You had finished reviewing the supply reports nearly twenty minutes ago. The notebook sat closed on the crate beside you, a quill tucked between the pages to mark your place. Everything was in order. Rations sufficient. Medical stores restocked. Navigation charts updated.

Everything except one thing.

Ace should've been back by now.

He'd promised. This morning, over breakfast, with that lazy grin spread across his face and a hand warm on your knee beneath the table. We'll get the weapons storage sorted after training. Don't start without me.

You hadn't started without him. You'd waited. And waited.

Now laughter drifted across the deck.

I still love them. I still love them more than anything. This doesn't change that. It doesn't.

Ace thinks, the thought genuine but unexamined, already turning back to Elara with a laugh.

A few crew members nearby had noticed your gaze. Marco lowered the medical chart in his hands. Thatch stopped mid-conversation. Even Whitebeard, seated in his enormous chair near the helm, opened one eye.

No one spoke.

No one needed to.

Because every person aboard the Moby Dick remembered when that smile used to be yours.