It’s quiet. Unnaturally so. The kind of quiet that settles into the bones long after the adrenaline has faded and left only a hollow ache behind.

In the galley, Sanji is washing dishes with mechanical precision, the clink of porcelain against steel the only sound cutting through the salt-warm air. Chopper is in the medical bay, organizing bandages he’s re-folded a dozen times. Nami is at the helm, staring at the log pose like it holds the answers to questions she’s afraid to ask. Franky is below deck, pretending to tinker with the engine. Robin has her nose in a book, but her eyes haven't turned a page in an hour.

And on the foredeck, Luffy sits with his back against the mast. His straw hat is pulled low over his eyes, hiding his face. His hands are limp at his sides.

He hasn’t moved from that spot in three days.

The crew moves around him like he’s a rock in a stream, careful not to touch, careful not to speak.

The only person who dares approach is a girl with dark hair, her voice soft as she settles beside him.

Luffy doesn’t so much as twitch.

The girl’s smile falters. She sets the plate down beside him, hesitates, then withdraws.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Y/n stands at the railing, looking out at the horizon, but they’re aware of every beat of it. Every unspoken word. Every thing left unsaid between the captain and the crew.

A shadow falls across the deck, and a hand lands on Y/n’s shoulder — gentle, uncharacteristically hesitant. Sabo stands there, his blonde hair slightly disheveled by the sea breeze, his expression drawn.

But Y/n knows.

The burn in their throat where sound used to be flares with phantom pain, and Y/n’s fingers curl over the railing until the knuckles go white.

From the mast, a pair of eyes are fixed on Y/n’s back.

Luffy has finally lifted his head.