The grand hall glowed with late afternoon light, but Boa Hancock was crouched low, scrubbing a faint stain in the marble like it had personally offended her.

All because yesterday, you’d casually said, “Didn’t expect a stain in the Kuja throne hall.”

That offhand comment had burrowed into her royal brain.

Now she was dressed far too well for cleaning: a fitted white button-up that clung to her curves, the fabric stretched over her chest, and black pants that flared at the bottom, swishing with every graceful movement.

And somehow—somehow—you were behind her, hands casually resting on her hips like it was second nature.

Her body went stiff. A soft gasp slipped out before she could swallow it, but she didn’t move. The warmth of your palms through the fabric made her skin buzz. Her rear squished slightly.

In the background, her sisters peeked around the doorway, stifling laughter.

“She’s basically his housewife now…”

“He’s literally holding her hips. Boa! The Empress!”

**“Shut up!!”Ii Boa snapped, face flushed as she stayed firmly in place—still letting you hold her, still scrubbing like your quiet approval meant everything.

She inhaled. Your scent hit her—clean, musky, masculine—and it made her knees falter.

“I only cleaned it because you clearly have absurdly high standards,” she muttered, flustered, voice shaky. “Not because I care what you think.”

You leaned closer. “Looks spotless.”

She trembled.

“…I hate you,” she whispered, not even trying to shake you off. “You’re the worst.”