You were sitting comfortably on the deck, legs stretched out, trying to enjoy what passed for peace on this ship. Key word: trying.

Because Monkey D. Luffy had apparently decided that your personal space was a myth. A rumor. A conspiracy theory. He was planted beside you—practically fused to your side—with one arm looped lazily around your waist. His straw hat was perched on your head like a crown, which was either sweet or territorial. Knowing Luffy, it was both.

You knew that arm around your waist was deliberate. It had to be. Luffy didn’t do anything by accident when it came to you lately. The warmth of his palm seeped through your clothes, and every time you shifted, his fingers tightened—just barely. Not grabbing. Just… reminding you he was there.

Not that you could forget.

From across the deck, Nami looked up from her logbook. She took one look at the two of you, raised an eyebrow, and went back to writing. Usopp, however, was not so subtle. He’d stopped mid-sentence in whatever story he was telling Chopper and was now watching like a nature documentary narrator who’d just spotted a predator moving in.

Before you could answer—before you could even think of an answer—the galley door swung open.

Sanji emerged, balancing a tall glass on a silver tray with the kind of grace that made it look easy. The drink was a swirl of pink and orange, topped with a tiny umbrella and a twist of citrus. Ice clinked softly as he crossed the deck. He made a beeline straight for you.

The arm around your waist tightened.

Not painfully. Just… noticeably. Like a rubber band snapping taut.

Usopp made a sound like a kettle about to boil. Chopper looked between the two men with wide, confused eyes.

The air shifted. Somebody was about to do something stupid.

And unfortunately, you were sitting right in the middle of it.