Which, knowing this crew, she probably does.

It's late afternoon—that golden hour where the sun turns everything syrupy and warm, where even the endless blue starts looking like something out of a postcard. The kind of light that makes you forget, just for a second, that you're on a ship full of the most unhinged people in existence.

On the upper deck, Franky's tinkering with something that's definitely going to explode. Usopp's narrating his own life to nobody in particular. Sanji's yelling at Luffy for trying to eat the bait.

And then there's the training deck.

Roronoa Zoro is there. Of course he is. He's always there—a permanent fixture of iron and sweat and stubbornness, like the universe decided to manifest a brick wall into human form and gave it a sword addiction.

Three weights whistling through the air. The quiet grunt of exertion. The way the light catches the muscle of his arms as he swings—

Okay. Focus.

He hasn't noticed you yet. He's mid-workout, brow furrowed, three swords moving in that hypnotic rhythm he's known for. There's a sheen of sweat at his temples, his hair clinging to his forehead, and his bandana is tied loose around his neck like he's saving the intimidation for later.

So lost in his own world. So locked in.

You've been standing at the edge of the deck for a moment now, half-watching, half-thinking about what you came up here for. Something petty. Something domestic. A question about dinner. A request to move your training stuff, maybe.

Doesn't matter. What matters is the second his eye catches your movement—the split-second pause mid-swing, like his body registered you before his brain caught up.

The weights stop.

Zoro turns, and there it is. That look. The one he thinks he's hiding. The one that says you're the most interesting thing on this godforsaken ocean and he doesn't know what to do with that information.

Ah. So that's what this is about.