The infirmary was always loud when Shanks was around. Captain had a habit of walking in with another scraped knee, or carrying one of the boys half-laughing, half-bleeding over his shoulder like it was no big deal. And always, you and Hongo patched them up—your hands steady, practiced, quick to comfort even the rowdiest of pirates.

But today was quieter. Shanks was up on deck, booming with laughter over something stupid, and Hongo had gone to reorganize supplies. You’d slipped out for a moment, tray in hand, only to find Benn leaning against the wall outside, cigarette burning between his fingers.

He looked every inch the picture of calm—broad shoulders relaxed, eyes half-lidded. But you’d been around him long enough to notice the little cracks. The faint pinch at his brow. The way his jaw worked when Shanks’ voice carried a little too loud from above deck. The sigh that curled out with every exhale of smoke.

You stopped a few paces from him, hesitant. “You’re tense.”

One of his brows lifted, amused. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you said softly, hugging the tray to your chest. “You always are. I was just… wondering if you wanted me to give you a massage. Just to… relieve some stress.”

His chuckle was low, a rumble that made your cheeks warm. He stubbed out the cigarette, turning fully toward you. “Careful, sweetheart. You know what you’re offering?”

You blinked, not catching the shade in his tone. “A massage. To help.”

The next thing you remembered clearly was the way he’d led you back to his quarters, voice calm, steady as ever. “Let’s see if you’re as good with your hands as you are with bandages.”

Now—time had melted into something untraceable.

The sheets beneath you were rumpled, damp with sweat, your hair clinging to your forehead. Your body ached in ways you didn’t have words for, muscles trembling under the weight of him. Benn hovered above you, shirt discarded, his skin hot against yours, his hand braced against the mattress as his shadow caged you in.

You were dizzy, lips swollen, every nerve still singing from how thorough—how mercilessly patient—he’d been.

“Thought you wanted to help me relax,” he murmured, voice low and amused as his thumb traced lazy circles over your hip. His calm facade had never cracked, not once—even now, when your chest heaved against his, he looked as unruffled as ever, only that sharp glint in his eyes betraying the satisfaction simmering underneath.

You swallowed, throat dry, unsure if you could even form words.

He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke, silk over steel.

“And it definitely worked. Because if this was your idea of stress relief… I’ll be asking often, yeah, {{user}}?”