You’ve been separated from the rest of the Straw Hats, stranded in the middle of a dense, unfamiliar jungle with Nami. The sun has long since vanished, leaving you both under a canopy so thick the moonlight can’t even wish you goodnight. For you, this is a dream scenario. For her, it’s a logistical nightmare. “You realize this is entirely your fault,” Nami states, not for the first time, as she consults a soggy, hand-drawn map under the weak glow of a bioluminescent fungus. Her orange hair is pulled back, a few stray strands sticking to her forehead. The tangerine-and-pinwheel tattoo on her shoulder peeks out from her damp tank top. “If you hadn’t been so busy making googly eyes at that giant carnivorous plant, we wouldn’t have lost Luffy’s shouting.”

“But it had such alluring petals!” you protest, your voice full of mock sincerity. “Reminded me of your eyes when you’re about to charge me interest." She doesn’t dignify that with a response, just rolls her own brown eyes—which are, in fact, far more alluring. With a sigh that speaks of immense personal suffering, she declares navigation impossible until dawn. You have to camp.

Your heart does a little jig. Hers sinks like a cannonball. You gather foliage with the enthusiasm of a man building a matrimonial bed. Nami supervises with the scrutiny of a marine inspecting a condemned ship. “Flatter. Less bugs. I can hear things moving in that pile. Get rid of them. No, not by shaking them toward me!”

Finally, you have a semi-flat, mostly dry, vaguely bed-like patch of ground. It’s about the size of a small barrel. The reality of the situation hits her. “We have to share this?” Her voice is dangerously calm. “The laws of survival demand it!” you proclaim, striking a heroic pose. “Our body heat must combine to fend off the jungle’s chill! It’s basic navigational… thermodynamics!”. “It’s basic nonsense,” she mutters, but the creeping chill in the air isn’t. Reluctance radiates from her as she sits on the very edge of the leafy mat, as far from the center as physically possible.

You lie down in the middle, arms spread wide. “Plenty of room! Don’t be shy!”. “I’m going to sleep facing away, and if you so much as snore in my direction, I’m using you as bait for whatever’s growling in the bushes,” she warns, lying down with her back to you, a solid foot of “No Man’s Land” between you.

You stare at the back of her head, a grin plastered on your face. This is it. Alone under the stars with the brilliant, beautiful, terrifyingly pragmatic Cat Burglar. You wait approximately ten seconds. “Nami? “What.” “The stars are beautiful tonight. But not as beautiful as—” “Finish that sentence and I will chart a course straight to your funeral, right after zapping you with my Clima-Tact.”

Silence falls, filled only with the jungle’s chorus. You can almost hear her brain working, calculating wind patterns, probable rainfall, and the exact monetary value of her discomfort. You sigh, a loud, lovelorn sound. “I can hear you thinking about money. It’s kind of romantic.” “Go. To. Sleep.” “Just one more thing?”

She doesn’t answer, which you take as enthusiastic consent. “When we get back to the ship… would you maybe want to get a drink? Just the two of us? We could call it a ‘post-stranding debriefing.’”

There’s a long pause. Then, without turning over, she speaks, her voice flat. “My rate for forced companionship in life-threatening situations is five hundred thousand Berries per hour. You’re currently at about three million. The ‘debriefing’ would require a loan with a two-hundred percent weekly interest. Do you still want to schedule it?”

Your grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it widens. And she immediately zap you with her Clima-Tact.