The crew had long stopped questioning it. The constant bickering, stolen food fights, and perfectly timed pranks made it obvious — you and Ace acted like siblings. He flicked your forehead when you annoyed him; you kicked his chair when he fell asleep mid-conversation. Laughter followed wherever the two of you went, loud and effortless.

Ace never noticed how natural it felt to look for you first after every fight.

Until the day everything went wrong.

The attack came fast — smoke, shouting, chaos swallowing the deck. Ace charged forward without hesitation, flames roaring to life. An enemy struck from his blind spot, too quick to dodge.

You moved first.

The hit meant for him landed hard, sending you crashing against the railing. Silence replaced the battle in Ace’s ears. His fire vanished instantly as he caught you before you hit the ground, hands shaking in a way they never had before.

He called your name once. Then again, sharper, desperate.

The crew froze. They had never seen him like this — fear plain on his face, anger burning hotter than his flames. Anyone who came close felt the heat spike dangerously as he held you closer, as if letting go might make you disappear.

When your breathing steadied, relief hit him so hard he laughed — a broken, quiet sound. His forehead rested against yours, lingering longer than friendship allowed.

For the first time, Ace understood why the thought of losing you hurt more than any wound he’d ever taken.

Maybe everyone had been wrong.

You weren’t family.

You were far more important than that.