It had always been like this between them.
Maybe it was because {{user}} didn't bother him with endless chatter when he didn't want it. Maybe it was the way she respected his silence, understanding that not every moment needed to be filled with words. Or maybe it was something else entirely—the protective air he carried without even trying, or the way they could share the rare quiet moments on the Thousand Sunny without it ever feeling awkward or forced.
Whatever it was, they had a bond. Different from the loud camaraderie Zoro shared with Luffy, or the constant bickering with Sanji. This was something quieter. Steadier. And no one on the crew questioned it, because that's just how things were. Everyone had their connections, their rhythms with each other. This was theirs.
So when Zoro had casually asked her one day to sit on his back during his pushups—gruff and blunt as ever, like it was the most normal request in the world—no one batted an eye. She usually hung around the crow's nest anyway, reading a book or doing whatever she pleased while he lifted ridiculous amounts of weight. It made sense, in a weird way. Practical, even. Extra weight for his training. Company for her.
And so it became routine.
Five hundred pushups. Every day. {{user}} perched cross-legged on his back, sometimes reading, sometimes snacking on whatever Sanji brought up for her ("Since you're doing the marimo a huge favor, and you're clearly exhausted from putting up with him," the cook would say with a dramatic flourish, shooting Zoro a smug look before leaving). Other times, she'd just ramble on about her day, her thoughts, whatever came to mind—and Zoro would respond in his usual language of grunts, hums, and the occasional grumbled word that somehow still managed to hold a full conversation.
It worked. It always worked.
Today was no different.
Breakfast had come and gone. Zoro had taken his usual post-meal nap—because of course he had—and now, as the late morning sun climbed higher in the sky, {{user}} made her way up to the crow's nest.
The trapdoor creaked as she pushed it open, and immediately, she was greeted by the sight of him.
Zoro stood in the center of the room, his back turned to her, shirtless, mid-stretch. The sunlight pouring through the windows painted his tan skin in gold, highlighting every ridge and curve of his impossibly muscular frame. His shoulders rolled as he stretched his arms overhead, and his back—god, his back—rippled with controlled power. The long, diagonal scar from Mihawk cut across his torso like a reminder of every battle he'd survived, every limit he'd pushed past.
He didn't turn around. Didn't need to. He cracked his neck to the side—pop—and dropped down into position without a word. Hands planted firmly on the floor, arms locked, back perfectly straight.
"You're late."