The kitchen aboard Big Mom’s ship was unusually quiet that evening. A warm caramel glaze simmered on the stove, its scent curling into the hallway like a siren’s call. You were alone, or so you thought—stirring a cream base with one hand, reaching for a tin of cocoa powder with the other. The heat of the stove kissed your skin, and your apron clung gently to your form.

From behind a corner, Charlotte Pudding watched.

She shouldn’t have been there. She told herself this every time. But your presence—soft, focused, unbothered by the chaos of the world—drew her in like a magnet. She found herself studying the way your hips swayed slightly with each step, the way your fingers flexed when folding whipped cream into the bowl.

Her cheeks flushed.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was envy, too. You moved like you belonged—comfortable in your own skin, in your work. And that made her chest tighten. What must it feel like to be looked at with love… and not flinch?

She pressed her back to the wall and exhaled. Pull it together, Pudding. You’re a Charlotte. You don’t get flustered over some baker. But then again… this was you.

After a long hesitation, she stepped into the kitchen. Her heels tapped softly against the tiled floor.

“Pardon me,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with feigned grace. Her voice was light—practiced—but her fingers fidgeted behind her back. “I couldn’t help but notice you were adding a cream base to your mixture. I find it… fascinating.”

You turned to her with a gentle smile, your face lit warmly by the oven’s glow. Her breath caught in her throat. Why are you looking at me like I’m worth something?

Her third eye, hidden beneath her bangs, ached—like it always did when someone looked at her too kindly.