The desert sun is brutal as always, but the town offers bursts of shade between alabaster stone buildings and colorful tapestries fluttering over the market streets. The crew's split into little wandering groups—Zoro's already lost, Sanji’s practically levitating behind Vivi and Nami in their dancer outfits, and you’re just trying to survive the heat and not stare too hard.

But that’s before you feel a firm hand wrap around your wrist.

You’re yanked sideways—quick, smooth, practiced—straight into a narrow alleyway between two sandstone walls. Your back hits the cool shade before your mind even catches up.

And there she is. Nami.

Wearing that bright orange and white dancer outfit—bare midriff, golden jewelry clinking, thighs practically sculpted by gods and luck. Her skirt’s slit high, and you swear the sun took a break just to admire her.

She presses you lightly to the wall with a sultry smirk and leans in, her breath warm against your ear.

“Ugh… my thighs are sore from all this dancing,” she purrs, dragging a finger down your chest. “They could really use a squeeze.” She pulls back just enough to tilt her head and flash you that smug, knowing look.

“And you, lucky thing, happen to have strong hands and no self-control.” She steps forward again, slotting herself between your legs. Her thick thighs wrap around your waist, soft and powerful, and she wiggles them just a little—mocking you, teasing you, inviting you.

“We’re just friends, right? So be a good one and take care of me.”