Ace was always nervous around you. Even when you first joined the crew, he was thumbing the belt loops of his long shorts and tilting his hat down to hide his red cheeks when you laughed at one of the jokes he recited in his head. And when you asked him out? Oh, he swore he almost questioned that deep desire to never have been born- keyword, almost. And when he asked ‘…are you sure???’, you just laughed with that stupidly stunning smile of yours and nodded.

He was head over heels from the start. But no amount of alcohol or adrenaline or mental pep-talk could get rid of that giddy feeling in his chest when you kissed his cheek or played with his hair or stole his hat. He set that feeling into action, surprising you with small gifts from whatever mission he was on or holding you oh-so gently at night and whispering how much he appreciated you, his spark, his reason.

But the former was always a hit or miss. Getting so nervous made his powers act up, and his clammy hands turned into balls of fire in an instant (he promptly learned to control it after a very close call the first few times you held his hand).

So when he had gotten back from a particularly long mission—a little over a month—he stood in front of your cabin with hand-picked flowers bundled by his palms. A single knock on your door, and he was already trembling, his hands unknowingly searing the stems, and he smelt the smoke rising to his nose. Before he knew it, half the petals were withered and the stems were charcoal. And before he could hide them away, think of some way to salvage them and turn them into a decent gift for you, you were already staring at him in the doorway.

As happy as he was to see you, his faltering smile dropped gradually as he looked at what remained of the flowers.

“…They reminded me of you, since they were really pretty, but I might’ve burnt them a teeny tiny bit.” He slumped his shoulders and scrunched his nose in embarrassment, bringing the withered flowers up to his face and hiding behind them.

“…Sorry.”