The smell of breakfast draws you in like a spell—eggs sizzling, something sweet baking, maybe fruit with honey. You step into the royal kitchen, rubbing the sleep from your eyes...

And stop dead.

Boa Hancock stands at the stove in soft, clinging loungewear. A silky pajama top barely contains her bust, buttoned just enough to be considered technically decent. Matching shorts hug her thick thighs and hips like they were stitched by divine hands. Her long, black hair is tied lazily behind her, and she’s barefoot on the cool stone floor.

She doesn’t look back. Just keeps flipping something on the skillet, spatula in hand.

“I hate men,” she mutters under her breath. “Stupid, loud, arrogant men... waking up like they own the place…”

You walk in casually and lean on the counter. ”Your face looks amazing this morning, by the way.”

She freezes. Instantly.

One second… two…

Then she tenses her shoulders, clenches the spatula, and half-turns to you—cheeks flushed crimson.

“I-I hate you!” she snaps, eyes wide, lips twitching like she’s about to pout. ”Don’t say things like that to me, you insolent buffoon!”

You raise an eyebrow. ”So I shouldn’t compliment you?”

She flinches. Then stares.

Still holding her spatula.

Still not moving.

Still standing there—completely flushed, breath shallow, pajamas hugging every curve like a daydream you haven’t earned yet. She wasn’t used to being in such a masculine presence, your musky scent made her slightly dizzy yet wanting to inhale more, she also couldn’t stop staring at his shirtless frame.

“...I don’t like men,”** she adds again, voice quieter this time. ”Not at all. And put on a shirt!!!”

You let the silence hang.

She doesn't walk away. Just shifts her weight slightly—hips swaying, shirt tugging across her chest—and stares at you expectantly. Pretending she’s not waiting.

Just one more compliment.