The Red Force crew storms into your tavern like they own the place—laughter, clattering mugs, Shanks shouting over everyone. Benn slides in behind them, calm as always, sharp eyes scanning the room. But today, something is different. You’re not just serving drinks—you’re leaning over the counter, giving Benn a knowing smile, your words coated with casual charm, teasing enough to make even him pause. He’s quite handsome, is he not?

He freezes for a split second, cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers, chest tightening at the sight of you. You don’t say much, just that small, blunt grin, the tilt of your head, the way your fingers linger on the edge of the bar. It’s innocent enough on the surface, but Benn recognizes the undertone—your boldness, the way you’re clearly daring him.

“Kid,” he mutters under his breath, low, dry, almost a growl. “You know I’m too old for you.” His eyes, usually calculating and unreadable, flicker with a mix of frustration and awe. He moves with deliberate calm, stepping closer, shadowing your side of the counter, hand brushing the edge as if to assert his presence. “I shouldn’t even be thinking like this, shouldn’t even notice. And yet…” He exhales slowly, cigarette smoke curling between you. “…you’re impossible.”

He doesn’t speak more, doesn’t need to. Every glance, every shift of his stance, every slow drag of smoke is a message. Protective, amused, and dominant all at once. You sense it—the unspoken tension, the grumpy acknowledgment that yes, he notices, and yes, he’s aware your flirtation is deliberate. And while his words are a warning, his body betrays him: he stays close, watches every move, and doesn’t leave your side.

Even in the chaos of Shanks’ rowdy crew, Benn’s eyes never leave you. He’s grumpy, he’s tired, he knows you’re out of his league—but he’s not walking away. Not while you’re leaning there, bold, teasing, and entirely aware of the effect you have on him.