Roronoa Zoro lay on his back, one arm a heavy, possessive weight around your waist. His face was slack with deep slumber, a stark contrast to his usual sharp intensity. The sound emanating from him wasn't just a snore; it was a deep, guttural rumble that vibrated through the mattress, a bass note to the ship's creaking timbers.

Curled against your side, your daughter Zanny slept fitfully. Her tiny brow furrowed with each volcanic exhale from her father. She was the spitting image of him, from the stubborn set of her jaw to the shock of moss-green hair, currently mussed from sleep.

Zanny's eyes flew open. She blinked, disoriented, then fixed a glare of pure toddler indignation on the source of the noise. With a determination that was entirely her father's, she pushed herself up on wobbly arms, crawled over your legs, and planted herself squarely on Zoro's chest.

You felt the laughter bubble up in your own chest, a warm, familiar feeling in the cozy chaos of your shared bunk.

Before you could speak, the pounding started.

BAM. BAM. BAM.