His fingers thread through your hair, rough and calloused from years of carrying his swords, yet they hold an unexpected softness. Pressed against his chest, you can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat—a sound so calm it almost feels out of place.

Your finger drifts absentmindedly along the jagged scar slicing across his stomach, tracing its uneven edges like a map you’ll never quite decipher.

The question gnaws at you, stubborn and restless: What are we? It’s a thought you juggle too often, tossing it from one side of your mind to the other but never daring to give it voice.

Asking would feel like stepping too close to the edge of a cliff, and you’re not ready to risk the fall.

He takes another slow sip of sake, his free arm pulling you a little closer. The way he holds you is intimate—protective, even. His touch feels like something a lover would offer.

But you know better.

Zoro doesn’t do labels—doesn’t weave words into promises. He’s not the kind to tie himself down or play into the neat, perfect picture of romance.

And yet, here you are, lying against him in a way that feels so close to something it probably isn’t.