If so, then you loved Sanji to the point it physically hurt, as though your affection resided in the marrow of your bones, rather than your mind or your heart; a love that was intrinsic to your existence.

Sanji will never admit it to you but that day still haunts him. Some nights, when even the moon and the stars hide away from the world and the shapeless darkness moulds into horrors beyond comprehension, he relives your fear in his dreams. He finds you wounded and helpless, begging for mercy. When he kneels down to help you, he sees his own hands dripping with your blood. He tries to explain, argue that he would never do that. But the look in your eyes reveals the truth: he would and he did. Those nights, Sanji wakes up covered in cold sweat, shivering underneath the covers. He finds you asleep right next to him, one arm splayed across his abdomen. When his breathing steadies, he pulls you even closer. Then, barely above a whisper, he makes promises to you; vows that would make gods and deities laugh. The unending malice of this world, however, rubs its hands together. The same devilry that widows wives and orphans children, longs to test Sanji’s promises. Could the lovesick cook actually fulfil them? 

Deep in his heart, Sanji is terrified that he could.

_________

The silence that followed was unbearably loud. The foliage surrounding you rustled in a questioning manner. What on Earth just happened?

Your footsteps came to a halt. Both of you just stared at the other, quietly asking yourselves whether you really had just screamed at Sanji to shut up. You watched him press his lips into a tight line, jaw clenching hard enough to cause a headache in the near future. A sorrowful glisten appeared in his eyes and you couldn’t be sure whether he was angry or on the verge of tears.

Sanji was about to say something, no doubt to reveal his breaking heart, when you beat him to it:

“I’m sorry,” you squeaked out before covering your mouth, eyes large with horror. “I-I don’t know what-” 

A painful groan cut your sentence short. The sound came from your throat but it was in no way yours. It felt all too foreign, as though you were suddenly sharing your body with a beast far too old and primal to have a name. Your heart began hammering against your ribs, the echo of its rhythm rang in your ears. Blood rushed to your face. Hands trembled as they balled into fists. No matter how hard you tried, you could not stretch out your fingers. In a matter of seconds, the fighting stance started to feel good. Right. It was like finally giving in to an old, unending urge. The freedom this rage offered was nothing short of blissful.

“What’s going on?” asked Sanji. His hand lay reassuringly on your shoulder. The warmth coming from him was infuriating. What palpable audacity to patronise you like that. “Are you okay? Come on, talk to me.”

Your fist came in contact with his jaw rather quickly. Unfortunately, as you thought to yourself, not a crack was heard.

Sanji stammered backwards, holding the side of his face. Glistening blue eyes met yours. The look of hurt and betrayal on his face was sweet to you. It was exactly what people of his kind deserved and it was high time he learned that. There were enough sleazy, pig-headed men in this world. One less would do everyone a lot of good.

“I won’t waste my breath on a vermin like you,” you spat out. The voice belonged to you, yes, but you had no will in uttering those words. They came from deep inside – somewhere too out of reach even for you. It was as though you suddenly began rotting from the inside.

Another groan bordering on a growl tore from your chest. Your hands shook, aching fingers slightly opening tight fists. This wasn’t you.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me!” you called out to Sanji. He must have noticed a significant change in you as he once more reached out towards you. You stopped him, taking several steps back. “Don’t come any closer,” you warned. “I... can't... control it!"

Sanji’s eyes took in your hunched physique. There was a burning urge in him to defy your order, to hold you in an embrace so tight no other living thing could ever make your acquaintance. The man, however, was no fool. Despite what some green-haired swordsman might claim. Sanji was disillusioned about something being amiss.

His gaze stopped on a red mark right above your ankle. It was easy to miss among the large foliage and shrubbery surrounding you.

“The paint,” he whispered. “Love, there’s paint on your leg.” Sanji was trying to keep his voice calm, more for you than himself. In slow, short steps, he was making his way towards you. “We need to get it off. Now.” Despite the gentle sound of his voice, the grave seriousness of its tone was unmissable.

Normally, you would have agreed with him and devised a plan. But that required time and clarity of mind you didn’t have. Feeling the enraged beast inside you coming to take over control, you had to limit yourself to the necessities. "Just…” Another groan. “You stupid, little, man-thing!” you growled at him. The wrinkle between Sanji’s eyebrows only deepened his worried frown. Fighting against the paint’s maddening properties, you doubled over. It was physically painful to defy the chemicals. “Knock me out or something!” you gritted through your teeth.

Sanji took a deep, ragged breath. How brilliant of Miss Goldenweek to ask him to do something he simply couldn’t. And how pathetically lovesick of him to let his heart decide.

"I would rather die than hurt you,” he stated. His words sounded more like an oath than a personal preference; he announced to all malice residing in this world that there is only one weakness he shall suffer.

You wanted to tell Sanji that it really wasn’t the right time to be chivalrous. Instead, it was the frenzied beast inside you that answered him:

“Then you will perish.”

Sanji expertly evaded your swinging fist. Making true to his vow, he never parried or answered the attack. His body contorted in all sorts of ways to escape your punches. The assault was fast, without a sign of slowing down anytime soon. As Sanji continued to waste your efforts, it appeared that your rage only grew.

The insect is perfectly escaping the deadly swats.

If he were asked on any other occasion whether he likes being intimately known by you, Sanji would deem that question completely obsolete: of course he enjoyed it. What else could he answer? That if you stabbed him through the heart, he would be eternally grateful for being allowed to admire you one last time before he dies?

As things were at the moment, being so well-known by you could cause Sanji’s demise. You’ve seen him fight, you know his skills, tendencies and strategies. Which is why you did a small feint before hitting him right in the centre of his stomach. His diaphragm spasmed, he couldn’t take a breath. Another powerful punch made him fall, hitting the ground with a loud, muffled thud.

Sanji had no time to wrap his head around the turn of events. You sat on top of him, clenched hand flying down to make a dizzying impact with the side of his face. Unbearable, loud ringing filled his ears. His vision became spotty but remained clear enough to let Sanji turn his head and evade your continuous assault. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the red paint above your ankle. If he could just reach it…

One of your hands grabbed his throat. It was more surprising than painful, yet all the more terrifying for him. He gasped for air but his lungs remained empty. Another of your fists hung high above his head, ready to strike down with viciousness unknown to humane creatures.

Is this really how this ends?, he thought.

Still, he couldn’t force himself to overpower you, to fight back whatever malice resided inside you. Part of him started to accept the impending doom. In some other, less dire and heartbreaking circumstances, he surely would have made a joke about happily dying under you.

Your fist was coming closer and closer to his face.

He didn’t close his eyes. He wanted to see you.

But the impact never came. Your hand, as if held back by an invisible force, stopped a mere inch away from him. Sanji looked at you, not quite understanding what was happening. His eyes met yours. There was a sense of awareness in your stare. Tears were streaming down your face. Anger remained in your glistening gaze but it was much different. Sanji recognised it. He’s seen it a thousand times, whenever it took considerable effort to wake up Zoro; whenever you had a bad day and wanted to be left alone; whenever you crossed paths with petty bullies and their senseless violence.

A growl escaped your throat. In one moment, you let go of Sanji’s neck and hit yourself square in the jaw. Another punch met your nose. Blood streamed down your face. You felt dizzy but so did the relentless rage inside you. Using the last bits of your remaining strength and resolve, you rolled off of Sanji.

“Do… it!” you managed to say through clenched teeth.

Sanji didn’t waste time. Not when you were on the right track to knocking yourself out. Still coughing and trying to catch his breath, he reached down to your legs, wiping off the red paint in one swift motion. Momentarily, your body went limp. Sanji sat next you, pulled up your upper body by your shoulders and settled you against his chest. His hand was trembling as he gently, almost fearfully, caressed your face. The other palm rested on the back of your head, allowing him to see all of you. And as much as he loved taking his time admiring you, the sight before him was not one to behold. Blood that dripped from your nose was already drying on your lips and chin. Some drops stained your blouse. Red, bruised face had swollen in the past few minutes.

He whispered your name in a questioning manner, as if checking whether you still belonged to the land of the living. You slowly opened your eyes and met his gaze. Sanji was crying, doing his best to keep his body from shivering with every sob. It was an image of a man broken. Was it his heart that broke? Or his spirit? Perhaps his own humanity had shattered when he had to bear witness to cruelty beyond imagination.

“Sanji…” you muttered, voice hoarse and shaking. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t-”

“I know,” he interrupted. His face became all blurry and you couldn’t be sure whether it was because of your own tears or repeatedly punching yourself in the face. “I know, love.”

“I could have killed you.”

“Me?” Sanji laughed but there was no happiness in the sound. It was the amusement of a sole survivor; the chuckle of a man executed by a blunt guillotine. “You would never do that. You- “ A violent sob escaped his throat. “You love me too much.”

Your shaking hand slowly reached up to Sanji’s face. Cautiously, you touched his already bruised cheek. His slight wince didn’t escape your attention.

“Why would you let me do that to you, Sanji?”

His heart broke yet again, hearing your voice crack with emotion. What devilish sins had he committed in his previous life to be subjected to this suffering? What absolution was there in such agony?

Sanji’s hand left your face and gently grabbed your wrist. He lowered your palm to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the knuckles.

“Because I love you too much,” he forced a smile on his face. It was in no way comforting. His expression contorted into an even deeper image of a soul torn apart and sewn together with little care or expertise. “How could I ever hurt my princess?"

It was impossible to say how much time had gone by while you and Sanji were silently holding each other. No words were spoken because what words were there to say? What should be said in such circumstances? Although words had failed you, that shared silence wasn't exactly quiet. Each gentle caress, a kiss left on the bruised skin, exchanged tears and glances - all of them told stories too grand for any known language.

Nami had already taken one glance at the atmosphere and sensibly removed herself from it. Usopp was half-asleep by the opposite rail, slumped over with his chin on his chest. Luffy had passed out flat on his stomach after too much food and not enough sense, and Chopper was curled against his side in a tiny snoring heap. That left Sanji alone with the smoke from his cigarette, the ache in his jaw, and the unbearable sight of you smiling at someone who was not him.

He should have walked away. He knew that as clearly as he knew his own name. He should have gone back into the galley, scrubbed the counters, stacked the last of the dishes, done literally anything that did not involve standing there feeding his own jealousy like it was a fire he had no intention of putting out. He had no right to feel this way. No claim on you. No reason, beyond his own foolish heart, to resent how easily you looked at Zoro tonight. But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

It wasn't reason making him stand there; it was the simple, humiliating truth that he had spent weeks—months, if he was being honest—trying to win you over in every language he knew how to speak. He had left your tea where your hand would find it without asking. He had slid the best portions of dinner onto your plate. He had draped his jacket over your shoulders on cold nights and steadied you at the small of your back when the ship pitched beneath your feet. He had buried care beneath charm because charm was easier, safer, prettier to offer than anything raw. And still, one bottle and a few low-voiced conversations with Zoro had him feeling as though none of it had ever mattered.

That was the part he hated most—more than the jealousy, more than Zoro, more than the quiet panic rising under his skin. Sanji tried. He tried beautifully. He knew how to turn wanting into elegance, how to wrap attention in silk and make care look effortless. Zoro did not try at all. He just sat there in all his blunt edges and silence and somehow occupied space around you like it belonged to him. Sanji took a long drag from his cigarette and watched as you bent down a little closer to hear whatever Zoro had muttered under his breath. The lantern overhead shifted with the wind, sliding gold over your throat and cheekbone, and when you laughed again—soft and bright and just a little too loose—Sanji felt his composure finally strain.

Then you swayed.

It was subtle at first, just enough of a tilt to make Sanji’s body go rigid before his mind had caught up, but Zoro noticed too. The swordsman’s hand shot out on instinct and caught your wrist before your balance could betray you completely, his fingers circling your skin with far too much ease for Sanji’s liking. You looked down at his hand as though it had appeared there by accident, then blinked at him with the vague, offended dignity of someone too tipsy to appreciate being helped.

“I’m fine,” you told him, though the words came out softer than usual, rounded by drink.

“No, you’re not,” Zoro said, and there was no mockery in it. Just blunt fact.

“Oh, listen to him,” you muttered, pulling a face. “Suddenly he’s a gentleman.”

“Never said that.”

Sanji was already moving by then, crossing the deck with all the smooth, measured grace he had built into himself over years, though inside he felt like something meaner was walking in his skin. By the time he reached you, Zoro had let go, but the memory of his hand on your wrist was still sitting there, hot and unwelcome in Sanji’s mind.

“My, my,” he said, voice silk-smooth and perfectly controlled as he came to a stop in front of you. “What a touching little scene.”

You looked up first, and the second your eyes found him, your face shifted. It was not dramatic. Just that small, warm softening that happened every time you recognized him, every time his presence landed before his words did. That look always undid him in private. Tonight, it nearly made him furious with relief.

“Sanji,” you said, and even his name sounded drowsy and fond in your mouth.

He dipped his head slightly. “My darling.”

Zoro’s expression flattened at once. “What do you want?”

Sanji smiled without heat. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

You frowned at both of them like they were equally tiresome, which, in fairness, they probably were. “Why do you both sound like that?”

“Sound like what?” Sanji asked.

“Like weird divorced parents.”

The line hit the deck like a thrown knife. Zoro laughed first, a short, surprised bark that made Sanji want to throw him overboard on principle. Even so, a tiny helpless smile almost touched Sanji’s mouth before he could stop it. You were swaying again, though, and the amusement vanished as fast as it came.

He stepped in without hesitation, one hand settling carefully around your elbow to steady you before you could tilt sideways. The contact was immediate and electric, not because there was anything scandalous in it, but because you relaxed into it without thinking, your body recognizing his support before your mind had the chance to argue.

“There now,” he murmured, voice lowering automatically as his full attention settled on you. “How much have you had?”

You squinted at him as though doing difficult math. “Enough.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “I gathered that.”

“I’m fine.”

His thumb shifted slightly at your elbow, firm but gentle. “You’re standing by sheer force of personality, sweetheart.”

Zoro crossed his arms. “Told her that already.”

Sanji’s jaw tightened. “And yet she’s still drinking.”

You made a face at him that might have been intimidating if you were not half-leaning into his touch for balance. “Don’t be bossy.”

That should not have affected him the way it did. There was something about the softness of your voice, the stubborn little tilt of your chin, the fact that even drunk you seemed to know how to press right into the center of him. He softened his expression at once, keeping his tone smooth and light even while his protective instincts were turning vicious under his skin.

“Bossy?” he said. “Never. Concerned, perhaps.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when I do it.”

Zoro snorted under his breath. You looked between them again, and whatever you saw there made you laugh softly to yourself.

“You’re both so grumpy.”

“Only one of us is grumpy,” Sanji said.

“Only one of us is annoying,” Zoro replied.

You blinked at them with exaggerated concentration. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

That should have broken the tension. In a better world, it might have. Instead, Sanji remained painfully aware of how close you had been to Zoro when he walked up, how flushed your mouth looked in the lantern light, how easily tonight had tipped from harmless into dangerous for him. It wasn't just the jealousy. Not really. It was the fear underneath it—the humiliating possibility that all his careful attention had meant less to you than one night of easy closeness with someone else.

He reached for the bottle still in your hand. “Give me that.”

You jerked it back to your chest instantly. “No.”

“Darling.”

“No.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re being mean.”

The words landed harder than he expected, sharp enough to cut right through the jealousy and reveal the concern under it. He had not meant to be cruel. Possessive, perhaps. Irritated, absolutely. But not cruel.

His expression changed before he could help it. “I’m not being mean.”

“Yes, you are.” You pointed vaguely between him and Zoro, as though the two of them had become one shared problem in your mind. “You’re doing that thing.”

He blinked. “What thing?”

“The thing where you smile like you’re being nice, but actually you want to stab someone.”

Zoro laughed again, and Sanji ignored him with heroic effort.

“Charming,” he muttered.

You were still watching him, though, and then your face did something that made his stomach drop. The amusement in it thinned, leaving something tired, vulnerable, and suddenly far too sober underneath. “You’re mad at me.”

The words came out quiet enough that the sea itself seemed louder for a second. Lantern light trembled on the deck between you. Somewhere below, the hull creaked again, and Sanji felt the shape of the moment change in his hands.

“No,” he said at once.

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

You looked down, unconvinced, and the guilt that followed was immediate and ugly. He had been angry, but never at you. Never truly. At himself, perhaps. At Zoro. At the horrible little green-eyed thing jealousy turned him into. But not at you.

He drew in a slow breath and let it out carefully. “Love, I’m worried about you. That’s all.”

You stared at him for a long moment like you were trying to decide whether to trust that. Before you could answer, Zoro made the spectacular mistake of speaking.

“He’s also jealous.”

Sanji went still so abruptly it almost hurt.

The lantern near the galley swayed. You turned toward Zoro in slow disbelief. “Jealous?”

“No,” Sanji said instantly.

“Yes,” Zoro said at the exact same time.

You looked between them, brows lifting. “Oh.”

Sanji wanted the sea to rise up and swallow the entire ship whole.

“Thank you, mosshead,” he said with deadly calm. “Your contribution, as always, is revolting.”

Zoro shrugged. “You were making it weird.”

“You exist weirdly.”

“Boys,” you said softly, but the word held enough warning that both of them shut up.

Silence settled over the deck again, thick with salt and smoke and all the things none of you were saying. You looked tired now. Not just drunk. Not just glassy-eyed. Tired in a deeper way, the kind that made your shoulders slope and your gaze drift. Sanji saw that too, and in the face of it, the jealousy rearranged itself into something protectively sharp.

He held out his hand. “Come with me.”

You looked at it, then at him. “Why?”

“Because you need water. And food. And because if you stay here drinking with him all night, I’m going to become genuinely unpleasant.”

Zoro muttered, “As if you’re a delight now.”

Sanji ignored him. His eyes stayed on you.

“Come with me,” he said again, quieter this time.

You studied his face with the slow concentration of someone wading through fog. “Are you really jealous?”

There was no graceful answer to that. Not with Zoro listening. Not with your eyes on him like that. Not with the truth already bleeding through every word he’d said tonight.

So Sanji did what he always did when he was cornered by sincerity.

He smiled.

“My darling,” he said, one hand drifting to his chest in theatrical offense, “I’m a pirate cook with excellent manners, limited patience and a deeply unfortunate fondness for pretty women. Of course I’m jealous.”

To his horror, you laughed. Really laughed. The sound rang out soft and bright against the dark, loosening something knotted so tightly inside him that he almost swayed with the relief of it.

Your hand slipped into his.

Warm. Slightly clumsy. Trusting.

“All right,” you murmured.

His fingers curled carefully around yours, and if he let himself think too hard about how natural it felt, he would be lost. “Good girl.”

The words left him before he thought about them. You went still for half a second, then heat spread across your cheeks in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Sanji said nothing about it. He simply guided you toward the galley stairs with one hand in yours and his other arm moving instinctively around your waist when you nearly missed the first step. You leaned into him more than you probably realized, your shoulder brushing his chest, your temple hovering near his collarbone for one brief, devastating moment. Behind you, Zoro called something obnoxious after you both, but it blurred into irrelevance beneath the pounding of Sanji’s own pulse.

The galley was warm when he led you into it, the air still rich with the remnants of dinner—garlic, rosemary, butter, citrus. A lantern hung low over the table and cast everything in soft gold, from the polished wood to the hanging pots swaying overhead. It was the warmest room on the ship at night, always a little more intimate than the rest of the Merry, and tonight it felt even smaller somehow with you in it, flushed and unsteady and still half-curled toward him without seeming to realize it.

He sat you carefully at the table and poured a glass of water without asking whether you wanted it. You watched him with that same vague, thoughtful softness in your eyes, your elbows on the table, your fingers laced together loosely like you were trying to hold yourself upright through will alone.

“Drink,” he said, setting the glass in front of you.

You looked at it with immediate suspicion. “My enemies couldn’t force me.”

“I could.”

That got a smile out of you, faint but real. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

You drank anyway.

Sanji stayed standing long enough to make sure half the glass was gone before he turned toward the stove and started reheating soup from dinner—something mild, something warm, something that might put you back together before the night got any worse. Behind him, the room had gone too quiet. That bothered him more than the swaying had.

“What were you annoyed about?” he asked finally, his back still half-turned as he stirred the pot.

Silence stretched behind him, soft and dangerous.

He added a bit of water to the soup and lowered the flame. Then your voice came, quiet and slurred just enough to make the honesty in it feel even more unguarded.

“You.”

The spoon paused in his hand.

It was only for a second, but he felt it all the way to his fingertips. Then he resumed stirring, slower now. “A devastating accusation.”

“I’m serious.”

That made him turn. You were staring down at your own hands as though they were safer to look at than him, your lashes lowered, your mouth caught in that unhappy line he hated seeing.

“What have I done, then?” he asked.

You laughed once, soft and joyless. “That thing.”

His mouth almost twitched despite the tension in him. “You’ll have to be more specific, darling. I do many things.”

“You flirt with everyone,” you said, and the words landed between you with no decoration at all. “Girls in bars. Women on docks. Every pretty person who looks at you twice. So when you flirt with me, I never know if it means anything or if I’m just standing in the path of your personality.”

The room went still.

Even the sea outside seemed to quiet beneath it.

Sanji looked at you and felt something deep inside him stop pretending. That was it, then. That was the wound. Not Zoro. Not drink. Not one ugly night on deck. Him. His charm. His hiding. All the ways he had tried to give you pieces of himself without ever having the courage to hand you the truth whole.

“That’s why you were drinking with him?” he asked, more softly now.

You gave the smallest shrug, and it looked miserable. “Zoro doesn’t flirt.”

There was something almost laughable in that answer—something so bare and honest it stripped all the swagger out of the situation at once. Sanji set the spoon down, crossed the galley slowly, and pulled out the chair opposite you before sitting. He leaned forward, forearms on his knees, close enough now that you could not avoid him forever.

“My darling,” he said quietly, “if I had known I was making you feel like that, I would have stopped.”

Your eyes lifted at last, and there was enough hurt in them to make his chest ache.

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

The answer came immediately, not smooth, not theatrical, not dressed up for anyone’s benefit. Just true.

You swallowed. He watched your throat move and had to force himself not to reach for you then and there. “You flirt because it’s easy,” you murmured.

He let out a short breath through his nose. “I flirt because it’s what I know. It’s a habit. A shield. A way of making things light before they can become dangerous.” His gaze dropped briefly to your hands, then returned to your face. “But when it comes to you, it was never light. I only made it look that way because I’m a coward in very specific and elegant ways.”

A startled little breath escaped you. He almost smiled at it.

He kept going, because if he stopped now, he might never say any of it again.

“I noticed you the first day you stepped into my kitchen and smiled at me like I was more than the man making lunch. I noticed the way you thank people like you mean it. The way you sit with Chopper when he wants to explain something for too long and never once make him feel foolish for it. I noticed the first time you stole fruit off my cutting board when you thought I wasn’t looking, and the second time, and every time after.” His voice lowered, roughening around the edges. “So yes, I flirt with you. But not because I don’t mean it. Because I mean it too much and have not known what else to do.”

You stared at him as though he had gone briefly unreal.

“You were trying to win me over?” you asked.

Sanji laughed once, quietly, helplessly. “Very badly, apparently.”

A smile flickered at your mouth. Not bright, not whole, but enough to make something warm move through him despite the ache of the conversation. He reached out slowly and touched two fingers to the inside of your wrist, nothing more. Just enough contact to feel your pulse there, fast and delicate beneath your skin.

“I don’t want you drinking with that idiot because you think I don’t mean what I say,” he said.

You looked at his fingers on your wrist and then back at him. “Are you still jealous?”

“Yes.”

The honesty of it surprised both of you. His own mouth curved faintly at the shock on your face.

“Yes,” he repeated, softer now. “Deeply. Irrationally. Embarrassingly.”

That finally made you laugh in earnest, the sound gentler this time, tired around the edges but real. It loosened the room. Loosened him.

He stood then, because if he remained seated that close to you much longer with your skin under his hand, he would say something even worse. He brought the soup over instead and set it in front of you.

“Eat.”

You blinked down at the bowl, then up at him with the faintest spark of mischief. “Yes, chef.”

“Do not be smug. You’re still in trouble.”

You took a spoonful anyway, and the pleased little sound you made after swallowing nearly dropped him to his knees. He leaned against the counter and folded his arms, watching you eat because making sure you were all right was easier than admitting how thoroughly he had been cracked open tonight.

Halfway through the bowl, you looked up again. “Did Zoro know?”

Sanji lifted a brow. “Know what?”

“That you…” You gestured weakly with the spoon. “Liked me.”

He sighed. “Mosshead suspects everything when he’s in an unbearable mood. Which is to say, constantly.”

You smiled into the soup, and there was something so soft in the sight of it that Sanji had to look away for a second just to steady himself.

When you finished, he took the bowl from your hands before you could fumble it and set it aside. You looked more human now. Less glassy. Sleepier. Still flushed, but no longer held together only by stubbornness and rum.

“There now,” he murmured. “Better.”

You watched him in silence for a moment, your cheek propped in your hand. Then you said, with all the dreamy sincerity of someone only half-filtered by sobriety, “You’re really nice when you’re jealous.”

Sanji nearly dropped the bowl. “I beg your pardon?”

“You get all sharp,” you said, waving one hand lazily in the air as if sketching the shape of him. “And then extra gentlemanly. It’s confusing.”

He set the bowl down very carefully before he did something foolish with it. “My love, if you keep saying things like that in that tone, I’m going to forget you’re supposed to be sleeping this off.”

“Maybe I like dangerous things.”

The line should have sounded teasing. In your mouth, quiet and earnest and half-slurred with fatigue, it sounded like an invitation to ruin. Sanji stared at you for a long moment, then pushed off the counter and crossed back to the table. This time he crouched beside your chair rather than sitting opposite, bringing himself level with you. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face with the back of his fingers, the gesture so gentle it hurt him.

“Then let me be clear about one thing,” he said quietly. “You can flirt with danger all you like. You do not need to sit half-drunk on deck with a swordsman who’d let you fall overboard just to prove a point.”

You smiled slowly. “Was that about Zoro?”

“It was about every man on this sea who is not me.”

That made you laugh again, softer now, and he felt the sound in his bones. Your eyes drifted down to his mouth for one brief, terrible moment before lifting again. It was enough. More than enough.

“You’re very pretty when you’re possessive,” you murmured.

Sanji went utterly still.

He hadn't been prepared for that. Not from you. Not in this room. Not with your face so open and tired and trusting.

He recovered because he was Sanji, because smoothness was a language he had built himself in, but his voice came out lower than intended. “And you, darling, are very dangerous when you’re honest.”

For a long second, neither of you moved. The galley seemed to shrink around the two of you. Lantern light trembled softly over the table. Outside, the sea pressed against the hull in a slow, patient rhythm. Your hand shifted on the tabletop as though you might reach for him.

Then your eyes fluttered, and your head dipped forward until your temple bumped lightly into his shoulder instead.

Not a kiss.

Just exhaustion.

Sanji let out a breath so slow it was almost laughter at himself. “Right,” he murmured. “Bed before I make this worse.”

You made a sleepy little sound of protest when he slid one arm under your knees and the other around your back, but you did not fight him when he lifted you. Instead you curled instinctively into his chest, one hand fisting in the front of his shirt as if that was where it belonged. The feeling of that simple, trusting grip nearly finished him.

He carried you below deck with careful steps, one hand braced protectively at your back as the ship rocked beneath him. The lower deck was dim, lit only by a few small lanterns, everything softened into amber and shadow. When he laid you in your bunk, you were already half gone with sleep, your lashes low, your mouth parted just slightly with exhaustion.

He drew the blanket over you and should have left it there.

Instead, when your fingers caught at his wrist, he bent closer immediately.

“Sanji.”

“Yes, my love?”

Your eyes opened just enough to find him in the dim. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

The words were slurred by drink and sleep, but the meaning in them was clear enough to stop his heart for half a beat. His expression softened without permission.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I should have.”

Your fingers loosened. He might have gone then. He almost did.

Instead he brushed his knuckles once, lightly, over your cheek and bent to press a kiss to your forehead—careful, lingering, protective in the way he had been trying to be with you all night and all the nights before it.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your skin. “You can torment me properly in the morning.”

A small smile ghosted across your mouth before sleep took you for real. Sanji stayed there one second too long, looking at you in the dim light, before he forced himself upright and left before his own heart embarrassed him further.

When he stepped back onto the deck, the night had gone quieter still. Zoro was at the rail with a cigarette between his fingers, staring out over the black water as though he had been waiting. Of course he had.

Sanji shut the galley door behind him and glared. “If you say one word, I’ll throw you into the sea.”

Zoro took a drag and exhaled without looking over. “She okay?”

Sanji paused, then answered despite himself. “Yes.”

Zoro nodded once. For a moment, the two of them stood there in an uneasy silence that felt almost civilized.

Then Zoro smirked. “Told you.”

Sanji groaned and lit a cigarette immediately just to avoid saying something violent. The worst part was that Zoro had been right—about the jealousy, about the mess of it, about Sanji hiding behind charm so long that he had nearly talked himself out of something real. He hated that almost as much as he hated how relieved he felt now that you knew.

“I wasn’t trying to steal her from you,” Zoro said after a moment, still looking out at the water. “She was upset. I let her drink and talk. That’s it.”

For once, there was no smugness in it. No rivalry. Just truth.

Sanji exhaled smoke into the dark. “I know.”

Zoro glanced at him then, brow lifting at the admission like it had cost more than it should have.

It had.

Still, Sanji was not entirely unreasonable when the mood took him. “She trusts you,” he said.

Zoro’s mouth twitched faintly. “Yeah.”

Another silence settled between them, broken only by the ship and the sea.

Then, because he was Zoro and decency could never survive long in his body, he said, “So. You kiss her goodnight?”

Sanji nearly choked on smoke.

Zoro laughed, and whatever fragile civility had settled between them shattered immediately.

“You disgusting—”

“Was that a yes?”

Sanji pointed the cigarette at him like a blade. “Sleep with one eye open, mosshead.”

Zoro only laughed harder.

And even though Sanji wanted to stay furious, wanted to keep his heart tucked back behind his teeth where it belonged, something lighter had slipped in beneath the jealousy now. Hope, perhaps. Thin as smoke. Sharp as starlight. Enough to keep him standing there beneath the lantern glow, staring out at the dark stretch of sea ahead and imagining morning—not with dread, but with the dangerous, impossible relief of a man who had finally been honest and lived through it.

Because now you knew.

Because now he knew you knew.

And because somewhere below deck, asleep under the blanket he had pulled over you himself, was the first real possibility he had allowed himself in far too long.

“You’re staring at the water a lot today,” he said, his voice casual, but there was a curious tilt to his head.

You blinked, turning toward him. “I was… thinking.”

Luffy shrugged. “Thinking about what?”

You hesitated, unsure whether you wanted to answer. Luffy wasn’t exactly the type to give deep, thoughtful responses—he was impulsive, loud, usually jumping straight into action. But there was something about the way he was sitting there, legs crossed awkwardly, hands fidgeting with the edge of his hat, that made it hard to just brush him off.

“Nothing important,” you said finally, hoping he’d let it go.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Luffy had a way of sticking around until he got what he wanted—or what he didn’t even know he wanted.

“You’re lying,” he said simply. And then, after a beat, “Are you… worried about something?”

You swallowed, caught off guard. “Maybe,” you admitted, the word small and tentative.

Luffy’s eyes softened—though he had no idea how to actually express that. “You know, you can tell me stuff,” he said, but his smile was lopsided, unsure, like he was trying to sound reassuring and failing.

You wanted to laugh. He probably thought he sounded really grown-up saying that. “I know,” you said, and the words felt heavier than they should. “I just… it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

He frowned. Not a fake, dramatic frown—this was the real, simple confusion he carried in his every expression. “I want to worry about it,” he said. “If you’re worried, then I’m worried too.”

Your chest fluttered. He sounded so earnest, so genuine—it was disarming, the way he just… cared without realizing how to make it look cool.

“You don’t even know what it’s about,” you pointed out, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy.

“I don’t need to know,” he said firmly. “I just… want to be here. That’s all.”

You stared at him, incredulous. Luffy, oblivious, loud, reckless, stubborn Luffy, had just said something that sounded, to anyone else, painfully soft and considerate. And he had no clue how it landed.

“I—okay,” you murmured, finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Luffy.”

He grinned, the usual unbothered grin, but with a hint of pride—he knew he’d done a good thing, even if he didn’t fully understand why. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

You shook your head lightly, amusement and warmth mingling in your chest. “You say that a lot,” you said, teasing, though the teasing wasn’t sharp—it was soft, meant for him, for the two of you.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I say a lot of stuff. But I mean it.”

There it was again—the unrefined honesty. He couldn’t hide it, even if he tried. Luffy had no idea how to navigate subtleties of emotion, but somehow, in his bumbling way, he got the essence right.

You leaned back against the mast again, and he moved closer, settling down so that your shoulders almost touched. He didn’t sit like most people—you know, neatly, with space—but like Luffy: all legs and arms sprawling wherever they happened to fit. And somehow, that made it feel like he belonged there, like he belonged with you.

“You think… I’m annoying?” he asked suddenly, out of nowhere.

You blinked. “What?”

“I talk a lot, right? And sometimes I… I don’t know, get in the way?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Luffy, you’re not annoying.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully because you knew he wouldn’t catch a lot of the nuance. “You’re… you. And that’s exactly why it’s… nice having you around.”

He tilted his head, processing the words, chewing on them like a puzzle piece he couldn’t quite fit yet. Then he grinned, the kind of grin that was too big and too hopeful all at once. “Oh! So… you like me?”

You choked on a laugh. “I didn’t say that,” you said, though your heart stuttered.

“Hmm,” he murmured, nodding as if that explained everything. “Okay, then. But I like you!” He said it loudly, proudly, without a hint of shame or second-guessing, like declaring it out loud made it true.

Your chest warmed at the honesty. He didn’t know how to romance, didn’t know how to say it in a way that was smooth or poetic, but that bluntness? Somehow it was better than anything else.

“Yeah… I know,” you said, smiling softly, letting the words hang between you.

He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, eyes half-closed. “Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna keep saying it. Every day if I have to.”

You laughed again, more freely this time, because it was impossible not to. “I’ll hold you to that,” you said, a playful spark in your voice.

Luffy’s grin widened. “I like that. Makes me feel important!”

“You are important,” you said, quieter now, almost to yourself. But he heard it. He always did, even when he didn’t mean to.

“Of course I am!” he said confidently, puffing out his chest, and for a moment, he was just a boy who didn’t know how to hide his feelings, didn’t know how to make them neat or proper—but it didn’t matter. Because you didn’t want him to.

You leaned against him, just a little, enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, enough that he shifted slightly, uncertainly, not used to closeness but not pulling away either. He wasn’t graceful with this kind of thing. He didn’t know how to express himself, didn’t even know what to call it—but his presence said more than words ever could.

“You’re weird,” you said softly, teasing.

“And you like it,” he said, eyes sparkling, completely oblivious to the flutter it caused in your chest.

“Maybe,” you admitted.

He beamed. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

And there, on the gentle sway of the Sunny, with the sea stretching endlessly around you, it really was. Nothing fancy, nothing over-the-top, but real. Luffy didn’t know the right moves, the right words, the right timing—but he had you. And for him, for now, that was enough.

Your head was pounding.

The first thing you noticed was the cold stone beneath you. The second? The tight weight around your wrists.

Sea prism cuffs.

Then you heard his voice.

“(Y/N)... hey, wake up. Please.”

You opened your eyes slowly, vision blurry—but there he was. Luffy. Sitting on the ground next to you, wrists shackled just like yours, his hat hanging off one knee.

“Luffy?” you rasped.

His eyes softened instantly. “You’re okay.” His voice cracked just a little, relief pouring out like a flood. “Thank god.”

You tried to move, but the sea prism cuffs made every muscle scream. “Where…?”

“Some bastards grabbed us when we were separated from the crew,” he said through clenched teeth. “I woke up first. Tried to break the chains, but…” he held up his wrists with a bitter laugh, “I can’t even stretch.”

You glanced at him. His face was pale. His hair clung to his forehead. He was furious. But he was holding it in—for you.

And then the door creaked open.

“Well, well,” a voice drawled. A tall man with a jagged scar across his cheek strolled in, a small crew of thugs behind him. “Our little captain and his pretty friend are finally both awake.”

Luffy’s body went rigid.

“Don’t talk to them,” he said lowly.

The man smirked. “Aw, come on. We just wanna have a little fun.” He stalked toward you, eyes lingering far too long.

Luffy snarled. Actually snarled. “I said don’t touch them.”

You flinched when the man crouched beside you, brushing a finger under your chin. “They’re a cute one. What do you think, Straw Hat? You sure you wouldn’t rather trade places?”

“Don’t touch them!” Luffy bellowed, lunging against his chains. His whole body shook with rage, fists clenched so tight they were turning white. “If you lay one more finger on them—”

The man chuckled, unfazed. “What’re you gonna do? You’re powerless.”

Luffy’s eyes burned—pure fire behind them, like he was ready to kill with just his stare. “You don’t get it,” he growled. “Even if I can’t use my powers… I will still tear you apart if you hurt them.”

You felt it—his presence. Even cuffed, drained, and chained to a wall, Luffy still felt like a storm ready to break loose.

The thug paused, like he finally noticed the danger in the room. The way Luffy’s aura shifted—deadly, protective, unyielding.

“Y’know what?” the man said, standing. “Maybe we’ll just give you two a little more time to think about your situation.”

As soon as the door slammed shut, you slumped.

Luffy turned to you immediately. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” you whispered. “But… he scared me.”

“I won’t let him touch you again,” Luffy said fiercely, eyes locked on yours. “No matter what.”

You leaned against his shoulder. He leaned right back.

“We’re gonna get out of here,” he said softly, like a promise. “I don’t care how—I’ll find a way. I’ll protect you.”

The cell was cold, silent—except for the soft clinking of chains when either of you shifted.

You sat beside Luffy, arms brushing, wrists heavy with sea prism cuffs. Every time he glanced at you, you saw the storm still behind his eyes. He was still furious—at himself, the enemy, the cuffs. All of it.

“We’ll get out soon,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the locked door. “The crew’s gotta be looking.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “But…”

Before you could finish, the door creaked open again.

Same guy. Same smug smirk. This time? A little more confident. Like he was sure no one was coming for you.

“Well, Straw Hat. You said I shouldn’t touch them,” he said with a sneer, walking toward you, “but what’re you gonna do if I do it anyway?”

Luffy’s voice dropped into something cold. Dangerous.

“Don’t.”

But the guy just laughed—and then grabbed you by the arm, yanking you roughly toward him.

That was it.

Luffy. Lost. His. Mind.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF THEM!”

He lunged. Full force. The chains snapped taut with the impact, but it didn’t stop him from fighting like a wild animal, dragging the entire wall if he had to, roaring with fury.

You cried out as the man shoved you against the bars, but then—

“BOOM!”

The wall behind the cell exploded.

Smoke. Dust. Screaming.

“(Y/N)!!” a voice called—Nami. Then another—Zoro. Usopp. Sanji. Robin. Brook. The crew was here.

The enemy turned just in time for Zoro to charge him, blades flashing.

Sanji darted straight to you, kicking the guy in the gut and dragging him off you.

Luffy’s cuffs clattered to the ground as Franky, with his giant hands, crushed them open. The second they were off—

Luffy didn’t move.

He didn’t even look at the enemy yet.

He rushed to you.

“(Y/N)!” He dropped to his knees in front of you, grabbing your face gently but frantically, eyes scanning every inch. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you? Tell me.”

You blinked back tears, heart hammering. “I’m okay—just bruised, I’m okay—”

He crushed you into his arms before you could finish.

“I was gonna kill him,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “I was gonna kill him if they didn’t show up. I couldn’t do anything, I couldn’t protect you—”

“Luffy.” You cupped his cheek, making him look at you. “You did. You protected me the whole time. And we’re safe now.”

He exhaled shakily, nose brushing against yours, eyes still burning but softer now.

“…Okay,” he whispered. Then he turned slowly—toward the enemy.

Sanji had him on the floor. Zoro stood nearby, arms crossed.

“Don’t kill him,” Nami warned.

“I’m not gonna kill him,” Luffy said, voice flat. “But he’s gonna wish I did.”

You didn’t stop him.

Because in that moment, Luffy wasn’t just a captain. He was a storm wrapped in rubber and rage.

But before walking away, he looked back at you one last time.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, gently. “And after this… I’m not letting you out of my sight.

Hours later you were back on the Going Merry. It felt like heaven compared to that dungeon.

You were clean, bandaged, wrapped in warm clothes, and finally free of the sea prism cuffs. But the whole world still felt a little heavy.

You sat on the bed in the infirmary cabin, staring at your hands. Your wrists were sore, skin still red where the cuffs had clamped down. And your body ached, sure—but your heart ached worse.

Then the door opened quietly.

Luffy stood there, silent. His vest was off, bandages around one shoulder, and he looked... tired. Not physically, but emotionally. The kind of tired you don’t sleep off.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You smiled weakly. “Hey.”

He walked in slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he should, until you patted the bed beside you.

He sat—then instantly leaned into you, head dropping to your shoulder like a magnet. His arms wrapped around your waist tight, like he still thought someone might try to pull you away again.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured.

“You didn’t even try.”

“…I didn’t wanna leave you alone.”

You reached up, running your fingers through his hair. “You saved me, Luffy. Even when we were chained up. Even when you couldn’t fight. You were still protecting me.”

His grip tightened.

“I hate that he touched you,” he mumbled, voice rough. “I hate that I couldn’t stop him. If the crew hadn’t shown up—”

“But they did.” You turned toward him, placing your hands on his cheeks. “And now I’m safe. I’m here, Luffy. With you.”

His big brown eyes met yours, vulnerable and wide. “I thought I lost you.”

You leaned your forehead against his. “You didn’t. You never will.”

He closed the tiny space between you and kissed you—soft, slow, and a little shaky. Like he needed to feel you to believe you were real.

Then he pulled back, just a little. “I’m gonna stay here tonight.”

You blinked. “In the infirmary?”

“With you,” he said, laying down right beside you and pulling the blanket over both of you. “Right here. All night. Not going anywhere.”

You smiled, letting your head rest on his chest as he curled around you.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight again,” he mumbled sleepily.

You tucked your hand over his heart. “Good. Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Outside, the ship rocked gently with the ocean.

Inside, in the quiet warmth of that cabin, Luffy held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

And this time, he wouldn’t have to fight to protect you. Because now, you were both home.

♡♡♡

chapters:

Intro

season 1

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

season 2

eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | fifteen

season 3

sixteen | seventeen | eighteen | nineteen | twenty | twenty one | twenty two | twenty three | twenty four | twenty five | twenty six | twenty seven | twenty eight | twenty nine | thirty | thirty one | thirty two | thirty three

season 4

thirty four | thirty five | thirty six | thirty seven | thirty eight | thirty nine | forty

season 5