skrimpy

His voice and other sounds still come across as muffled, as if your head’s wrapped in a blanket or as if you’re underwater. You shake your head a little, as if trying to dislodge water that had gotten into your ears after swimming. Of course, the motion does nothing except exacerbate the headache you have. 

Wincing, you glance around. Thankfully, it seems like everyone’s too busy doing damage control to have paid any attention to you and Bakugou. You’re relieved; you don’t know what you’d do if another media incident featuring the two of you came as a result of this night. Still—

“We should go,” you say. No need to push your luck any further. 

“Not yet,” Bakugou says. “You’re getting those ears looked at.”

“They already checked me over and gave me the go ahead.”

Bakugou scowls ferociously. “Well they did a shitty job. Let’s go.” 

Sighing, you trail Bakugou as he makes his way to an EMS medic preoccupied with healing a woman with some nasty looking cuts on her legs. The woman looks as exhausted as you feel and doesn’t even look up when the both of you approach, seeming dazed as she stares down at the bright green glow emitting from the medic’s palms. 

“Hey, hedgehog head,” Bakugou says to the medic, to your horror. Sure, the man’s hair is styled—or maybe naturally?—spiky, but there isn’t any need for name-calling. 

“Hey, Dynamight!” the medic says cheerfully. “What can I do ya for?”

“Fix this shit,” Bakugou says, gesturing to your ear. 

Your eyes widen, and you wave a hand in front of yourself. “Please finish up with your current patient! I was already seen by someone else, so no need—”

“The hell there isn’t,” Bakugou snaps, and you glare at him. 

Perhaps taking pity on you, the medic smiles. “No worries. This lovely lady is all patched up, so this seat is up for grabs.”

The green glow fades from his hands, revealing clean, unblemished skin on the woman’s legs. 

You open your mouth to protest again, but Bakugou shuts you up with a look that has you reluctantly taking the seat the woman evacuates. You make a silent promise to yourself to get him back for this.

The medic is apologetic that he’s only able to heal the cuts on your face and your ear damage; he explains that he needs to save his juice for really serious injuries, and there are still several people who need medical attention. 

Before Bakugou can continue to be a menace, you quickly thank him, jumping up from your seat and speed-walking away. 

Bakugou can only follow you with a frown on his face, redirecting you over to his car where it’s parked just beyond the EMS vehicles and taped off areas to prevent people from stepping into the path of glass and other debris. 

He’s walking so close to you that every step has you brushing your shoulder against him, your elbow. When you try to give him some space, he scowls at you and closes the distance, bumping against you. 

He opens the front passenger door and ushers you in. Rounding the front of the car, he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the car. 

As you sit there, you deflate. Truthfully, you’re grateful for Bakugou’s pushiness. The injuries to your ears had cranked up your anxiety levels, and now you have one less thing to worry about. 

“Thank you, Bakugou,” you say quietly as he puts the car into reverse and reaches out to brace a hand on the back of your headrest. 

Your eyes make contact for a brief moment before he nods, continuing to reverse. 

The car is silent as Bakugou makes his way through congested streets, backed up because of the incident. You look out the window, studying the damage the villain had caused—the shattered windows and dark streets, unlit because of the broken street lights. But your eyes can’t help but be drawn back to Bakugou. The line of his left arm connected to the steering wheel, handling the car with ease, as his right arm rests casually on the door’s window ledge. The shadows under his eyes deepened by the dim lighting of the car’s console cast on his face. 

In the chaos of everything, it hadn’t even occurred to you that it’s been almost a week since you’d seen Bakugou and it’s been radio silence between the two of you. That the last time you’d seen him left a bitter taste in your mouth, his voice ringing in your ears, filled with anger. 

It’d all been washed away upon seeing him, being in his arms. 

But now that you’ve had time to catch your breath, it all comes flooding back, and. You don’t know. Is it trivial, the fight you’d had? It feels like it in this moment. But you don’t want to just brush it aside, as if it’d never happened. Because what if it happens again? 

Swallowing, you break the silence. “The agency’s pretty far from here… Was the villain so dangerous that they called heroes further out?” 

“No. Local patrol had it handled, and it was settled when Ei, Raccoon Eyes, and Dunce Face got there to support.” 

Raccoon Eyes? Dunce Face? You know Ei’s Kirishima. Context clues point toward Raccoon Eyes being Pinky… though you’re not sure the nickname’s entirely accurate, given Pinky’s golden irises. Maybe something like Wolf Eyes would’ve been more accurate… Dunce Face has to be Chargebolt, though you have no idea why. You wonder if Bakugou’s just being mean for no reason. 

You realize your train of thought is a little rambly, scattered. You're not exactly firing on all cylinders. An overwhelming wave of tiredness washes over you, settling into your skin, leaving you struggling to keep your eyes open. 

The car stops at a light. Bakugou drums his fingers against the wheel, glances over at you. 

“How’re your hands?” he asks gruffly. 

“Stings a little, but they’re okay.”

A yawn comes trailing after the ends of your words, and you just barely cover your mouth in time. At the corner of your eye, you see the corner of Bakugou’s mouth twitch upwards. 

Now that you’ve gotten clear of the area damaged by the villain incident, the streets go by faster. They’re familiar to you, but they don’t lead home. 

“Bakugou, this isn’t the way to my apartment,” you say, straightening up. 

“My place is closer,” Bakugou says. 

You blink, open your mouth, then bite your lip, falling into an uncertain silence. 

The silence stretches. 

Bakugou’s hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles whitening.

“...I’ll take you to yours,” he says, low, switching lanes. He doesn’t look at you. Something in you clenches.

“No,” you blurt out, surprising him, surprising yourself. He glances over at you.

“No,” you repeat, a little more quietly. You gaze at the profile of his face, the shadows that pass over them as you drive past lights, the slope of his nose, the firm set of his lips. 

“Let’s go to yours. Let’s—let’s just go home.”

Bakugou’s shoulders lower just an inch, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel releasing. He drops one hand to rest on the center console, keeping the other on the wheel. He gives a short nod, still not looking at you. 

For a moment, you just watch him.

Then, tentatively, you reach over and touch the back of his hand, fingertips gliding over his skin. 

A quick glance at you, then back at the road. 

He flips his hand over and takes yours in his, gentle, mindful of your bandaged cuts. 

He doesn’t let go. 

The minute you step into his apartment, it’s like the strings holding your body up are cut. It becomes difficult to keep yourself upright, the fatigue weighing you down. 

“Hungry?” Bakugou asks, and you just shake your head wearily. 

“Can I have a toothbrush and some clothes? I just wanna shower and sleep,” you say, yawning again. It’s so wide that you’re barely able to cover your mouth with your hands. Bakugou snorts. 

“Forget the shower.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “How’re you supposed to wash yourself with those hands, dumbass.” 

Shaking your head, you say, “I’ll just suck it up with the cuts and rebandage them after. I can’t sleep with blood in my hair and dirt on my skin.” 

Bakugou scowls, narrowing his eyes at you. Stiffening, you brace yourself for an argument.

His eyes take in your expression, and he drops his arms quickly, his face flattening into something more neutral. You watch him cautiously, unwilling to trust that he’d back down so quickly. 

Brows furrowed, he’s quiet for several long moments, thinking.

“I’ll wash your hair,” he says finally. “And I’ll close my eyes or some shit while I wash your body.”

For a moment, you can only blink. Then you burst into laughter, half in surprise, half in disbelief about the suggestion. He makes a face. 

“Bakugou,” you say once you calm down enough to suppress your giggles, still grinning, “How would that even work? You gonna work it out by feel?”

You’re amused, but you feel your face warm a little at your own gall to tease him like this, warm at your imagination, when it begins to sketch out what exactly his solution would entail—his hands on your body, on your bare skin. Those calluses on his fingertips dragging, catching. 

But it’s nothing in comparison to how Bakugou’s cheeks pink, the tips of his ears reddening.

Your eyes widen, and his gaze meets yours for an electric, singing moment before he looks away, hand coming up to cover his mouth. 

Your heart’s racing, your mouth dry. Your smile fades, and you bite your lip. 

Shaking your head, you swallow and say, “Do you have gloves?” 

Luckily, Bakugou has nitrile gloves and medical tape in his first aid kit. After you put the gloves on, he tapes the openings against the skin of your wrists so that water isn’t able to run down into them. For good measure, he makes you put another pair of gloves on to protect the tape. 

If you were less cranky, you’d acknowledge that it’s a good idea, because it does keep your bandages dry when you brush your teeth and then step into the shower to scrub your body down. Your dexterity is greatly affected though, as you keep dropping things, causing Bakugou to nearly burst into the bathroom the first time the body wash bottle you drop makes a loud thud. Only your frantic shout that you’re fine saves you. 

But soon, you’re forced to admit defeat just before getting to shampooing your hair. In the beginning, you’re able to just barely handle the stinging sensation from the constant hand movements as you wash your body. Gritting your teeth through it is possible only up to a point, though, as soon you feel a dampness on your hands that you identify not as water leaking into the gloves but blood from your reopened wounds. 

Just the thought of what you’ll find under the gloves has you queasy enough to stop. 

You step out from under the shower head. You wish you could rub yourself dry, but you’re afraid to make things worse, so you settle for gingerly wrapping a big, fluffy towel loosely around yourself.

“Bakugou?” you call out, hoping he’s nearby to hear you. 

You start to make your way to the door, dripping water across the floor.

“What’s wrong?” His voice comes immediately, muffled through wood. 

“I need help,” you say, and make sad, shuffling noises against the door with the back of your hand. You wish you could turn the knob to open the door, but just the thought of applying pressure to your palms makes you wince. “Open the door, please?”

The door opens with a swiftness that has you startling backwards, nearly slipping and causing you to loosen your grip on the towel—a near disaster. You clutch at the towel, holding the cloth to your body with your arms. You feel yourself beginning to flush as you look up into Bakugou’s face. 

His ears are completely red, charmingly so. The crimson creeps up his cheeks as his eyes dart around, unsure where to rest before settling on a distant point behind your shoulder. 

Clearing your throat with effort, you step closer. “Can you… fix my towel, please? Like tuck the edge in so it’s secure?” 

His eyes flicker. Wordlessly, he does as you ask, clumsily. The brush of his fingers against your body has you shivering, goosebumps rising across your skin.  

“You cold?” Bakugou looks at you consideringly, then shuts the door behind him. 

You laugh a little, helplessly. You’re glad he thinks your goosebumps are because you’re cold. 

The moment seems to help him regain his composure. He looks you in the eye, careful not to let his gaze drop, and asks, “What do you need help with?” 

“Were you serious about being willing to wash my hair?” you ask. You raise your hands a little. “Because I may or may not be bleeding under here and I don’t want to make it worse…”

Bakugou’s expression darkens. Before he can say anything, you jump in.

“You can save the ‘I told you so,’ for later! Please, Bakugou, I just want to finish up so I can go to bed.”

You must look exceedingly pathetic, because instead of grouching at you further, he goes to grab a stool you can sit on. He places it against the edge of the tub and motions for you to get situated so you can lean back with your head hovering over the tub. 

For the first few minutes of him dampening your hair, you’re a little tense, preoccupied with keeping the towel tightly against your body and self-conscious about how much skin you’re showing. With how big the towel is, you’re about as covered up as you’d be if you were wearing a flirty sundress. But in this context, knowing you're naked underneath this rectangle of cloth, with Bakugou leaning over you… It’s a lot. 

His expression is concentrated, laser-focused as he rubs along your hairline, protecting your face from the splash of water with a hand. He’s gentle, almost excessively so, working his fingers through the strands of hair and to your scalp, massaging the shampoo in. It’s involuntary, how your eyelids soon slide shut and you lean into his hands, a soft sigh exhaling.

“S’okay?” Bakugou says, and sleepily, you murmur an affirmative. You could fall asleep right here, putty in his hands. 

You drift a little, you think. Maybe more than a little, because the next thing you know, you’re in what must be Bakugou’s bedroom, only a dim lamp illuminating the room as he sets you down on the bed and adjusts your towel so it’s a little more secure against your body. 

“Clothes’re right here,” he says, voice a quiet susurration. “Get dressed and then I’ll dry your hair.” 

He leaves the room. You do as he says, putting on clothes that smell like his detergent and peeling off your layers of gloves. When he returns with the first aid kit and a blow dryer in hand, not even the whir of the machine and hot air do anything to deter you from your path to sleep. 

When Bakugou begins applying fresh bandages to your palms, you can barely keep your eyes open, swaying a little as you sit. 

It’s only until Bakugou turns off the light and moves to get up that you stir. 

“Where’re you going?” you mumble, yawning widely. 

“Sleepin’ out in the living room,” he tells you, voice low. “Go to sleep.”

You make a sleepy noise of protest, eyes fluttering open with effort. “No… I’ll go, you sleep in here. S’your bed.” 

Bakugou breathes out sharply through his nose. “Hell no.” 

“Bakugou—” you start, starting to stand up. 

He pushes you down, then places his hand over your eyes, covering them. 

“Sleep,” he tells you. 

You wrap your fingers around his wrist, ignoring the pain, so you can pull him away. 

“Stay?” you ask. Even if you were wide awake, you’re sure you wouldn’t be up to Bakugou’s fighting weight when it comes to getting your way; you should’ve known he wouldn’t take the bed when you’re a guest in his home. But maybe you can convince him to compromise…

“Please?” you say, eyes rising to meet his. Your hand slides down from his wrist, coming to rest loosely in his grasp, your fingers entangling.

Bakugou looks down at your entwined fingers. He nods jerkily. 

His hand slips from yours, and he makes his way back to the bathroom. The door stays cracked open, and as you wait, you hear the shower turn on. Steam trickles through the light streaming from the gap in the door. 

You do try to wait up for him. But sleep’s siren song calls you, and you pull back the covers, getting in. 

The bed dips next to you, and you stir. The movement’s enough to rouse you into tentative wakefulness as you begin to slide closer to the center of the bed. You make a drowsy, querying noise.

“S’just me.” Bakugou’s voice is a rumbly rasp, so quiet as it is. 

There’s a feather light touch to your cheek and your body softens, relaxing, and then you’re asleep again. 

Nose scrunched, you make a sleepy sound that’s a cross between a whine and a groan as you register that you’re way too warm, from head to toe, and that’s what’s drawn you out of dreamland. 

You don’t want to wake up. Eyes still closed, you tense your muscles in a stretch—from the arches of your feet to your calves to your core to your back—then relax, trying to fall back asleep.

A soft laugh, just a quiet exhale of air through the nose, makes your eyes shoot open. 

Directly in front of you is a broad chest in dark blue, rising up and down in a steady rhythm. Now that you’re wide awake, it registers that underneath your head is not, in fact, a pillow, but warm skin, firm muscle—an arm. Your hand clenches fabric, and there’s a grunt right above you, close. Immediately, you let go when you realize your hand is gripping Bakugou’s shirt, crumpling it over his abdomen. 

Bakugou’s voice is deep, more gravelly than usual, sending little involuntary shivers through your body that you desperately hope he doesn’t notice, when he says, “Finally awake?”

You can feel his voice in your body with just how close you are to him, tucked into his side as you are. There’s a line of heat that travels all the way down the front of your body where it meets the contours of his, uninterrupted even by air. He smells so good; his natural scent combines with the fresh notes of whatever shampoo or body wash he uses, and this combines with the fragrance of clean, laundered sheets wrapped around both of you.

You half wonder if you’re still dreaming. 

But consciousness comes back to you in waves. 

It’s hard not to be self-conscious about a myriad of things—of morning breath, of how swollen your eyes must be, of the bandages on your hands, of how comfortable you’ve made yourself, nestled into him. 

Flashes of the night before hit you, and you’re embarrassed by your helplessness. Your audacity. Of your honesty. You should really move away, make some space between you, but you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

You feel Bakugou’s bicep flex under your head as he shifts a little, and you resign yourself to getting up. 

But to your surprise, Bakugou’s only moved so that he’s laying on his side, facing you. Looking at you.

The room is dim because the curtains are still drawn, but slants of light still seep out around them, brightening the room just enough for you to see the crimson of his eyes, the blond of his lashes framing them. The scar on his face, the messy ruffle of his hair, a crease mark on his face from the pillow, maybe. 

The orange and gold of his lights pulse around him with a deep warmth, the gold sparking in places like you’ve never seen before. Entranced, you slide your hand up his free arm, from bicep to forearm and back, watching as the colors swirl in your wake. Beneath your touch, the hues seem to almost intensify, but you’re sure it’s your eyes playing tricks. 

Bakugou inhales sharply, and the sound snaps you to the present, eyes jumping to meet his. 

He’s gazing at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip a beat, then beat faster, insistently. Your breath shallows out. When he reaches up to touch your face, the movement dislodges your hand, but you barely notice. 

Bakugou cups your jaw for a long moment, just looking at you. His thumb strokes your cheek, just once. 

Then he pinches your nose. 

“Breakfast,” he says. 

Breakfast is a quiet affair. 

Bakugou puts together a hearty breakfast. When you try to help, he scowls at you, bumping you out of the way with a pointed look at your hands. So you content yourself with messing around with your phone at the dining table, all the while sneaking glances at him. The fluidity of his movements around the kitchen, his quiet skillfulness with a knife. The neutral lines his expression falls into as things come together. 

Eating together is peaceful, uninterrupted by conversation. You can tell Bakugou’s thinking about something, and you’re preoccupied yourself, trying to muster up the courage to address the elephant in the room. 

It’s not until the table is cleared and you’re idling, just watching Bakugou load the dishwasher because he refused your help again, that you ask, “Don’t you have to go into work?” 

Bakugou shakes his head, closing the dishwasher door and washing his hands in the sink. “Called out. Ei’s handling shit today.” 

“Oh.” 

You fidget a little, shifting your weight back and forth, then make up your mind. You don’t want to talk about it today. Going home is probably the best thing you can do.

Just as you open your mouth to say your goodbyes, Bakugou’s eyes slide to meet yours. 

He asks, “Y’wanna get coffee? At our usual.” 

His lights flicker erratically, orange flaring in spikes before settling into a moody dimness around him. 

You should say no. But—you don’t want to; you want to say yes. Last night was so chaotic that you couldn’t properly process your feelings. This morning, with how you’d woken up to him, how you’d fallen into a rhythm during breakfast… It all reminded you of how uncomplicated things could be. 

“Okay,” you say. Then you furrow your brow. “But we shouldn’t be out in public together, right? Ikeda would have a conniption.”

Bakugou scowls, then shrugs a shoulder. “The story’s that you work for me. Wouldn’t be weird.” 

“I guess… but in these clothes?” 

You look down at yourself, dressed in one of Bakugou’s black shirts with a skull on it, a little tight on you, and sweatpants that are too loose; you had to roll up the bottoms and tighten the drawstring as far as it could go. No matter how Bakugou or Ikeda could spin it, no way would anyone buy that you work for him wearing what you’re wearing. 

Bakugou’s jaw tightens, then releases. “I’ll drop you off at yours, then.”

Something in his expression, subtly downcast before it’s tucked away into a neutral stillness, makes your heart twinge, an involuntary response.

“If you don’t mind,” you say carefully, “I could get changed at my place quickly and then we could go to the cafe.” 

He stares at you for a moment. He looks away. “You’re not wrong that people could be annoying and take pictures or whatever. S’better if I just take you home.”

“If—If you don’t mind, I don’t mind,” you say firmly. 

A couple months ago, when the pet store incident happened, you did mind. You minded a lot. But now… so much has changed. You don’t care anymore what people think. They don’t know you, and they don’t know Bakugou. There’s a feeling in your gut that if you turn Bakugou down now, you’ll regret it. 

Bakugou reaches up, pauses at your cheek, then moves on to tuck some hair behind your ear.

“Okay,” he tells you. 

Mikan greets you at the door with yowls. He’s upset because it’s way past his breakfast time, which you’re guilty about. 

“I know, baby, sorry,” you say as you reach down to pick him up, giving him a big smooch on his head. You head to the kitchen, and Mikan wriggles out of your arms as you grab his food bowl. As you crack open a can of food, Mikan meows loudly and impatiently twines himself through your legs.

You don’t even realize that Bakugou’s cleaning the litter box until you’ve set Mikan’s bowl down. 

“Bakugou—” you start.

“Go get changed,” he says, then glances around. 

“Where’re the other furball?” he asks you. “Only the greedy one came out to eat.”

A pang of sadness pulses through you. Shaking your head, you say, “Natsu was adopted while you were gone. It’s only Mikan now.”

A beat of silence, then Bakugou nods. Moves to the sink to wash his hands. 

You retreat to your room to change, but not before seeing Bakugou lean down to stroke along Mikan’s back, the orange cat arching into his touch briefly before stuffing his face back into his food. 

It’s late enough into the morning that you’ve successfully managed to avoid the morning rush, so you take your time to look at the menu instead of immediately falling into line. 

“What’re you getting?” you ask as your eyes scan the boards hanging above and behind the counter. 

“Usual,” Bakugou says. He hasn’t looked once at the menu. Instead, he’s scanning the cafe, a sharp look in his eye. 

He’s wearing a baseball hat and a black hoodie for some anonymity, you think, but the hoodie doesn’t do a good job of hiding much of anything. At the least, they don’t disguise his broad shoulders. And the expression on his face is anything but civilian. 

“Boring,” you tell him, trying to soften him. Looking down at you, he pinches your cheek, rubbing a thumb against the skin before letting go. You jab an elbow into his side, but he dodges it easily.

“Hi! Can I get an iced houjicha latte, please?” you say to the cashier with a smile.

Bakugou steps up behind you, close enough to feel his body heat, and hands her his card as he recites his order right after yours. 

As you wait for your drinks, Bakugou suddenly says, “You haven’t thought about keeping ‘im?” 

“What?” You blink at him.

“The furball.”

“Mikan?”

“Who else.”

“I’ve thought about it,” you say slowly. And you have. Mikan’s been with you for ages now, and you’ve grown to love his spontaneous bursts of energy as he zooms through your apartment or hunts down the feather attached to your wand toy; his moments of stillness as he curls up in your lap; his affection as he butts his head against your mouth before settling on top of your chest when you lie down, paws tucked underneath him, purring.

You look down. “But I don’t know. He was just matched with someone. I’d hate to take him from them.”

The barista calls your name, and you pick up your orders. 

“Fuck it,” Bakugou says as he holds the door open for you to exit ahead of him. “I’ll tell your pet organization or whatever that I wanna keep ‘im. I’m sure they have other furballs that need homes. Those people can choose from them.”

“Thought you didn’t like Mikan,” you say, glancing up at him. 

Bakugou’s nose scrunches up in a way that makes you laugh. 

“Got used to ‘im, I guess.” 

You hum, a thoughtful noise, as you walk. You’re not sure why Bakugou’s suddenly suggesting this or if he’s actually serious. 

What you are sure about is that you’re not quite ready to get back in his car and go home. There’s a normalcy to the rhythm you’ve both settled into, reminiscent of how things were before he left for his mission. You’re reluctant to disrupt it. 

“Do you wanna walk off breakfast?” you ask. “There’s a park nearby.”

Bakugou grunts an assent, and you keep walking past his parked car. 

As you walk, his hand lightly brushes against yours from time to time. You don’t pull away, though you feel the tips of your ears warming and you mentally berate yourself for your inconsistency. You’re upset at him, you’re hurt by him; you’re so happy to be with him, you’re soft in his hands, at his care. 

Frustrated with yourself, you look up at the sky. 

The sky is a heartbreakingly clear blue, with just a few white wisps to interrupt the expanse. Along the pathway cutting through the park, trees provide welcome shade from the unrelenting sun. The area is relatively empty, what with it being a weekday, except for some aunties and grandmas stretching on the other side of the park.

You think about how quickly the seasons have changed. When you bumped into Bakugou at that grocery store that night, it was early spring, with the cherry blossoms just beginning to bloom. Now it’s fall, and the leaves have just started to turn color, and everything is different. 

“Bakugou,” you say hesitantly. “Do you have time to come over and talk?”

“Okay,” Bakugou says as he settles on the couch across from you. “Let’s talk. But no running away this time. I won’t do that shit a third time.” 

The urge to defend yourself rears its head, and you look up at him. 

His expression is set, grim; he’s leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees, hands clasped together. 

The words die in your throat. For a moment, you regret inviting him over to have this conversation, your stomach churning.

Bakugou tips his head, looking at you with a glint in his eye, then says, “You needed space. I get it. But feels shitty when you leave mid-conversation. Or give me the silent treatment. Fuck that. How’re we supposed to fix shit if you’re not around to talk shit through.”

You want to tell him that you weren’t running away. That you don’t feel like it’s productive to continue conversations that have escalated into hurtful exchanges. But you take a moment to think about what he’s saying. About how this all started because you were hurt by his silence, his unwillingness to communicate and maintain connection. 

Maybe you’re doing the same thing to him in your own way. 

“All right,” you say, finally. “You’re right. I won’t do it again. And if I do it again you can call me out on it and I’ll get my shit together.”

Bakugou nods, and the lines of his shoulders ease. You study him, not realizing how much your actions had bothered him.

Looking down at your hands again, at the bandages Bakugou had carefully wrapped around them last night, you inhale deeply. 

You begin, “I know you and Kiri own the agency together. And that you’ve been friends since UA. And our friendship hasn’t had the same amount of time, or the kinds of experiences, to develop, I know. But I wanna get there with you, someday. And I think it can only happen if we talk to each other. Tell each other things. Build trust.”

As if you’d opened a lid, everything starts to spill out, your words tripping on each other as if they can’t come fast enough.

“I—I care about you. I worry about you, and I thought about you a lot while you were gone. I counted each day, hoping that it’d be the one when you’d be back. And I know it’s not what you intended, I know you’ve explained your reasons why, but it hurt because it felt like I wasn’t worth the minute it would’ve taken for you to shoot me a message that you’re back and that you’re okay. Felt like I didn’t matter to you.”

You fall silent, hands clenched tight enough to hurt. Bakugou makes a rough sound, reaching over to touch the back of your hand, to make you let go. You try to relax, take a deep breath. 

“I hear your reasons for why you did what you did,” you say, looking him in the eyes, hoping you’re getting across to him. “I get that I can’t change who you are. I just want you to know how I felt.”

Bakugou takes one look at your face and curses. 

“C’mere,” he says roughly as he moves to sit next to you on the couch. He reaches over and wipes at the moisture around your eyes with gentle fingers. “Fuck, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” you say, making a face, and your voice comes out thin, trembly. You’re not crying. You’re just—when you’re in difficult, emotional situations, sometimes it’s like your body can’t take the stress and you tear up. You’re not crying. It’s just a lot. 

“M’sorry,” he tells you, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing you to his chest. 

You’re still, breathing him in. Stiff, trying not to give in to him. “I don’t want you to be sorry just because of—because of this. I don’t mean to. I’m not. I just get worked up.” 

You don’t want him to apologize out of guilt, or to make your tears go away. You want him to understand. 

When you try to pull away, Bakugou firms his grip on you, refusing to let go. 

“You’re right,” he says. “It’s fucked, I messed up. I’m not just saying this shit because I want to stop arguing. If you went somewhere for work, or—or on a trip somewhere, I’d be pissed if you didn’t tell me anything. I think about you all the goddamn time. Last night stressed me the fuck out because I wasn’t sure if you were okay and dumbass Ei left you.”

Those last words end in a growl.

You’re wide-eyed in his arms, stunned into silence. You scarcely dare to breathe as you struggle to process his words.

Bakugou relents, allowing you to pull back enough to look into his face. Your eyes search his, not sure what you’re trying to find. 

He says, “I do shit this way because it’s what’s worked. And I’ve been doing it a long time. S’hard because most people around me already know how hero work is and don’t expect me to do anything different. I’ll do better.”

You close your eyes, letting out a shuddery breath, letting his words soak in, weighing whether to accept them or not. His hand moves up and down your back in long, steady strokes. As if you were Mikan.

A feeling you’re not willing to name rises in your throat, and you really do feel like crying now. 

You soften. 

“Missed you,” you whisper against his chest, pressing yourself against him. His arm moves down to circle your waist as you reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. “Glad you’re home safe. Meant to tell you that. So happy you’re home.”

His arms tighten around you, squeezing almost a little too hard. You welcome the pressure. 

“Don’t like when you cry, so stop,” he mutters.

“M’not crying,” you say, but the wobbliness in your voice isn’t very convincing. 

For a moment, you’re tempted to leave things here. You think you could be satisfied with this. And yet…

You raise your head, look at him. 

“I have just one last thing I gotta get off my chest,” you say, letting your arms drop. 

Shifting a little, you move to put some space between the two of you. You don’t know how you got there, but you’re half in his lap, and it’s a little embarrassing. But he doesn’t let you get far, even with the face you make at him, his arm firmly holding you in place. 

“Weeks ago. Before you left, when I was sick, you made this comment like, ‘You don’t get it,’ when I mentioned taking it easy with the hero work. And you said something similar when we argued.” 

Swallowing, you say, “And I want to tell you that it makes me feel lonely, hearing you say that. It feels like you don’t want to explain because you think I wouldn’t understand. It sucks.”

With how close the two of you are, you can feel Bakugou’s body tense up in response to your words.

“I don’t say that kind of shit to be exclusionary,” Bakugou says. “It’s just. It’s fucking true. Civilians can’t understand the job. And I can’t take it easy. People depend on me.”

You scan his expression, trying to read him. Trying to pick your words so that they click.

“I know. You’re right. But… that reasoning can be used for any line of work, right? Or life experience. You can’t know what it’s like to be—to be an office worker. Or a doctor. An engineer. An artist. A mother, or a sibling. We’re all living different lives, and the only way we can come together is by sharing our lives with each other. That’s how I see it. What about you?”

Bakguou is silent for a beat. Then he exhales. “The hero stuff… it’s not all glory and saving people and happy endings. Sometimes shit is fucked, and all we do is try to keep it from being worse. I don’t want you to have to deal with that too.” 

A bitterness you’ve never seen before turns down the corner of his lips, sharpens his eyes, furrows his brow. There’s sorrow there, too, a bone-deep fatigue. It makes you want to reach out and touch it, erase it, so your hand cups his cheek before you can think. Your thumb strokes his skin. His eyes lock on yours and hold. 

“That’s my choice,” you tell him gently. “I don’t need to be sheltered from things, like I’m a kid. If it turns out I can’t handle something, I’ll tell you. If there’s something you’re not comfortable sharing, or you’re not allowed to tell me something, I’ll respect that. But you should communicate that with me instead of not giving me any explanation at all. I think that’s fair.” 

Bakugou is quiet for a long moment, and you’re content to let him think. Finally, he says, “Okay. But you have to promise to tell me if shit’s too much for you.”

“Promise,” you say, a small smile lifting your cheeks. You give in to the urge to pinch his nose, payback for this morning, and he nips at your fingers as you retreat. 

A thought occurs to you, and you pause. There’s one last thing, one true last thing, that you haven’t talked about yet. You’ve been avoiding it all this time because you’re afraid to shatter what’s between you. But so many things are out in the open now, and it feels a little bit like maybe it’ll be okay if you bring this thing up too. 

“I lied,” you tell Bakugou. “I have one more last thing to get off my chest. It’s the actual last thing though, I swear.”

“Better be,” he growls at you, and you laugh a little. It helps you be brave.

“I—I know that for you, at least part of what we are might just be trying to make up for what happened when we were kids, but you don’t need to. I already forgave you, okay? I don’t care that I’m not your soulmate because…” You hesitate, avoiding his gaze. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Regardless?”

Bakugou has gone rigid around you as you’ve talked, but he startles at your last words, jerking his head up to stare into your face. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

You flinch.

Bakugou swears, then, “Fuck, no, I meant—the hell do you mean you’re not my soulmate? You are.”

For a moment, you feel like you’re separate from your body, untethered. His words echo in your ears, reminding you of how things sounded right after the villain’s attack last night. Then the words register, and you crash back down to earth. 

“What?” you say, and the word comes out cracked. Something tightens in your chest. “No I’m not.”

“The hell you aren’t,” he snarls. His hand on your waist squeezes, tightening, a reflex.

“But you said that I wasn’t!”

His eyes, cutting crimson, bore into you. “When the hell did I say that?”

“When we were kids.” You stare at him. Swallow. “When we first met. You told me that you’re not my soulmate, after I told you that you’re mine.” 

“Fuck.” Bakugou simmers in silence for a long moment. “Fuck. I was a shitty kid, okay. And I said what I said because I didn’t want it to be true. Because soulmates or lights or whatever the fuck are bullshit. Some random person tells you they can see lights around you that you can’t even see yourself and that means you’re supposed to suddenly give a shit about them? Didn’t believe in that garbage and still don’t.”

He’s breathing heavily, as if he’s just sparred three rounds against Kiri at the gym. His gaze is piercing. His lights are erratic, orange overpowering the gold and flaring intensely. 

“Then why the hell are you saying that I’m your soulmate like it matters? If it’s even true?” you say accusingly. 

“It doesn’t!” he says, explosively. He catches himself, takes a deep breath, and continues, more levelly, “It doesn’t matter to me. But I know it does to you. And it is true. I’ve always been able to see your lights. All this time. Distracting as shit.”

He reaches out and grasps your hand gently, careful of your palms, his other rising to rest on your arm, running back and forth across your skin as if interacting with something that you can’t see. A motion you’d done just this morning, lying across from him in bed. 

You’re speechless. You’re afraid. To believe, to hope. 

Bakugou ducks his head to meet your eyes. 

“But I don’t care about you because of some shitty lights. Want you. Didn’t deserve it, but you gave me another chance. Figured out you’re it myself. Didn’t need those dumb lights.” 

Eyes intense, he looks at you, checking to see if he’s getting through to you. 

He releases your hand. Tousles his hair roughly, clicking his tongue. 

“Friends, whatever you want, we’ll do that. Just don’t think I’ve stuck around just because of these damn lights or what happened when we were kids. I told you. I only do shit I wanna do. Thought you were smarter than this, dumbass.” He pokes you square in the forehead, and you scowl at him, rubbing the spot.

Your scowl slowly fades as you furrow your brow, trying to process everything. But your mind’s awhirl, and trying to settle on a single thought is like trying to catch the dust specks that’re only visible in sunlight, twisting, floating. 

Groaning, you bury your face in Bakugou’s shoulder. 

“I give up,” you say, voice muffled. “It’s too much to think about. My brain’s going to explode.”

“You’re the one who kept bringing shit up. Last thing to get off your chest, my ass,” Bakugou snarks. 

Your head jerks up, and you narrow your eyes at him. 

“Watch the attitude, asshole.” 

“Or what?” Bakugou scoffs.

Ooh, the urge to do something diabolical is so strong. But you restrain yourself, tallying up all the strikes he’s made against you today and tucking them aside for later. 

Soulmates. 

The word keeps repeating itself, a mantra in your head, as you go through the motions of the rest of the day. 

Bakugou insists on driving you home, not letting you take public transportation despite the fact that you don’t live too far from each other. Maybe he senses you need the silence, or maybe it’s because he doesn’t have any words left either, but he doesn’t say much to you between the ending of your conversation to dropping you off at your apartment except to remind you to change your bandages and to call him if you need anything. 

You head to your bedroom to change into your own clothes. It’s only in the privacy of your room, smelling traces of Bakugou’s body wash on your skin, his shampoo in your hair, that the past twenty-four hours really hits you. 

You sink shakily onto your bed and try to breathe. 

Given the revelations you’d confronted this morning, the villain attack feels like it happened ages ago, irrelevant, as ridiculous as it sounds. If the bandages on your hands weren’t proof, the event would’ve faded from your memory.

Soulmates. 

You mouth the word silently.

You don’t think Bakugou would lie about this. Knowing him like you do now, it makes sense that he’d so adamantly refuse ties he has no control over. Knowing the kid he was back then, the young man he grew into, gathered from various press coverage over the years, it makes sense he’d want to forge his own path and deny anything that got in his way. 

You’re just not sure what shifted between his rejection when you were children and your meeting months ago, in that grocery store. You regret not asking him, but—in the moment, you’d been so overwhelmed. You’re still overwhelmed. 

How would this change things between you? If he’s been able to see your lights all this time—what do they look like to him? You’ve never told him the color of his lights; he never seemed interested, anyway. You wonder what you look like to him. You wish you could see yourself through his eyes, understand what’s going on in his brain. 

Friends, whatever you want, we’ll do that.

He’d said that. And you’d said that. Friends. But if you’re truthful with yourself, that’s not what you want. You want more, and only now do you feel warranted to hope for more. You know what it feels like to be held in his arms. To wake up next to him, the first thing you see. To be treated so gently by him, like you’re important. Precious.

…But what if wanting more from him would be forcing upon him another tie he never asked for? Surely if he feels the same way you do, he would’ve said something instead of defaulting to friendship. 

Just as doubt begins to creep in again, your phone buzzes, a welcome distraction. 

Kiri: Hey! I just wanted to see how you’re doing. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to check up on you last night. Had to deal with so many problems!!! 

You smile and reply.

You: Don’t worry about it! I’m doing good. Got seen by some medics and just have some cuts on my hands, no biggie 

Kiri: Wish I could’ve escorted you home! I hope you didn’t get home too late… There was a bunch of traffic and closed off streets

You: We got home in pretty good time, nw. I hope you didn’t have to stay out too late dealing with everything

Kiri: Oh? Did your friend pick you up? Or family?

You pause for a moment, wondering if you should answer. Shrugging, you tap out a response, figuring that Bakugou would tell Kiri eventually. Honestly, you thought Kiri already knew.

You: Bakugou came. We made up! 

You keep it short and simple. 

Several bubbles come up on Kiri’s end, disappearing and reappearing. You nearly put your phone down with how long he takes, but finally, his reply comes in a flood. 

Kiri: That! Is! So! Great!!!!!!!!

Kiri: I’m so happy for you dude

Kiri: And for Katsuki ofc but damn. At least one good thing came outta this mess!!!

Kiri: Hey, would you be down to join our next hangout? It’d be with Mina and the guys, you saw them that night. Hanta and Denki

Kiri: We try to do a monthly thing, like dinner or something, but obviously that didn’t happen…

Kiri: We also usually try to get Katsuki to come! We’re not usually successful :(

Kiri: But if you come, he’ll definitely come. Pls? 

You watch the messages roll in, smiling. Kiri’s energy is so infectious, even over text. 

Thinking back, you hated how your last interaction went down. You regretted how avoiding Bakugou meant avoiding Kiri, the agency, and the people you’d made friends with there. Reconciling with Bakugou has been a relief in many ways, and you’re grateful that it means you can return to the life you’d built before your argument.

You: Would that be okay? I don’t wanna intrude. Esp if you guys can only meet once a month

Kiri: Dude, you would NOT be intruding. Everyone’s been wanting to meet you for ages

Kiri: Bakugou’s just been stingy hiding you

Kiri: Pls?

You gaze down at your screen, thinking. Kiri’s words imply that you have some sort of impact on Bakugou. Not only that, they reveal that somehow, Bakugou’s friends whom you’ve never met know about you. It makes you wonder what Kiri knows, what they know.

You: Okay!

You're going to find out.

Author's Note: Hi friends! This update definitely wasn't quick, but at least it didn't take a full year between updates like chapter twelve did, I guess... Seeing post-time skip Bakugou finally get animated helped! I got a ton of fan edits coming across my TikTok FYP lmaoooo. (I do wish that Horikoshi had designed Bakugou (and Izuku) to be more mature-looking, like Shouto is. Alas.)

Any how, so many important conversations happen in this chapter, though arguably, the most important one—What are we?—is still to come. Though, I know how many of you have been yelling for some clarity about the soulmate question. I've had this scene written since the beginning, so it's been a long time coming. I'd love to hear what you think of how their convos went down!!!

I have next chapter scheduled as the last one, but who really knows until I start writing it. It may be the last, or I may add a fifteenth chapter. I'll keep ya'll upated!

Finally, I hope you're all doing well and that you enjoy this chapter. 🧡 Thank you so much for all your comments, here and on ao3, for your asks, your likes, your reblogs, all your engagement. As I've said before, your interest is what keeps me determined to finish this fic. We're in the home stretch!

this isn't like him; the freneticism, the almost stifling haste with which katsuki is trying to devour you. he's usually more reserved than this. more trepidatious. katsuki has always treated you like you were precious. too precious, you sometimes think. like an antique sake set made of porcelain so fine that it could shatter in a too-tight grip—like something he couldn't afford to break.

"what's gotten into you?" you ask as katsuki's mouth trails white-hot down your throat towards your collarbone, the kisses he presses against your skin searing as he moves on to the next.

his only answer is to slip his hands up underneath the skirt of your dress, hooking his fingers underneath the waistband of your panties and tugging them down your thighs.

"katsuki!" you gasp in surprise as the cool air kisses the slickness of your newly-exposed skin.

the pad of katsuki's thumb brushes your clit, and your knees nearly buckle.

"katsuki, stop."

it's quiet after you push him away from you, the air heavy as you laboriously draw it into your aching lungs.

katsuki stands at arm's length, frozen in surprise. in spite of his strength—overpowering you in every possible physical way—he hadn't resisted you in the slightest when you instinctively pushed against him. if anything, he'd willingly taken the step back to give you the distance you need.

he looks at you though his lashes, his chin tucked down towards his chest, half-hurt and half-guilty.

"sorry," he says quietly, mumbled through pursed lips as he shuffles another half step back.

your hand shoots out towards him, grabbing him by the lapel of his unzipped jacket.

"hey," you say, equally quiet but less sheepish than his own words. "don't do that."

katsuki lets you pull him back into your space as effortlessly as you'd pushed him away. you like it when he's close like this. like when that soft, sweet sort of smell that always clings to him envelops you too.

"i'm happy to let you take off whatever article of my clothes you want, i'd just like to take my shoes off first," you say to him, so close your lips are almost brushing. the tops of katsuki's cheeks are rosy, and his lashes are fluttering as he listens to your words. you smile a little. "if that's not too much to ask."

katsuki helps you out of your heels, and then clings to you all the way down the hallway into your bedroom where the two of you go toppling into bed. your boyfriend is normally militant about not letting 'outside clothes' into the sheets, but he says nothing about either of your outfits on the soft cotton as he pulls your body on top of his.

but nothing about katsuki is normal tonight. you've already figured that much out.

you just can't quite understand why.

"you're raring to go tonight," you say with a laugh as katsuki's hands slip up under your dress again, this time with you ensconced upon his lap. your panties are somewhere in the genkan, so this time there's no barrier between his touch and your skin.

"what's wrong with that?" katsuki bites back, but even in his snark he's still soft with you. deftly, his hands slip around to the back of your dress, sitting up so the two of you are chest to chest in bed, and tugs the zipper of the garment down. the material slips down your arms until the dress is left pooled around your waist, nothing but your bare skin left on display. it's hard to make out the colour of katsuki's eyes in the dark, but it's impossible to miss the desire in his gaze as it traces over your newly exposed chest. "what's so wrong about me wanting you?"

you pause for a moment as you consider his unexpectedly earnest words. "there's nothing wrong with it," you finally reply, reaching up and tracing your fingers through the blonde hair at his temple. "it's just a little weird."

"weird?" katsuki echoes, but his repetition sounds incredulous.

he uses a hand on the small of your back—just like how he'd walked you to your car after dinner, but this time a bit more forceful—to pull your body back against his. you brace your hands on his shoulders as you sit in his lap, staring down at him.

"i've been in love with you since we were fifteen," katsuki says. it's ardent. insistent, even. like he's desperate for you to understand. "i've wanted you since we were fifteen. there's nothin' weird about it."

you blink. a little dumbstruck. a little lovesick.

and suddenly you understand his behaviour a little more. it's all a bit clearer.

you dip down, pressing a featherlight kiss to katsuki's lips. then another; deeper and longer.

"you were feeling nostalgic, huh?" you murmur breathlessly against katsuki's mouth, cupping his face between your palms. his cheeks are burning hot underneath your touch. it makes butterflies lick in the pit of your stomach.

you'd caught katsuki's eyes on you a few times tonight at dinner, but really hadn't thought much of it. at one point you'd moved seats to chat with momo about her upcoming wedding (and to admire the ring on her finger) and more than once you'd met katsuki's gaze from the other end of the table where he was seated with the boys.

katuski kisses the back of his teeth, tilting his face away from you slightly.

"fuckin'... izuku said something earlier that just..." he seems to be struggling to find the words. you give him the time he needs. "said some sappy shit about growin' up. about how we all ended up happy."

you feel a twinge in your chest as katsuki mumbles the admission. he's struggling to meet your gaze, and instead leans his forehead against your chest.

"and i looked at you across the table, 'n i just... i kept thinkin' about being a fifteen year old brat staring at you across a classroom. kept thinkin' about how he'd never believe it if i could tell him how we ended up."

it's quiet for a moment as katsuki holds you. and you hold him. the hot, hot flush of his face against your bare skin.

"fifteen-year-old you probably would've tried to kick thirty-year-old you's ass."

katsuki laughs, a warm wash of breath breaking against your skin.

"yeah, probably." he nods, finally lifting his head. he stares up at you, his hands patting gently up and down your back. he smirks a little. "woulda popped a boner at the thought of seein' you like this, too."

"so the two of you have that in common, huh?" you tease him, wiggling your hips a little in his lap where proof of your accusation presses against you.

katsuki kisses you to hide the smile on his face, twisting both of your bodies to lay you down against the soft sheets of your shared bed that katsuki dutifully launders every sunday. he slips your dress down your hips to leave you bare, and tugs his own t-shirt off to join it on the bedroom floor soon after.

"katsuki?"

the man suckling a bruise into your throat groans a little at your quiet call of his name. "if you push me away again i'm gon—"

"i love you too, y'know."

you feel him swallow hard, his face still tucked into the crook of your neck. his hands are trembling a little—just like the first time he touched you, a few years after graduation when your paths crossed again. you can feel his heart thundering in his chest.

your own beats just as loudly underneath it.

“kat," she said after. she looked at him with something only a few degrees removed from pity, and poorly removed at that.

he attempted a halting non-apology. he attempted a real apology. failed at both.

"it's okay, you know," she said. "to not like it."

he scoffed even though he wasn’t entirely clear on what she meant by it, because there was so much he didn’t like. “i like it just fine.”

“if that was liking it, I’m honestly worried about your capacity for enjoying life in general.” it wasn’t a joke. her bluntness was something that'd made katsuki think he could push his boundaries with her. all of her thoughts were laid out plain for him to read, an open-source journal. “i'm just saying you don't have to like it. and you don’t have to force yourself to do things you don’t want to do. don't fuck yourself over for someone else's happiness.”

kyoka still texts him often, checks in, invites him to drinks with their friends. she’s kind. she’s normal. she doesn’t have this weird, shredded thing inside her that makes her balk at the idea of someone’s hand on her skin. that makes her think she's doing something wrong, even if she's not the one that initiated the touch.

when you started your job at the front desk of katsuki’s agency, he never thought that he'd be here, wishing above everything that he could just be normal. just for one fucking day, so he could laugh at your shitty jokes and maybe brush his knuckles across the back of your hand in passing and take you on a date where he could kiss you in his car after driving you home and the thought wouldn’t make his skin crawl, wouldn't tear up his insides to pulp.

because he fucked everything up. he's standing in his empty office where you'd been spending time with him and he fucked it up and hurt you and he's not sure how to unfuck it.

the thing is, he could grin and bear it. he could deal with the odd thing inside him that hates the contact and white-knuckle it through every kiss, every caress. but he’s never been a great actor. he wouldn’t be able to hide that from you.

(kyoka told him, years later, that it’s not that the sex itself wasn’t fine—what made it nearly unbearable for her was the fact that she could tell, only after it was too late, that being physically vulnerable with her pained him far more than he was willing to reveal.)

no one wants to feel like the person they’re with is grinning and bearing it. that they’re white-knuckling it through. katsuki knows this. he knows he’s basically a fucking virgin all but in title at thirty and that he’s got the personality of a dried-out fig you find in your fridge weeks after its last edible moments. he doesn't have much to offer.

but he walked into work one day and nodded at you, curt, a grimace on his face—and you smiled at him so kindly that his stomach twisted.

with you, it wasn't the feeling of something being torn apart. it was different, lighter. leaves wrenched into the sky by a strong breeze. still a kind of tearing, but different—less destructive.

he was wearing a deep carmine sweater his mom sent him in one of her bi-monthly care packages (as if he’s not an adult, and a pro-hero on top of that), and you said, “that’s such a nice color on you. is it new?”

there was that breeze inside his chest, strong, pulling at his bones. “yeah,” he grunted. then slowly, as if remembering how: “thanks.”

it was the attention, he thought at first, that piqued his interest. he wasn't used to it. people always watched him from afar, and he had fans online that were borderline obsessive, but people didn’t approach him. they didn’t say that’s such a nice color on you. they didn’t smile the way you smile.

he’s always had a shallow streak. it’s not like he doesn’t know this. it’s become a little muted over time, a little discouraged by the visible scarring on his face and body from his time in the field, but it’s never fully been eradicated. so it was simple, he thought. you paid him attention and stroked his ego, and he preened like a self-obsessed bird of paradise.

and then you started making these little origami whale sharks.

fucking stupid. it bothered him an annoying amount. you had a bunch at your desk, all different colors and sizes, some taped to your desktop monitor, some hung up with little pieces of string under the desk's storage overhang. you drew dots on the back of each one, a distinct spotted pattern that was unique for each shark. and you made them for everyone but him. eijirou bought you a pack of high quality origami paper and you made him his own fucking school, all with little faces, winking or surprised or angry, their wide paper mouths gaping and empty, the lines of their bodies pressed careful and sure.

he hated it. it was annoying and a waste of company time and he usually didn’t ever use dumb corporate slogans like “a waste of company time” but you were really pushing his fucking limits.

it was definitely just the attention he liked, he told himself, because surely someone doing something as dumb as this would annoy him to no fucking end if he spoke to them.

and then he spoke to you and he was wrong.

he asked why you made the damn things in the first place and you told him, “i like whale sharks. but to be totally honest, i just run out of things to do."

and he saw that as a challenge. you were running out of things to do? rest assured he could find more shit for you to take care of. so he did. tasks that he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, they were so dull and time-consuming. and you were so achingly competent that it drove him up a fucking wall. you completed everything he asked of you in half the time it would take someone else, and you always reported back with a smile, and you always did good work, and he could see himself having a conversation with you about something other than work but he didn't want to try because he was worried he'd begin to like you as a person.

you're pretty. really fucking pretty. he can see that now, and he sure as fuck saw it then. you're hardworking. you're just likeable, and that's something katsuki had never been. it (reluctantly) impressed him. worse than that, it turned his feelings for you into a sort of interest.

but he knows he's not normal when it comes to things like this.

he tried to distance himself from you because of it, but it turns out that asking someone to do work for you means you do have to speak to them sometimes. and sometimes turned into a lot of times.

sometimes turned into bringing him coffee in the morning, not because he asked you to, but because you're sweet like that. sometimes turned into being the person he bounced ideas off of when he had a board meeting coming up or something otherwise boring and meticulous. sometimes turned into you laughing at his prickly comments rather than going quiet because of them. turned into you saying suck it up, dynamight, this is what it means to be the boss when he complained about doing paperwork.

sometimes turned into staying late with him at the office, getting take out for the two of you to share while you finished filing claims and damage reports and other stuff he hated taking care of by himself. sometimes turned into him asking you to stay late just because he wanted you there. because even when he was quiet, you'd tell him about your day, about things that happened in the office, about how much you like the book you'd both been reading. he loved listening to you talk. felt comfortable enough to tell you things about himself when he'd never felt comfortable doing that before.

sometimes turned into you holding out a piece of fried tofu from your take-out container for him to eat while he was approving time-off forms that he should have looked at much earlier that week, and you being so close that he could notice how good you smelled, and the warmth of your body basically radiated towards him, like all your energy was focused on him, and your smile was small but somehow even more lovely than usual, a secret for him to tuck away and keep, and when you finished feeding him and he had a little sauce on the corner of his mouth and you reached forward to wipe it off for him and your hand lingered there for a moment and your eyes fell to his lips and what if you try to kiss me and i'm wrong and you hate me for it and what if i can't give you what you want and what if i'm not actually what you want what if i've disappointed you already what if—

it was too much.

so he fucked it up. your thumb was so soft against his skin. he reeled backwards in his chair, rolling it whole feet clear of you, and he felt the tearing again, the bad kind, like paper unevenly shredded by clumsy hands, and he had to leave. he had to leave. he needed to leave so badly that it felt like pulling his skin off would be preferable to being in that office with you.

hiding in the bathroom was fucking pitiful. he remembered his breathing exercises. he remembered to ground himself. and when he came back to his office, you were gone.

if he was normal—and he wants to be normal, god fucking damn—he could have stomached your proximity. he could have eaten out of your fucking hand. he could have touched you back like a normal person probably would have and he wouldn't be here, alone, looking at a little purple sticky note you left him that says i finished organizing the pto forms. i hope you feel better!

he doesn't know whose pride you're trying to save with that. as if you didn't leave because he made things so fucking awkward by running away from you when you touched him. when you—maybe, if he was reading the room correctly—were about to kiss him.

and you don't speak to him for days. he doesn't want to push so he doesn't—just watches you out of the corner of his eye whenever you're both in the same room, which is arguably worse. he's not sure. he's just itching to fucking talk to you because he misses it.

he misses you. in a more-than-friends way.

it takes a while for him to realize this. when he does, it hits him like a metal rod up the side of the head. it's fucked up of him to miss you the way he does when he doesn't feel like he can provide you with the things a normal person could. and though he's worked on his patience over the years—worked on understanding that he can't have everything he wants—it doesn't stop him from being selfish and finally pulling you aside to talk.

and baffling as fucking ever, the first thing you say is sorry. "i know i should've talked to you about it earlier. i just—i shouldn't have done that. and i know it. i shouldn't have assumed that—i don't know. that you..."

you look helpless. it's one of the very few times that katsuki has ever felt the compulsion to touch someone. not because he wants the touch, per se, but because he wants to be able to provide comfort. he never figured out how to do that with words. he's so focused on his inability to comfort you that he barely has any idea of what you're actually talking about. instead of doing anything at all, he just stands there like a fuckwad.

"i just want you to know that i would never—like never—have touched you, or tried to... if i didn't think there was like, a vibe?" you shake your head, exasperated with yourself. "god, even that sounds so bad. i'm sorry, i just—"

"wait, what are—?" and then it clicks, because he's been slow on the uptake figuring out his shit when he should have been focusing way more on yours. "there was..." katsuki says, and he fucking hates that he can't find better words for what you were both feeling in his office, "a vibe."

the way your face changes when you're flustered is one of katsuki's favorite things, but it's not as enjoyable when he feels just as flustered as you look. "i—oh? so... so you—?"

his ears feel like they're being attacked by two heated straightening irons and he knows they're red as hell right now. he's gonna have to say this plainly even though he'd rather get his teeth pulled out one by one with a pair of pliers. "it's not you."

your expression loses any sort of hope it once held. you press your lips together and sigh, maybe a little exasperated. he's doing his best here but he knows his best is shit. "i can handle a non-cliché rejection," you tell him. "honestly, i'd prefer a non-cliché rejection—"

"i'm not trying to reject you," he says, and it's selfish of him. because he's really not. he isn't comfortable with the things you'd want from him, but he still wants you in some capacity. "i just don't—do shit like that."

"kissing?"

somehow knowing for sure that you did want to kiss him in his office makes him want you more. he likes that you're bold. he likes that you're not ashamed of that. he wants to be different than he is. "any... of it," he struggles to admit.

"at all?"

he nods.

"just—like touching, and stuff?"

it sounds so juvenile that he can't help but laugh through his nose, roll his eyes. "yeah. touching and stuff."

"oh."

you're disappointed. of course you are. it's not like he expected anything different, but—sometimes he fucking hates his life. hates that he can't be the thing people need him to be. hates that trying is so difficult, that it flings his stomach into space, like a throwing stone skipping across a still lake.

"so you don't go on dates, or anything."

"haven't tried."

"do you not want to?" you ask, and he can tell it's more of a genuine question than anything. you're curious about him, like you always are. it's more than he deserves, for all he can offer.

"doesn't make sense to."

"that's not what i asked."

it's not. and so katsuki listens as you ask your question again, and he really takes a moment to think.

considering the answer to your question leads him to his first date with you. and his second, and his third—his fourth, and he's keenly aware that his last fourth date ended with what he expects all dates are supposed to end with.

he takes you to the aquarium. because of all the fucking origami whale sharks. you still haven't given him one and it sticks in his craw like a bone. in front of the backlit tank that holds sharks of all types, shapes and sizes and teeth he's never pictured possible of a living creature before, he asks, "why sharks?"

you look at him, brow raised. "i don't know. they probably needed the biggest tank in the aquarium. and this looks like the biggest tank."

"no, dumbass—your sharks. the ones all over the fuckin' office."

"what, you don't like them?" you ask, but you're smiling, sly.

he shrugs. he thinks they're dumb as hell. he wants one to hang up at work, like the ones you've got hung up at your desk. "they're whatever. they clutter the fuck out of ei's office. and he's already got issues organizing." you've just made eijirou so many at his point, and it's getting ridiculous. "but what—are they easy to make, or something?"

you laugh a little. "no. not at all, actually." a whale shark swims by, its spotted hide shimmering in the tank's eerie blue lighting, and you watch it intently. "but it'd be boring if it was too easy."

this date ends with him walking you home from the aquarium a few blocks from your apartment and you smiling at him and telling him that you had a really great time, and he feels like a fucking freak because you don't even expect more. you don't wait for a kiss. don't look disappointed that he doesn't try to give you one. the way you look at him holds so much affection that he doesn't deserve and he has no idea how to reciprocate it to you, and somehow he lands on, "make me one."

"one what?" you ask, but he thinks you already know what he's asking. you like to play coy. he likes it when you play coy. when you're enjoying yourself.

"one of your little fuckin' paper things," he mutters, because admitting that he wants one of those dumbass sharks feels somehow demeaning. he doesn't want you to know how much he's wanted one. "ei's got a million of 'em."

your hand was on your door handle, but it falls to your side. he's keenly aware of its proximity to him. he doesn't feel that terrible ripping in his gut and its absence is almost frightening to him. your fingers tighten into a fist. it's cold out. "ah, and you're jealous?"

"no," he says, knee-jerk. "i just don't get why everyone gets one but me."

you smile when he says this and he could live in this image of you, delicate and small and made for him. he goes home and thinks about it until he falls asleep. thinks about it even beyond then, feels that strong breeze inside him tearing every leaf from its grounded perch.

here's the thing—nothing against jirou, but unlike his other fourth date, this one was enjoyable. more than. he loved watching you be amazed by the size of the whale sharks, and he loved watching you put a bunch of coins into the penny press and cranking the machine until one was squeezed out into the pattern you wanted, and he loved watching you lay your hand against the glass where the rubbery wings of a flood of stingrays battled for your attention, and—

he loved watching you. that's weird, right? he sounds like a fucking lunatic thinking that.

but he does. he hadn't realized until now how difficult it had been not only to touch people, but to look at them. maintaining eye contact, watching someone do a simple task out of interest instead of staring them down in an attempt to intimidate them. he's so much more fucked up than he thought but what makes it bearable is that he can do it with you. he can watch the way you enjoy things and feel like he's not intruding on something he shouldn't. without even trying, you make him feel welcome—wanted.

that's it. you make him feel wanted.

the realization affects him in a way he doesn't understand. at work the next day, when you smile at him over the top of the front desk, he feels something incredibly strong—something like instinct—that tells him to touch you. small. a thumb brushed across your cheek. his fingers grazing yours. he wants it in a way that can't be right because he's never wanted to touch someone like this.

he doesn't do it, but he thinks about it all day. your little smiles when you notice him watching you on your dates, the way your fingers graze your lips when you cover your laugh, the softness in the way you regard him. you're quiet, reserved, but when you laugh you laugh hard. he wants your soft, your quiet and your loud, he wants the feeling of your fingers on his lips, he wants your smallest smiles, all things he wishes he could fold up and keep and later display somewhere he can always see them. a school of paper fish, gaping mouths and drawn-on spots and such carefully pressed lines.

so on the eleventh date—(he knows it's ridiculous to count, but he's never spent this much time with one person before, not like this)—he reaches for your hand when you're walking alongside the bay, the air turning cold in the wake of the sunset that the two of you had just witnessed. that's romantic, you'd teased when he asked you to watch it with him. he'd rolled his eyes, shrugged you off.

but maybe he wanted it to be romantic. maybe he wanted to make this as normal as possible for you because nothing has been normal between the two of you so far.

you pull back when he reaches for you, as if on instinct. look up at him, confused, when he reaches out again. "katsuki..." you say, and it sounds as if he's done something wrong.

he tries not to let his brain spiral but thoughts drip inwards. water meeting a dented hull. what has he done this time? what else has he fucked up by being fundamentally wrong?

"you know..." you start, and you lose your words.

he thinks of kyoka, years ago. it's okay, you know. to not like it. he wonders if you'll still text him like she does.

your lips pull into a frown before you speak and katsuki can't breathe. "i was never gonna ask on my own because i know you don't like talking about things like this if you don't bring it up. but—um. katsuki—do you think i expect something from you?"

"huh?" he asks, dumb. breathing is still something he fails to do.

"i know that this is—different. i know you have some things going on that make the physical part hard for you." you look up at him so earnestly, and he loves looking at you. he loves looking at you and doesn't want to have to stop and he's worried that this is it. the moment he'll have to stop. you try to smile and it's small and he wants it all for himself. careful. delicate. secret, for him. "i'm not gonna lie to you. i don't know what a relationship without that kind of stuff looks like. but that doesn't mean i'm not willing to find out. it's—i don't need you to try to do something you think i want you to do."

"i'm not."

"it makes me feel a little sick, kat. honestly. it makes me feel like, i don't know—like i'm taking advantage of you, or something—"

"you're not."

"you don't have to do things like that to keep me around." you look flustered, eyes darting from his face to the skyline. "if you want me, i'm—you know."

it's okay, you know. "i don't know."

"i'm yours," you say, and cringe immediately at your words. "or like—i could be, you know, kind of whatever you wanted, if you—if that's what you want. would want."

katsuki can only remember a few times when his head was this quiet in the presence of someone else. when he trusted someone enough to let his mind go blank, to let himself act on instinct. "can i kiss you?"

you sigh. "this is what i was saying. i don't want you to—"

"no," he says, quiet, and he's closer to you than he's ever been. he likes the way you smell. he's not gonna apologize if that's weird. "i just want—god, i feel pathetic asking again. can i just—?"

just, just, just. just a touch, just a kiss, just a moment of your fucking time—it's all he wants. and he's never wanted like this. he's never trusted like this. his head has never quieted entirely because he's so sure that he's not going to disappoint you, or be something you don't actually want, or be wrong.

you've shown him that he can't be wrong with you, regardless of whether or not something within him is broken.

your lips are warm, a little chapped from the dry air, and he tries to remember what kissing chastely is but it's like something breaks in him further the second the two of you touch. his hands are cradling your face, his tongue is gliding against your tongue, his teeth are clacking against your teeth, and he knows the kiss is bad and wrong and messy but he suddenly needs it. he needs to feel you.

you make a noise against him and worry slices into his stomach before he realizes it's a quiet, breathy moan, and maybe you've been okay without the touch but that doesn't mean you don't enjoy it when you receive it. he can tell he hasn't made his boundaries clear enough—your hands circle his wrists, too cautious to go further, too hesitant to grip him like he thinks you want to. like he wants you to want to.

his teeth hit yours again and you laugh, and he pulls back, stomach tight. there's a hope in him that's ready to be torn.

you see it in his face—the fear. "i love kissing you," you blurt out, as if it's the only reassurance you can think of in the moment. "i mean—you're just." you laugh again, and he realizes it's nerves. you're just as nervous as he is. "can i—can we go somewhere warm? and maybe do this more? or—if this was enough—"

he's pulling you towards his apartment before you can get another word out.

kissing you is easy because you make him feel like it's relatively new for you as well. maybe that's how it feels for everyone every time, but he wouldn't know. he just feels comfortable with you. like you're not so much better than him, like you're not waiting to laugh at him when he fucks up, like you're touching him because you really want to.

so he takes you to his apartment and puts you on his couch and kisses you until your back is against the armrest and he's looming over you and you feel comfortable enough that your hands stray from his wrists to his shoulders to his hair and he didn't even know touching someone could feel like this.

put aside the fact that he's nearly finished in his fucking jeans three times just from your fingers running across his back, from the way you cup his cheek when he pulls back for air because he keeps forgetting to breathe—just having you close is intoxicating. he wants to bury his face in the curve of your shoulder, he wants to bite marks into your skin that'll stay vibrant for weeks, he wants to etch himself into you so deeply that he doesn't have to leave. these wants aren't even sexual—it's something about having you be his. i'm yours, you'd told him, and he hadn't even known that it would be exactly what he needed to hear.

he's in love with you, which isn't shocking to him, but he knows he shouldn't be in love with you yet because people that aren't fucked up in the head don't feel shit like this so quickly. he's not gonna tell you this for a very long time, but he knows—so completely and confidently—that he will reach a point when he can tell you.

"you sure you want this?" he asks, breathy, between kisses.

you stop kissing him, brows raised in surprise. "katsuki, we don't... this is a lot for one night. we can take it slow, still."

"that's—i'm not talking about that." he gives in, then—lets himself bury his face in the crook of your neck, lets himself breathe in deep, lets himself find your hands and intertwine your fingers, and you can probably feel that he's hard as fucking metal for you but that's not what's important right now. it sure as hell makes it awkward to try to have a serious conversation, though. "you sure you wanna deal with all... you know. my stuff."

"are you sure you wanna deal with all of my stuff?" you counter, and he pulls back to look at you. kissed rotten and smiling. "of course i want to deal with it. i like you."

and he likes you too. god, he likes you so fucking much.

the next morning, long after you've left for home, he finds a little orange whale shark hidden behind the alarm clock on his bedside table, stars in the place of eyes, and the trace of you is enough to make him feel warm. to hope that over time his apartment becomes full of the little paper creatures until his home is its own aquarium, until everywhere he looks is a memory of all you've brought him—pieces of you, perfectly arranged and delicately folded by your careful hands, much too gentle to tear.

katsuki thinks: riptides, salt, burning. he thinks that his dad was right to warn him over and over again, even though it has heavily shaped his perception of the ocean and his enjoyment of these holidays.

the drives back to hamamatsu were the worst. there was always sand even when you thought you’d gotten rid of all the sand on your body. katsuki would find it later between his toes, clinging to the dry and delicate skin behind his ears. the two of you would sit together in sand in the backseat and swing your legs and tap your flip-flops against each other until they were all lost to the floor of the car. katsuki liked when the side of your foot was pressed against his, when he could feel the sand on you and the warmth of your skin, like the beach took up residence in your body and followed you home.

he’d like it more if the beach stayed where it was. he’d like it if your smile didn’t remind him of a saltlicked breeze and easy sunrise. this is why he started bullying you in the fourth grade, but when his mom asked him why he was being mean to you, he told her it was because you were afraid of the ocean and that made you weak and dumb, because how could the ocean every be a frightening thing? it takes before it gives, but only if you let it.

he hurt you physically for the first time right before he left for ua. you were both graduating. your moms were getting busier, older. the vacations were infrequent and rarely involved the both of you because of how katsuki had been acting. he didn’t want to go, anyway—the beach never felt right without you, without your sticky ice-cream hands and your sandstuck skin.

you said, “congratulations,” even though he’d nearly made you cry just a few days ago. you said, “you’re gonna do great at ua.”

you were a little too close to him. he could smell your body spray. something bad and a little too sweet that reminded him of childhood. he pushed you because you weren’t going to stop him, and because you always acted like this, like he wasn’t treating you any differently than he had when you were both ten and making sandcastles together, and because he could. that’s all. because he could.

you fell hard. not expecting it. you needed two stitches in your right knee. he’d pushed you on the way home, and you’d gone down on the pocked tarmac of your hometown’s rundown main street.

when he saw the blood he remembered the first time you put aloe on a nasty sunburn across his shoulders and he cried because it hurt so bad. he cried and you were kind to him.

he wanted to take away the feeling you had that you were close to him. that you were important to him. he didn’t understand what gave you the idea in the first place that either of these things could possibly be true.

this was when katsuki realized he wasn’t afraid of the ocean—he was instead akin to it. he would be the one to take before he gave. he would be the thing to fear. and so that’s what he decided to become.

he doesn’t see you again until he’s twenty-nine years old. you have avoided him every holiday season that he’s returned home, though he couldn’t say whether you returned home or not. he never saw you. his parents didn’t mention you. if he ran into your mom while he was out grocery shopping with his mom, their conversations revolved around anything that wasn’t you.

he’s tired now. he’s been the thing that people fear. he has taken and taken and taken and he has never truly learned how to give. an ocean can’t only be an ebb.

he takes his mother to the beach. she can’t go by herself anymore because she had a bad hip replacement and loses stamina easily when walking, especially in the sun.

you and your mother are there, on the same stretch of beach, and later he will find out that you’re renting a cabin eerily close to the one his mom has rented for the week. after his mother is laid out sunbathing next to your mother, the two of you head to the water and stand in the low tide, the sand just cool enough not to burn the delicate bottoms of your feet.

you grew into your features perfectly. even the non-conventional parts of you are gorgeous. the thought makes his hands feel clammy. makes him avoid eye contact for more than the obvious reasons.

“you look good,” you tell him, despite the fact that he’s scarred from face to torso and badly. “happy, I mean.”

“don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, leaves the pronoun vague. maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about. maybe he doesn’t. his face heats and he blames the sun. he doesn’t know if he’s been happy in a long time. your knee scarred from the stitches and he didn’t know that until today, right now.

you shrug and you’re already starting to burn. he wouldn’t know that if he hadn’t spent all his youth with you, here, in the sun. even if he can’t see the color, he can tell by time elapsed. you scratch at your shoulders a little, confirming how well your timetables are still etched into his subconscious. “up there in the hero ranks, lots of fans, feared by all… seems like what you wanted when we were kids.”

he’s quiet. the two of you watch a young couple play with their daughter in the foam-edge ocean surf. you’re so pretty that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“is it what you wanted?”

“i was a shitty kid.”

“you weren’t,” you say. “and then something changed and you were.”

the couple are younger than both of you. katsuki doesn’t want kids but thinks: that could have been him, in some other universe, and maybe that version of him would have wanted a daughter when he was that young and maybe he would have learned to give before he took.

“you stopped being afraid of it, i think.”

“of what?” he asks.

you gesture to the ocean before you, the glittering water and the soft spread of ebb-flow tide and the sheer expanse of something too vast for either of you to ever fully comprehend. “you swam too far.”

you’re right. he thinks: he lost his fear of the ocean when he started to believe that he was something just like it. or instead, this: conquering fear and becoming the thing that frightens you are two very different things.

“i shouldn’t have pushed you,” he says. “i shouldn’t have treated you the way i did.”

you nod. chew on a thought. “my mom thinks we’re gonna get married.”

he snorts at the sheer ridiculousness of that concept. the idea that he’d ever be good enough to learn to give for you. “you tell her we’re not?”

“tried a couple times. she’s got the venue picked out and everything.”

“they know why we don’t talk,” he says, but it’s a question. he’s never broached the topic with anyone. he likes to keep it like a hidden septic wound, poke at it to see it ooze.

“i don’t even know that,” you tell him.

he looks at you because he can. he wants you to look back at him but you’re squinting off into the horizon, searching for something. someone that’s gone too far, maybe. even though he’s right here next to you. “because i hurt you,” he says.

“you did.”

“and you didn’t deserve it.”

“i didn’t.”

“i’m sorry.”

you laugh, a sound he hasn’t heard in over a decade. he remembers your flip-flops falling to the floor of the car, the sand on your skin, the trill of laughter when you couldn’t reach them to put them back on. “i’d have liked if it didn’t take you years to get there.”

“it didn’t,” he says. this is the flow. this is the give. this is vulnerability over bite. “i think about it some days—or most. most days.”

“but you never wanted to talk to me about it?”

“i did. i just—” and he looks at you and loses his words like you used to when you were younger because you’re looking at him now too and he thinks: there is nothing but guilt inside of me. he was never meant to be an ocean. he wasn’t built to contain a feeling so vast. “feels impossible to start a conversation like that.”

“you just have to start it,” you say, like it really is that simple.

he doesn’t say anything because you’re right.

“remember when I asked if you were afraid of the ocean?” you ask.

“vaguely.”

“you lied to me. you said you weren’t.”

he remembers that. remembers lying to you. remembers hearing the tide for years and years as he fell asleep, like the ocean was following him, determined to make him remember his own failings. “but i was.”

“you were,” you say. “and so was i.”

when he takes your hand in his, his palms are sweaty and you don’t seem to care at all. and you stand together like that, feet in the ocean, staring down the thing that scared the both of you when you were younger. that still scares you now. “i know it’s not—I know don’t deserve it. but i wanna get to know you again,” he says. swallows his pride and its diamond edges. “if you’d want that.”

“i would,” you say, and this is your give—though from him, you’ve never taken. you should. you deserve to. “i missed being out here with you. didn’t feel right by myself.”

and even though it’s so different now—the both of you and your mothers all in different sections of your lives, seeds flush in a mandarin—it feels right. your presence completes this image. to katsuki, you are many things. to katsuki, you are everything to do with the beach and the sun and the sand.

“missed it too,” he says—and he can remember, just like he remembers the way your skin felt warm on your childhood drives home from the beach, what it felt like to be less of an ocean and more of a human. how empty vastness was nothing in the face of his happiness from just being close to you.

You’re seated on a twirly chair in front of the vanity, right foot up on the cushioned surface to better polish your toes. They’re a vivid coral, matching the ones on your fingers. Nami’s lying upside down on her cot across from you, hands behind her head and feet up against the wall like it’s nobody’s business. She's finished her toes already, all coated in a beautiful teal that compliments her hair.

Everything is perfect tonight. As perfect as being bountied pirates on a ship can get. The flower scented candles around the girls’ cabin run warm, making sweetness blossom around the room. Your beds are made perfectly, pillows fluffed up just the way you like it. You and Nami move with an unspoken understanding, of unwinding and finally taking time to yourselves after a day full of adventure. 

The sound of the sea has been quietly lulling the two of you into peace, though you have to delay your sleep for an extra hour of chatting away your complaints.

Girls night always welcomes honesty—when you and Nami can talk about everything the boys would never understand. And she’s being real truthful alright, hand enthusiastically waving around like a maestro to her own words. 

And of course, the current topic of conversation was the blonde, women-loving cook in your crew. 

Nami can be blunt, to say the least. It’s what you appreciate most about her, although you wish she’d soften her words up just a little bit. 

Or maybe try to see him the way you do.

“He’s a lot.”

She’s talking about typical Sanji behavior. The incessant flirting, the hovering and his I-live-to-serve-women attitude, which she’s convinced is some type of overcompensation. 

You definitely don’t think it’s annoying. If anything, you think it’s really sweet that he tries his hardest to impress Nami. 

Matter of fact, you love it when he tries to impress the girls on this ship. Fortunately for you, the only two available ones include an independent, no-bullshit navigator who doesn’t easily fall for his smooth-talking. Now that just leaves him to focus more of his affection onto you, and you absolutely love being the center of his attention.

You bite your lips, trying to hold back your laughter. “I mean, he’s intense for sure.”

She rolls her eyes at your attempts to soften her complaints, and she truly can’t find it in her to understand why you would defend the cook. “Annoying.”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

A beat of silence. 

And then Nami literally whips her head to face you so fast you’d think you were a treasure made of a trillion berries.

The sight she’s greeted with is one she will never forget. And not in a pleasant way, because you look positively, 100%, absolutely sure about the words you just uttered out of your mouth.

You’re hugging both your legs up to your chest, lips still bitten in a silent restraint. You’re actually melting into yourself, lost somewhere in the clouds as you swing yourself right and left in your chair. 

Where do you even begin? 

From memorizing your likes and dislikes,—and not just about food—attending to your needs, whether you voice them or not, and genuinely wanting to know you for who you are. Sanji somehow manages to embrace who you were, who you are now and who you hope to become in the future, all in the same breath. 

He is never quiet with the way he loves. God forbid he doesn’t worry about others for even one day. He’s dramatic, over-the-top, theatrical. All the synonyms of spectacular you can find in the dictionary. But also grounded, selfless, and so genuine that it makes your teeth ache and your heart clench erratically. 

Sanji treats you with a kind of gentleness that makes you think you’re the most precious diamond in the Blue Sea. You are. To him. He never ceases to convince you of so. 

So it’s an absolute no-brainer that you think he is the one for you. If not the only man ever. And, the fact that you aren’t alone in this fortifies your belief. You and Sanji have your own thing. A quiet game that only you seem to understand the rules of. A kind of connection that isn’t defined by or bound to labels; one that grew from quiet glances and secret smiles. The others may not notice—for now. They’d probably brush it off as you being kind to Sanji and finding genuine friendship in him. 

But you like it that way, and you really, really like him. You don’t need to say it out loud, because you’re sure he knows you do. You’re content with what you have because you can feel it that he reciprocates. 

You are his just as much as he is yours. 

“Say that again.” Nami pumps out the sentence like she can’t believe her own ears. She’s fully upright now, propping her upper body with her hands. She leans towards you as if it’ll make her hear better. 

“I think..” you mimic her pose and lean your chest forward, palms resting on both knees as if preparing to tell her a secret, “—that he’s kind of cute.”

It’s he, now. Not it, anymore. 

God, you are hopeless. And crazy. 

“You’re kidding.” The navigator hits you with the most deadpan stare you’ve ever seen her muster in her life.

Nami tries to look back at all your past interactions with Sanji. From the first time you joined the crew to the most recent ones. Then it all clicks for her—like a puzzle piece to answer a question she’s never bothered to ask. 

It starts with the way you get quiet when Sanji’s around, a secret smile and an undeniable warmth seldom missing from your face. Gosh, you’re so shy when he talks to you sometimes. It’s crazy that it didn’t register to her because you’re typically always so sure of yourself. Then it’s how you never, ever brush off his attempts at flattery. How your sweet compliments always seemed to be drowned out by Luffy’s shouts and Zoro’s arguing. She looks back at the way you naturally gravitate towards him. It didn't matter if you were on the ship, jumping from island-to-island, in the middle of a fight or simply lounging around with the rest of the crew, you always found your way right beside him. 

Huh. 

It was all in her face the entire time. Loud and apologetic. She feels silly at the fact that she’s never thought to even look because she couldn’t fathom that any woman could genuinely put up with him. And you never denied anything either—not when there wasn’t anything to deny in the first place. 

Her words set you off like a pirate looking for the one piece. 

“Nami don’t you ever dream of a guy who’ll sweep you off your feet?”

You’re breathless, absolutely lost in your own daydreams as you twirl around your chair with a force that could blow the Going Merry across the Grand Line. There are stars in your eyes, genuinely. Your hands shoot up in a rainbow above your head, and your body melts further into the seat. 

Something’s definitely gotten into you.

“And Sanji’s that guy for you?!” She exclaims. You watch her go through all the 7 stages of grief in the span of 3 seconds. 

You laugh at her silliness, and then you’re back to swooning again.

It was as if she’d unlocked your inner beast. A lovesick, crazy girl who was spouting her dreams of romance and everything that was butterflies and rainbows. A woman who was absolutely mooning over Sanji.

From then on the navigator makes it her mission to uncover where this crush of yours came from. She can try asking the rest of the crew, but she’s 98% sure the boys are oblivious to this, or simply aren’t as perturbed as she is. (Because how has no one questioned this before?!)

Starting wasn’t hard. At all. Turns out you and Sanji are shameless. It just takes the right time for someone to pay attention and see how deep the connection runs between the two of you. 

It happens bright and early a few days later. Nami—by instinct or intuition—woke up to an empty cabin. Your bed looked freshly mussed, like you couldn’t be bothered to tidy it up before getting up. She looked through the small window, greeted by the sight of the barely peeking sun in the darkness of the horizon. Way too early for anyone to be up. Except for Sanji, who she knows is already prepping for breakfast in the galley. And conveniently, you seem to be missing in action as well. It doesn't take much to put two and two together. 

She catches you right as you are entering the kitchen.

Of course, Sanji is already busying himself on the counter, chopping an array of fresh fruits into—what Nami can’t see—hearts.

“Mon trésor.” 

It barely takes a second for you to enter before Sanji is calling out to you, gaze immediately snapping towards your figure. He doesn’t need his sight to know that it’s you. He can’t admit that it’s because he’s memorized the weight of your steps on the ship, and the sweet scent of your perfumed clothes. 

A lit cigarette hangs off from his lips, though he quickly puts it away when you make your way to the dining table. 

You rub your eyes tiredly, hand then moving down to hug yourself closer in an attempt to chase some warmth. “Hi, Sanji.”

He’s melting at the sight of you. 

This might just be his favorite part of the morning, second only to when you start talking to him. You’re in your pajamas still, shirt hanging loosely over your bare shoulders. Absolutely radiant, and so domestic. You can barely open your eyes in the morning sun, and the way you carry yourself feels heavier, but more honest. Relaxed. A good sign that you slept well. 

Sanji doesn’t fight off the small flush that makes itself known across his face.

“Do you know that every time you say my name an angel gains its wings?”

You grin at the early morning flattery while you settle down on your seat. You could look like the messiest thing on the ship and Sanji will find a way to compliment you regardless. “Heaven must love me,”

“Heaven would be a fool not to love you, darling.” It doesn’t take even a beat for him to answer, and the cook puts down his knife to come closer. He makes a point to lean his face down to yours to greet you with an open teeth grin. 

And that genuinely brings a giggle out of you, leaving Nami mildly disgusted. 

When he's finally seen your smile, he returns back to the stove, slathering butter over the surface of a pan. The familiar rich aroma and the oddly calming sizzling sound makes you soften into yourself. You slouch onto the countertop, folding your elbows into each other and laying your chin on top. “I take it that this is a good morning for you?”

“Everyday better when I see your beautiful face.” He curls his lips into a smile, sneaking a quick glance at you before winking. 

Thank goodness he goes back to focusing on the pan because you are already throwing your face away to the sea, pursing your lips in a barely restrained smile before burying yourself into the crook of your arms, releasing a hidden breath. 

Sanji, that sly man, takes a quick peek from his shoulders. Seeing you, confident you, turn into a flustered puddle from his words makes him puff up so quickly. He wears his pride so boldly on his chest. No one could tell him anything for the rest of the day, and it was insufferable. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s already started on your breakfast. He knows that you’re an early riser, and that you will almost always seek him out first thing in the morning. So everyday he sets out your breakfast ingredients and preps as much as he can. He doesn’t start cooking them before he sees your face, because he only wants the most warm and freshly cooked meal for you.

You notice it though, the way he always serves you first, no matter the time and place. Dinner? A plate of the finest meat for you first (Luffy hates it.) Going over logs with Nami? All the snacks you like are immediately placed in front of you, and a drink to compliment it following behind. He always thinks about your needs first, and if that isn’t love then you don’t know what to believe. 

Just as you are in the middle of your daydreaming, Sanji interrupts with the sound of cutlery against porcelain. He’s plating up your mouth-watering breakfast, made to absolute perfection. 

“For you madam, golden brown honey toast with freshly whipped cream on top,” he dishes out the plate in front of you, and the aroma itself sends you straight to heaven. “—extra fruit, just the way you like it.”

You didn’t think it was possible to fall deeper in love with him, but you’re proven wrong once you see the fruits that decorate your toast, all of them heart shaped. Both hand-cut and perfectly uniform using the cutter he specifically bought to use for your meals. 

You gasp in exaggeration, though deep inside you’re aching about how sweet he is to remember your preferences. “You spoil me,”

“Only the best for my favorite Strawhat.” He answers, pouring you a glass of freshly brewed coffee. 

You’re in the middle of cutting your toast in half when you look up at him, teasing by saying, “Don’t let the captain hear you say that.”

Sanji exclaims back to you in all his confidence, turning away as he places the pot on the counter. “Bah! One sirloin steak and he’ll forgive me like it never happened.”

Your giggle is like the brightest melody in his ears, and the words that follow it could bring him back from the dead. “Thank you, my chef~”

“You know my heart can’t take it,” He playfully sighs out your name, clutching his chest. Sanji stands across the table now, resting his chin on his hand against the counter top. Just happy to watch you.

“Delicious!” You continue to shoot honeyed words at him, not just as a means for him to keep sweet-talking you, but also because you think Sanji deserves all the love and goodness of this world. 

“Sing me your praises, my angel of music,”

Nami can almost see him propel himself to the sky with giddiness. 

“So perfectly crunchy,”

“—and I’m yours forever.” He takes your hand in his from across the aisle, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles as he looks up at you. 

Nami felt chills sweeping up her spine. 

You guys were so cheesy. But sort of.. cute. That was something she couldn’t deny. She’s never seen Sanji this genuine, and when someone actually reciprocates, it makes him look less like a fool. 

And the way you were bouncing back and forth on each other was like a sick game of ping-pong she couldn’t look away from.

She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why you two aren’t together already. It’s perfectly clear that you both feel the same way, and aren’t afraid to act upon it. A small part of her wants to meddle, and she’s halfway into a plan that’ll somehow get either of you to confess to each other, but then she abruptly stops.

Eh, you guys will sort that out yourselves. Eventually. You look like you’re exactly where you want to be. So, Nami shrugs and beelines into the kitchen, hoping to get a fresh plate of breakfast seeing that he’s already started with yours. 

The next time Nami catches a moment between the two of you wasn’t intentional. Right, because she wouldn’t be caught dead seeking the conversations you and Sanji had after that traumatizing event. 

It was late at night. For once a quiet one between all the chaos that seemed to follow the Strawhat Pirates. Luffy was snoring away somewhere with a full belly, Ussop tinkering away in his cabin, and Zoro likely in the crow’s nest. Nami decided to look for fresh air, feeling a little bit holed up inside her room. Between the gentle rocking of the sea and the soft melody of the waves, it was the perfect atmosphere to spend watching the horizon. 

She didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, but the door was open and a ship doesn’t exactly leave much room for privacy. She tried to leave the two of you alone at first, but found herself leaning against the galley wall to listen in in the end. 

When she takes a peek through the door, she finds you seated still and pretty on the stool close to him, cross-legged in your pajamas. Like a sous chef who wasn’t really a sous chef but boosted the cook all the same—if not a million times more. 

When you first got to the galley, you paid mind to his laser-focused expression. You didn't want to break his flow, so you stuck yourself against the counter at a distance. You were content with the picture of him from afar, but Sanji had absolutely none of it. He began your conversation of the night while silently dragging a stool and placing it right next to him by the stove. Safely away from getting blasted by the heat, but close enough to where he could feel you around him and talk to you without feeling a million miles away. 

He’s got on one of your top favorite get-ups: a classic blue striped dress-shirt unbuttoned just the right amount and his pink Doskoi Panda apron tied around the back. Sleeves deliciously rolled up to his elbows for a bonus. Though Nami isn’t attracted to him the way you are, she isn’t blind. She has to admit that the image of his forearms are a sight for sore eyes. Sanji can be quite charming at times, mostly when he keeps the talking to a minimum and does what he does best. 

You’re not even hiding it at this point, gaze tracking every languid move of his hands like you were hypnotized. 

It’s not hard for you to admire him when he’s deep in his element. You find yourself going quiet, not because you don’t want to talk to him, but because it’s mesmerizing to see the way he commands the kitchen like his own battleship.

There’s a small smile on your lips as you take in the passion he carries, and on your lap you fidget with the shiny silver ring on your thumb. It’s his ring—your favorite one that's shaped like a skull—that he gave to you for “safekeeping”, even though Sanji never ever takes them off. Even when he’s cooking. It’s incredibly intimate; a symbol of his trust for you.

He’s just finished cooking a dish of his own creation. A classic menu made of meat, but a little more experimental with the seasoning. You can only describe it as heaven in a plate, sweet and savory at the same time, with a hint of something that you can't fully describe with words. Yet, you enjoy it for all that it is, and the delectable fragrance isn't something to complain about, either. It’s almost shocking that Luffy hasn’t come running down the kitchen from the smell alone. Sanji isn’t technically done with the recipe, seeing as he’s trying to perfect the ingredients being used. He has his worn-out notepad by the counter, filled with endless scribbles and notes of improvement. The cook will come back to it once you’ve given your own comments on the taste.

Once finished turning down the heat, he takes a clean spoon out of the cabinet and offers you a small portion fresh out of the pan, where the dish was still simmering in the heat. 

You feel honored that you are Sanji’s unofficial taste-tester. The first time you came across the cook experimenting with new creations was a complete coincidence. That particular night you’d been restless in bed, stomach aching for a bite of food. You ended up pattering into the galley to get maybe a few crackers, a slice of bread or cheese or something that’d temporarily distract you. But you didn’t expect to feast on a five star meal once Sanji found out you were hungry. You? His precious princess starving? Not on this ship. 

What began as compliments to the chef turned into fully fledged reviews of each flavor profile, and eventually became something more intimate. A space for honesty just for you and Sanji. 

You like to think that’s where you found the real Sanji. The kind heart beyond the ladies man, the truths behind his endless honeyed words. 

You sought him out like a moth to a flame, and every night Sanji welcomed you with open arms. 

Most of the times you were there to actually be his taste-tester, which is just his excuse of having a private late dinner with you. But, other times he’s prepping meals for the next day and you’re simply there to keep him company. Either way, you’ll never skip out on an opportunity to spend time alone with Sanji.

Funnily enough, more than once you’ve caught Luffy sneaking in and rummaging through the pantry, already halfway stuffing his face with something that makes Sanji tick before he notices that the two of you are occupying the room. It’s a bit adorable that he doesn’t make a fuss about it. He never questions anything beyond “Hey… are you sneaking for snacks too?!” and then an “Okay!” followed by his high pitched laughter after Sanji kicks him out for offering you the stolen goods from his sticky hands. 

You take notice that he never lets Luffy get a bite of his cooking. Sure, if the captain asks, Sanji will make him something, but not from the same pan. A different dish all together. You think that maybe it’s because he isn’t open to someone tasting something he considers isn’t “perfect” yet, but another part of you just believes that it’s because he only trusts you to give him the honest truth. 

Still, you find it hard to believe he’d ever need one, considering everything that he makes turns out flawless. 

“More seasoning?” The cook watches as you chew on the meat slowly.

You shake your head in disagreement. “No, this is perfect, Sanji.”

“Not too sweet for you?” 

Nami sees you visibly recoil at his questions, body moving as if he was spouting blasphemy. 

He’s got his back turned to you while he rinses his hands over the sink, so he can’t see the flabbergasted frown on your face.

“This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.” You make an emphasis on the word “best”, sticking the wooden spoon back at him to signal that you wanted more.

“You flatter me, angel.” He grins, pulling the dish towel from his shoulders to wipe his hand. Then he goes straight to follow your command exactly and dips right back into the pan, scooping up a portion before blowing it softly to cool it down. 

You’re practically vibrating in your seat, legs bouncing and arms holding up the weight of your body as you lean towards him. 

“Nope. I’m just sayin’ the truth!” The words come with a pause as you’re swallowing your last bite, and the brightness comes right back up your face while you praise Sanji.

By the All Blue, he just wants to scoop you up and squeeze you in his arms for all eternity. You can be so shy around him, but also incredibly animated when expressing yourself. 

Once Sanji deems it the perfect condition for you, he motions the spoon to your mouth.

It’s a stupidly sweet gesture, and also his way of stopping you from eating the whole thing. You can just take the spoon from him and feed yourself, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like being pampered by Sanji. You’re not ashamed to admit that it makes you feel very special. If you truly weaponized your voice and asked him for the whole pan, he’d give it to you without a single doubt. But, it’d be a shame if he didn’t wait until he could properly serve it with some rice so you could have your very late dinner “date”.

He holds the spoon out for a beat longer to look down at the way your lips wrap around the surface, turning away only when you finish munching happily at the taste. After all, your satisfaction is his number one priority. Nami can’t see your face from where she’s at, but she can absolutely make out Sanji’s, and the way he’s staring is sensual, borderline debauched. It makes the navigator feel like she’s intruding on a private moment.

You are none the wiser to this, Sanji needs to get it together, and Nami’s very close to throwing up in front of the galley. 

Your eyes are closed as you hum contentedly once the flavors settle nicely in your stomach, and it’s then when you start to feel the weight of his stare. 

You’re only chin level on this short stool, so you have to look up to meet his eyes.

He's quiet and awfully still, taking you all in and leaving no part of you starving for his attention. There's an evident tension swimming around the kitchen, and it makes you acutely aware of just how close you are to him. Inches away. The position is a tad intimate, to say the least.

“What? Is there sauce on my face?” 

You know there isn’t anything on your face except for pure happiness, though you’re a tiny bit flustered by his attention. 

“Sorry, darling,” He's not sorry at all. He leans in to wipe the non-existent sauce, and for a second you think he’s going to deny his obvious admiration of you but then he pivots into something that is so Sanji it makes your brain melt. 

“Your beauty demands to be seen. I can’t deny you that.” He traces the back of his finger over your cheek before tucking a stray hair behind your ear. 

Time and time again, Sanji is able to surpass your every expectation. You continue to feel the weight of his stare, now much different than before because he looks at you with deep, unabashed, reverence. Not hidden, and not in halves. A softness he reserves only for you.

You’re speechless for a moment, but then he cups your face into his palms and it feels like everything just melts away. 

Now Nami understands. Why you adore him so much. Why you don’t need to scream it out to the world that you love him (although you would love to). The two of you aren’t “together” officially not because you don’t want to, or are too shy to say it out loud. But because you enjoy every part of who he is. The chasing, the teasing, the thrill; it’s everything in him that makes you feel alive. You don’t need words for him to understand that you love him, just as he doesn’t. 

Nami watches the way you look up at him, positively beaming. The silence is broken away when you start giggling to yourself, and it only makes Sanji move closer to you, his forehead bumping gently against yours as he sports an identical grin on his face.

She shakes her head, both astonished and happy to see you flourishing in his presence, before walking away with an affectionate eye-roll.

Yeah. You two are the lamest.

Mon trésor: My treasure

Aaah I couldn’t really decide which sanji to base this fic off of. I ended up doing a bit of both 🍽️

“Not drinking tonight, sweetness?” Sanji sidled up to where you sat on a stool, your back to the bar. You shrugged, “Not ever, really.” Sanji looked confused, so you elaborated, “Nothing against it, conceptually! Just, don’t like the taste. Never have.”

“Now, that can’t be true,” Sanji protested. “There’s so many! You must like something.”

“Nothing I’ve tried.” 

“Well, we have to fix that! I’ll make you every drink there is in the world until we find one you like, how about that?” He squeezed your shoulders.

“I think that’d be a very expensive waste of alcohol,” you chuckled, tapping him on the head. 

“Nonsense, it’s not a waste if it’s for you.”

“Oh, hush! You’re not wiping out this bar just for me to take one sip of everything and hate it.”

“If it’s what must be done-”

“How about,” you interrupted, lifting your finger in his face, “how about, you can make me one, just one! Drink at every bar, until we maybe, maybe find something I like… but no promises.”

“Deal.” Sanji spun around and waved to the bartender, somehow charming his way behind the bar. He started pulling down three different bottles, glancing at you to ask, “Do you trust me?”

You pursed your lips, pretending to think about it, “Mm… Yes…”

“Then trust me to make something you’ll like.”

“Alright, fine.” You watched him toss an orange in the air and catch it in the glass.

“And if you don’t like something, promise you’ll be honest with me. I wanna make sure we find something you actually enjoy, not something you tolerate.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it. Don’t fake it for my ego, darling. If I find out you lied, I’ll be hurt.”

“I never fake it.” 

Sanji paused, his eyes flicking to your face, one eyebrow quirked up as he let out a chuckle. Your eyes widened, and you immediately looked away, realizing what you’d said. You coughed and tucked a stand of hair behind your ear as you quickly tried to correct course, “Not- I mean, I won’t lie, I’ll be honest. Promise.” You blushed and drew an ‘x’ over your heart with your finger. Sanji laughed and busied himself making you something to drink. He shook his head, trying hard not to think about what you’d said.

He flipped a few bottles and rolled them down his arms, satisfied to see you laugh and clap in amusement. Finally, he finished the drink and placed it down with a flourish in front of you. 

“It’s certainly a pretty drink,” you marveled at the glass with its curled orange peel garnish.

“A pretty drink for a pretty lady, of course.” 

You rolled your eyes like you always did at his flirtations, but he didn’t mind. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. And he definitely didn’t want to. 

You leaned forward, gently lifted the glass to your lips, and took a sip. 

Sanji waited with bated breath. You swallowed and instantly gagged. “Oh god!” Your face scrunched up in reaction to the burning alcohol flooding your throat. “Ahh,” you coughed and cleared your throat, trying to make the bitter taste fade faster. You covered your mouth with the back of your hand and grimaced at Sanji, shrugging your shoulders. “Sorry… but no… definitely not sweet enough.”

“It’s alright, love,” He spun the glass around and picked it back up, “Next time.” In one swift movement, he tipped it back and swallowed the whole drink. 

“I don’t know how you guys drink that stuff.” You shook your head, still coughing a bit, and squeaked out, “I mean, whatever makes you happy!” You hopped off the bar stool and meandered off to check on how everyone else was doing. 

Sanji watched you go, still twisting the glass between his fingers. You were apparently wearing some kind of lip gloss. He’d tasted it when he brought the glass to his lips. Strawberry? No, raspberry. He pressed his lips together, savoring the taste as he watched you bound up to where Usopp was throwing darts. His eyes wandered up your legs, to where your short skirt hugged your hips and curved around your-

Sanji swallowed and let a long breath out through his mouth, discarding the glass on the bar along with his train of thought. 

He needed some air. 

Later in the night, the crew was stumbling out of the bar. Luffy grabbed everyone and insisted on singing loudly as you all made your way back to the ship. Usopp, also quite drunk, enthusiastically joined in. Nami shoved Luffy and Usopp off and laughed, “I’m not drunk enough for that.”

“Oh, so we should go back, then?” Luffy started turning around, Usopp spinning with him. Everyone laughed, but you did your best to redirect them back toward the ship. “No, come on, you two, that’s it for tonight!”

Luckily, Luffy and Usopp were not in any position to argue, so they just spun around again and took up their song, swaying down the road. With the rest of the crew’s help, you managed to get everyone back safely. 

Sanji found you on the top deck. Everyone else had gone to sleep, but he’d picked up that you liked to experience the night air before bed and could usually be found there. 

He stood on the stairs for a moment, lit a cigarette, and watched you watch the sea. 

A cool ocean breeze swept up your hair and made you shudder. You rubbed your hands up and down your arms. Suddenly, Sanji found himself crossing the deck and taking off his jacket. Once he reached you, he gently placed it around your shoulders, letting his hands slide down your arms as you turned and looked up at him. You smiled and thanked him as he joined you at the railing. 

The two of you stayed like that for a while longer, just looking out at the sea shining under the moonlight. Sanji kept stealing glances at you, his cigarette caught between two fingers. He wanted to say something, but he was worried he’d ruin the moment. 

Ruin the moment? Since when did he ever worry about that?

He didn’t realize he hadn’t said anything at all until you looked at him, concerned.

“Sanji…?”

He glanced at you, “Yes, love?”

“Are you okay?” You placed a hand on his arm. He hummed at the sensation, “Of course, I am. You’re here.” 

You frowned. Sanji’s chest tightened. What did he do? Why were you frowning at him?

“I don’t know,” you searched his face, “You seem… off. Did you have too much to drink? Maybe you should get to bed…”

Drink. Yeah, that must be why I’m like this, he thought. 

“Oh, come on! I’m fine,” he smiled easily and wrapped one arm around your shoulder, “But if you’re so worried about me, I’ll let you escort me to my chambers.”

You giggled at his dramatics. That was better. 

“Okay, let’s get you to bed.” 

Sanji put out his cigarette and let you guide him below deck and down the hall to his room, holding his hand around your shoulder to steady him. At one point, he may have intentionally accidentally tripped over a bench. Your hand shot out and braced against his chest, and you whispered sharply, “Please, be careful.” He smirked into your hair, letting you prop him back up on his feet. 

All too soon, you were at his door, and when you let his arm fall back to his side, he felt suddenly very cold. Reluctantly, Sanji opened his door and turned around to face you.

“Well, goodnight, Sanji.”

What if you stayed? What if he asked you to? What if he told you…

He opened his mouth to say something. 

You waited.

“...Yes?” You prompted him. 

He shut his mouth. 

“Goodnight,” was all he managed. He slowly closed his door, wondering if he was going crazy.

Then he heard a quiet knock. He opened his door again, heart jumping into his throat. 

“Sorry, sorry, I forgot to give this back,” You shrugged off his jacket and handed it to him. 

“Mm, yeah, thank you so much,” he clenched his jaw and forced a smile. “Well, goodnight!” He shut the door, leaving you a bit confused as you went back to your room. 

Meanwhile, Sanji went straight to his bed and collapsed face down. He groaned into his pillow. What did he even almost say? Why? What’d gotten into him? 

He sighed and flipped over onto his back. The rustling of his jacket against the bed cover reminded him of its existence. He pulled it up to his face to look at it, only to catch a whiff of your perfume lingering on the fabric. He brought it to his nose, drinking in the scent of you. It was still warm, reminding him of how it rested against your shoulders, caressing your warm skin in the way he desperately wanted to.

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck!

Sanji threw his jacket across the room. Why was he jealous of a piece of clothing?!

But you had made a promise.

A quiet one. Years ago. The kind of promise that settled deep into your bones and refused to loosen its grip no matter how much time passed. You had promised yourself that you would become the best. Not just a Marine, but a marksman no one could rival. Unfortunately, being stationed in Loguetown had come with a complication.

A very large, very stubborn, very bright-haired complication.

Captain Smoker.

If it hadn’t been for him, things in your life would be different by now. Maybe you would’ve moved up the ranks already. Maybe you wouldn’t feel that slow, creeping disillusionment every time you put on your uniform. And maybe you’d be somewhere quieter, somewhere your work actually meant something to you again.

Somewhere far away from him.

But there was no point lingering on all the what-ifs. The story of your ambitious past self had already been written and unluckily you hadn’t been the one holding the pen.

With a quiet exhale, you rested your gaze on the water stretching out beyond the harbor, your hands moving on instinct as you polished your rifle. The familiar weight grounded you, even as your thoughts drifted back to that one fatal mission, as they always did. A scoff made its way past your lips.

Years had passed, and still you couldn’t let it go.

You had the shot.

Perfect angle. Perfect distance. Wind accounted for. Breath steady. Finger poised.

And then-

Smoke.

Thick, blinding, suffocating smoke.

Your vision had been swallowed whole in an instant, your perfect shot gone, the world reduced to nothing but white smoke and frustration. By the time it cleared, it was over. The target was down.

And Smoker stood at the center of it all. Praise following him like a shadow. Commendations. Recognition. A successful mission.

Your mission.

Your shot.

Lost to the haze in nothing but a mere handful of seconds.

Your grip tightened slightly around the rifle before you forced yourself to relax. There was no use replaying it again. It wouldn’t change anything. Nothing ever did.

“There you are. Have you been out here all day?”

You didn’t need to turn to recognize the voice.

Tashigi.

Footsteps approached—quick, purposeful. You glanced at her from the corner of your eye, noting the way she was slightly out of breath, her glasses slipping just enough to tell you she’d been running around town in search of you for a while.

“That depends,” you said dryly. “Who’s asking?”

Adjusting her glasses, the younger girl stepped in front of you. Blatantly ignoring your quip.

“He’s working himself into his grave.”

Ah, so this was about Smoker. Of course it was.

You didn’t even look up at Tashigi, just shrugged and dragged the cloth slowly along the barrel of your rifle like the answer might be hidden somewhere in the metal if you polished it long enough. “Then I suggest you let him,” you said, voice flat. “It’s not like he listens to anyone anyway.” Tashigi didn’t respond right away.

That, more than anything, made your hand still.

Finally glancing up, you studied the girl. Tashigi was fidgeting. Sure, she was trying her very best to hide it, but it was there. Adjusting her glasses twice in the span of a breath, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, fingers curling against the hilt of her sword like she needed something solid to hold onto.

“He hasn’t slept,” she said finally, voice laced with concern. “Not properly. Not since two days ago. Maybe longer.”

You said nothing, but your grip on the cloth tightened. Why did she have to come to you out of all people? Smoker was none of your concern. He hadn’t been for a very long time.

“He’s been going through patrol reports from the last three weeks,” Tashigi continued, words picking up pace now that they’d started. “Cross-checking names, routes, ship logs, anything even remotely suspicious. And every time someone brings him food, it just… sits there.”

A pause.

“I think he forgot it was there.”

A faint scoff left you before you could stop it. “Sure sounds like him.”

But it came out just a little notch weaker than you intended. Not that you’d ever admit that.

Tashigi stepped closer, lowering her voice like the wind itself might carry her concern back to the Captain’s office. “There’s more. He’s been dispatching extra patrols along the east docks. Double rotations. He says it’s precautionary, but…” She hesitated again, brows pulling together in hesitation. “It doesn’t feel like that.”

That got your attention.

You lifted your head properly this time, eyes narrowing just slightly as you gave Tashigi your full attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” she said carefully, choosing each word like it might cut her if she wasn’t precise enough, “he’s not just preparing for the crowds.”

The harbor stretched out in front of you, deceptively calm. Ships rocked gently against their moorings, seagulls circling lazily overhead. From the distance, it almost looked peaceful.

Up close, however, you knew better.

Nodding, you followed her line of thought. “You think he’s expecting something.”

“I think he knows something,” she corrected softly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The distant noise of the town, the shouting vendors and the restless swell of visitors bled into the quiet space between you. Slowly, your fingers resumed their slow, methodical work on the rifle, but your mind was elsewhere now.

Despite your personal opinion of the man, you still knew the Captain. And Smoker didn’t overextend resources without reason.

He didn’t lose sleep over simple things like “precautions.”

And he most definitely didn’t just forget to eat.

“He hasn’t told anyone why he is doing all of this?” you asked.

Tashigi shook her head. “Not directly. Every time I try to ask, he just…” She exhaled, clearly frustrated. “Either changes the subject or tells me to focus on my own duties.”

A humorless smile tugged at your lips. “Sounds about right.”

Her gaze sharpened slightly. “You’re not surprised.”

“Should I be?” you countered. “Captain Smoker isn’t exactly known for his transparency.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She crossed her arms, studying you now instead of the situation at hand. “You’re acting like this is normal.”

You shrugged one shoulder, the lazy motion had almost become a habit these days. “For him? It is.”

But even as you said it, something about it didn’t sit right. Because somewhere deep within your conflicted thoughts you knew that Tashigi was right.

This wasn’t normal.

This was intense in a way that went beyond Smoker’s usual stubborn obsession with justice. There was a sense of direction behind it. Intent. And Smoker was many things but he wasn’t reckless without purpose.

Tashigi must have seen the shift in your expression caused by your inner conflict, because her voice softened just a fraction. “He won’t listen to me,” she said. “Or anyone else.”

A beat passed. You blinked. “…And you think I’m the exception?”

“I think,” she replied, meeting your gaze head-on, “you’re the only one on this island who doesn’t care whether he outranks you.”

That earned a short, humorless laugh from you. She wasn’t wrong. Respect had never been the issue.

It was everything else.

With a small exhale, you pushed yourself to your feet in one smooth motion, slinging the rifle over your shoulder out of habit more than need. The familiar weight which settled against your back was grounding, but not enough to quiet the faint unease curling in your chest.

“If he throws me out,” you muttered, brushing past her, “I’m blaming you.”

“That’s fine.”

“And if he starts a fight—”

“He won’t.”

You stopped just long enough to shoot her a flat look over your shoulder.

“Tashigi,” you said dryly, “he’s started fights over way less.”

Tashigi opened her mouth, hesitated, then sighed. “Just try not to provoke him.”

You let out a quiet huff of amusement at that, shaking your head as you started toward the Marine base. “No promises.”

But as you made your way through the crowded streets, weaving between tourists and townspeople alike, your thoughts kept circling back to one thing.

Smoker didn’t act like this without reason.

And if he was right, if something was coming…Then whatever it was, it was big enough to keep a man like him awake for days.

Your grip on the rifle strap tightened slightly.

“…tch,” you muttered under your breath.

Looks like you weren’t the only one who couldn’t let things go.

—

The hallway outside Smoker’s office felt unnaturally quiet, the usual hum of Marine activity muffled as if the base itself had been holding its breath. You didn’t hesitate. Confident steps coming to a halt before you swung the door open with more force than necessary, letting the smoke that hung in the room greet you like an old, unwelcome friend. It coiled in thick spirals, curling lazily around the ceiling and furniture, clinging to everything it touched. The familiar scent made you fight a sneer from creeping onto your face. Not from disgust, but from the sheer weight of the memories it carried.

Smoker sat behind his desk, hunched slightly over various scattered reports, a faintly glowing cigar clenched between his fingers. For a moment, he didn’t even look up.

“Has nobody taught you how to knock?” His voice cut sharply through the haze, the deep tone smooth and lethal in its familiarity.

You stepped inside his office anyway, letting the door swing shut with a definitive click. “Has anyone asked for your opinion on the matter?”

Finally, the Captain raised his gaze, piercing and unreadable. That same piercing stare that had haunted your missions, challenged your authority, and made your pride bristle years ago. It was still there, and it still had the same effect. Tension settled like a physical weight around you, suffocating yet strangely magnetic.

“You’re busy,” you said flatly, letting your eyes sweep the papers before settling back on him. “I’ll make this quick. You look like hell.”

“And you look like you’ve got too much time on your hands,” he shot back, his cigar still steadily sending smoke drifting upward.

“Running yourself into the ground doesn’t count as productivity,” you countered, stepping closer until the edge of the desk almost pressed into your thigh. “Tashigi said you’ve been pushing yourself for days. Double rotations, cross-checking every patrol, scrutinizing every log, ignoring food, not sleep—”

“I’m doing my job,” he interrupted, voice flat and controlled. Ever the authoritative Captain.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all the answer you’re getting,” he said evenly.

Your chest tightened. The familiar surge of anger and frustration from years of professional rivalry pressed against your ribs like a physical force.

“You’ve always done this,” you said, voice low and sharp. “You step in. You act like the mission, the risk, like everything doesn’t matter to anyone else. That’s not how it works!”

The office seemed to shrink around the two of you, the papers and reports fading into the periphery. Your chest was aching with more than just frustration; it was pride, embarrassment, and a gnawing sense of injustice. Every memory of that mission felt like a knife twisting in your heart, as every argument you had had with Smoker over the years about methods and judgment and authority was now resurfacing. It made your blood boil how he had always challenged you, pushed you and kept you in line.

“Every choice I’ve made has always had a purpose,” he said finally, the words slow, deliberate. “Every decision, every order, every patrol—it’s all about keeping people alive.”

Preventing yourself from scoffing, you chose to ignore the hidden meaning behind his words and studied the man in front of you instead. His posture was tense, as if that thick jacket he wore anchored him down to his chair. His white hair was a mess, bright strands poking out in various directions. And not even the thick smoke of the cigar could cover up the dark bags underneath his eyes.

“You look terrible.” you said quietly, your voice not quite as matter of factly as you wished it to be.

“I don’t need your concern,” Smoker muttered, the words clipped but lacking their usual venom.

“No,” you admitted, somewhat softer, fingers mindlessly brushing against a stack of reports at the edge of his desk. “But I don’t care. Right now, you’re my concern whether you like it or not. What you’re doing is reckless.”

Smoker finally leaned back, fingers tightening around his cigar, as he eyed you skeptically. “Why did you agree to come here?”

The question made your heartrate spike, caught somewhere between utter disbelief and frustration. You would have loved to claim that it was just for the greater good of things. That you cared about the wellbeing of the Marines and Loguetown. But some lies are simply so far away from the truth, that even the very man you detached yourself from years ago could easily catch onto them.

“I don’t know,” you admitted truthfully, somewhat defeated. “But I did.”

For a moment, time in Smoker’s office stood still, thick with the weight of unsaid words, tension, frustration and hurt pride. You stood there, barely moving, letting your eyes trace the somehow familiar chaos of his office. Every report, every scribble, every smoldering wisp of smoke was so unmistakably him. Always in control, always relentless, always present and always untouchable. And yet, now in this very moment, something was different. Smoker’s usual armor of certainty, was tempered by exhaustion. The sharp edge that normally kept everyone at bay was dulled slightly, though not gone entirely. You could see it in the way his hands trembled slightly as he tapped the ash from his cigar, in the subtle slump of his shoulders that spoke more loudly than his words ever would.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, voice low, reluctant, almost confessional. “You’ve been at this for days. You’re not sleeping. You’re not eating. And you’re pushing everyone around you to keep up. What is the point?”

The Captain didn’t answer immediately, but his eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked up to meet yours. “…The point?” he echoed, voice low. “The point is that if I don’t, things go wrong. If I falter, people die. That’s all the point I need.”

“And I get that,” you said, hands gripping the edge of his desk, leaning forward as if the very motion could bring your thoughts across. “I understand duty. I follow orders. But whatever this is, isn’t just duty anymore. It’s obsession. You’re burning yourself out.”

He let out a humorless laugh, the sound harsh and grating. “Obsession? You think this is obsession? You think I enjoy doing this? You think I want to see everyone exhausted, failing, or potentially dead? You’re way off.”

“And you don’t think anyone else cares?” you snapped, frustration finally spilling over. The words hung between you, heavy with anger. You hated him, yes. You hated what he’d done back then, to the mission you’d spent years perfecting. And yet, seeing this force of a man, like this, so human, so vulnerable in ways he’d never allow himself to admit—it made your chest ache. The hate you carried for him tangled with something else, something unfamiliar you weren’t ready to name.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” you admitted, quieter, almost against your will. “But you never let anyone help. You never let anyone in.”

Smoker stared at you from his seat across the table, eyes narrowing slightly, trying to read the weight behind your words. “So, what? You want me to believe that all of sudden you care about me?” he said flatly, like stating a fact rather than asking a question.

“I don’t know if it’s care,” you said quickly, stepping back, as if the distance would help with the turmoil swirling within you. “Maybe it’s just… irritation. Maybe it’s seeing the Captain of the Marine base making irresponsible decisions because he’s being too stupid to let anyone else do his job.”

“And yet here you are,” Smoker muttered, almost to himself, voice low, dangerous in its subtle intensity. “Standing here, letting Tashigi drag you back into it anyway.”

“I didn’t choose to be dragged,” you said, snapping slightly, your hands flying up in a frustrated motion. “I’m not your babysitter and I’m not your subordinate. But I’m not going to let you just pull another bullshit stunt like this.”

His expression darkened just a fraction. “You’re stubborn,” Smoker said quietly, more statement than insult. “And reckless. And still, after everything, you come here anyway. You confront me. You argue. You care more than you want to admit. Don’t think I don’t see it.”

Oh how you wanted to argue, to tell him he didn’t know what he was talking about. But quite frankly, you couldn’t. There was a truth in his words you couldn’t deny, a quiet pull in your chest that made your hands tremble slightly as you gripped the edge of his desk again. For years, frustration, pride, and a confusing mix of affection and anger had coiled inside you and now they were all tangled and impossible to separate.

“God, I hate that I even notice,” you muttered, voice low, almost a whisper. “I hate that it bothers me when you push yourself this hard. I shouldn’t care. But I do.”

Smoker leaned forwards in his chair, cigar long forgotten, eyes locked on you. “…Figures,” he said simply, but there was a weight behind it which spoke volumes. “You’ve always been too stubborn to ignore what matters.”

And there it was. The pause. The acknowledgment of something neither of you had said out loud yet, a fragile, tense bridge between years of rivalry, frustration, and unspoken care. Despite yourself, your heart twisted painfully. You wanted to scold him, to shake him, to tell him to rest. But you also wanted to stay in this weird space, where you could hold the line between argument and care, keeping that distance you had built up over the years. Because, distance was familiar, it felt safe there.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just studying the other’s face. There was something between you now that was as fragile as it was undeniable.

“You get… invested,” Smoker stated, eyes dancing across your features like he was observing you in a new light. “You’ve always done that, haven’t you?”

“I—” You hesitated, furious with yourself for faltering. “Maybe I do. So what? Doesn’t mean—” Your voice faltered, drowned by the overwhelming mix of feelings regarding the Captain across from you. “Doesn’t mean anything!”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Smoker repeated slowly, almost a whisper, though his gaze still never left yours. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stared, his usual smirk gone, replaced by something unreadable. The smoke drifted between you, thick and suffocating, yet somehow lighter now, as though acknowledging the fragility of this moment. His chair creaked as he leaned his elbows on the wooden desk, the ash from his cigar falling unnoticed onto the scattered reports beneath it.

“I don’t regret any of the choices I made back then.” he admitted finally, voice low. You froze, his words breaking through the silence and striking you like a physical blow. “…What?” you muttered, not really having expected him to address the matter directly.

“I would do it the same way all over again.” he said, tone sharp now, the tension in his voice tightening as he remembered the events. You could feel hot rage bubbling up in your blood as you tightened your grip on the edge of his desk.

“Oh yeah, that’s not surprising.” You seethed, the tremor in your voice betraying all the emotions you had bottled up for years. “Of course you enjoy all the honor and respect you’ve been shown, and the fact that you hardly had to do anything to earn the glory. Suddenly morale doesn’t matter when it comes to feeding the Captain’s huge ego—”

“I couldn’t give less of a shit about the recognition!”

The Captain, who had been sitting at his desk until now, was suddenly standing. The abrupt movement sending his chair scooting back against the wall.

You scoffed in disbelief, your hands finding their way to your hips. “Oh yeah, I am totally buying that ‘doing it all the same again’ doesn’t mean experiencing being admired and cheered by all your peers one more time.”

You almost flinched in surprise when a loud bang echoed through the office as Smoker’s hands suddenly slammed down on the tabletop; the cigar which had previously been resting between his fingers was now nearly crushed to ashes by the impact, and papers were sent scattering across the floor.

“It means that you’re still alive!” His voice was filled with exasperation and anger as it boomed through the space. The sheer volume of it making the windows rattle ever so slightly. You couldn’t move. It was as if not only your body, but also your soul had been frozen in place by the unexpected rawness of Smoker’s emotions.

“There was another shooter.” Smoker buried his face in his hands, as if they could shield him from reliving the memories of the past. Unsuccessfully attempting to steady himself with a deep breath. “Higher ground. You were in their line of sight. You would’ve never seen them until it was too late. I couldn’t risk it. I stepped in, because if I hadn’t, you would be dead.”

You winced at the gravity in his tone, the anger and resentment you’d carried for years warring violently with relief and something else—something that felt dangerously like gratitude. “You never told me,” you said in disbelief , a faint tremor betraying the whirlwind of emotion. The reality of your situation accompanied by the unmistakable sensation of regret. “You just let me hate you for it.”

Smoker shook his head, a humourless chuckle escaping his lips. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d argue. You’d insist you could handle it. You’d risk yourself to prove a point. And I couldn’t let that happen. Not then. Not ever.”

The confession, simple as it was, left your hands trembling. Your shoulders slumped slightly. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, voice low, but softer now, more vulnerable. He didn’t respond, just lifted his head to watch you once more, his eyes unreadable. For the first time in a long time, you realized he wasn’t pushing back to dominate you. He was… letting you stand there, letting you process everything, and somehow, that made the weight of the moment heavier.

“And you’re insufferable,” Smoker shot back, there was a spark in his tired eyes as a hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

You let out a baffled laugh, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. You weren’t quite sure what exactly you had expected when you had let Tashigi rope you into this situation. However, you most certainly hadn’t expected to have your whole world turned upside down on a random Wednesday.

“Still a nuisance,” you murmured, shaking your head.

“Still here,” Smoker said quietly, the smoldering intensity in his gaze unbroken, but something gentler, too, threading beneath it.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to step closer, breaching the distance you had spent years building. Rounding the table, Smoker’s eyes followed your every move until you came to a halt right in front of him, looking up at the Captain. Whereas his posture could have potentially fooled the untrained eye, the exhaustion in his face was impossible to ignore. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you said, softer now, almost pleading. “You need rest.”

“I don’t need your concern,” he muttered, eyes locking onto yours, but the defiance was quieter than usual. “I can handle it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said firmly, your hand hesitantly finding his upper arm “Let me help. You’ve been at this for days. Let me help you with the paperwork. Just for a little while. Please.”

The sudden touch, had Smoker’s eyes flickering from your hand to your face. He was startled, as if the idea itself was foreign, almost indecent in its gentleness. A few seconds passed before a sigh of resignation escaped him.

“I suppose a little help can’t hurt.”

Reaching forward, he lifted the strap of your rifle, signalling you to take it off. Once you had slipped it off your shoulder, he took the rifle in his hand and moved to carefully lean it against the far end of the table. You smiled at the gesture, moving to pull his chair back into place.

“Sit down.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Smoker grumbled, his voice amused this time instead of annoyed.

Shaking your head lightheartedly, you went back around the desk so you could take a seat in the chair opposite of his. But before you could sit down, you heard the disapproving click of the Captain’s tongue.

“You’re not much help to me if I have to keep passing the documents all the way across the table.”

You couldn’t help but let out an amused laugh at that, the sound making Smoker’s eyes sparkle with something warm and intense.

“Over here,” he motioned to the seat next to him. “Captain’s orders.”

And so you straightened back up again, grabbing the chair by the backrest and giving Smoker a mock salute before circling the table once more.

“Better?” You looked down at the captain as you came to a halt right next to him, a feigned seriousness in your eyes.

“Mhm, much,” he replied, his hands busy sorting the documents into two piles. Nodding to yourself with a small smile, you moved to sit down, ready to tackle the task at hand.

The desk was definitely not made for two people; the wood of the table offered your legs little room to move. But that was okay; you’d obviously been through worse with Smoker, so if it meant you could explore this new, unfamiliar territory with him, you were sure you could squeeze your legs into a tight space for a few hours.

And so you picked up the first document from the stack closest to you, ready to focus entirely on your task.

But before you’d even made it through the first paragraph, Smoker’s voice rang out again from his spot next to you.

“Turn your chair around.”

The command made you look away from the document to glance at Smoker. The man was trying his best not to acknowledge you, trying hard to come across as focused and nonchalant. However, for someone pretending to be focused on his reading, his eyes barely moved at all. Choosing to play into his act, you turned your chair so that now you were facing him instead of the table.

“I’m not quite sure how that’s supposed to help—” a yelp of surprise escaped your lips as Smoker’s arm suddenly reached down and lifted your legs onto his lap in one swift motion.

You quickly lifted the document back to your face to hide the crimson blush that had spread across your cheeks as a result of the action.

Ever the observant captain.

And even after your heartbeat had calmed down and you were able to focus on your reading again, you could still feel the weight of Smoker’s hand on your leg.

The gesture was so gentle and intimate, as if it came naturally to him.

As if your legs had always belonged on his lap.

As if the spot by his side had always belonged to you.