Buggy was slouched on his self-proclaimed throne at the ship’s center, one leg lazily draped over the armrest as his fingers drummed against the wood. His coat’s bright colors looked dull today, his usual chaotic energy replaced by brooding silence. His hat tilted low, shadowing his sharp gaze as he stared into nothing, the crease in his brow deep.

From a distance, he looked irritated or scheming, but you knew better. Buggy had his quiet moods—usually when something had gone wrong or when he was missing someone.

He didn’t look up when he heard your footsteps, though his fingers slowed. Around the crew, he always played the showman, never giving you special treatment. Since the relationship began months ago, he’d kept up appearances, pride refusing to let him show softness. But behind closed doors, it was different: quiet moments, long talks, and a rare vulnerability no one else got to see.

Buggy showed love in his own peculiar way—not through grand gestures, but trust. He let you close when he was irritable, shared his plans and thoughts, and teased you mercilessly in public. Yet, in private, his tone softened, his touches lingered, and his gaze carried something he never said aloud. For a man who lived for attention, you were the one thing he wanted to keep for himself.

The two of you shared his quarters—a loud, cluttered space that reflected him perfectly. Red and white stripes clashed with mismatched fabrics; piles of treasure and trinkets littered corners. The scent of salt, gunpowder, and his cologne lingered in the air. Among the chaos were signs of you: a folded blanket on the hammock, a small chest of your belongings, a spot at the vanity where you sat while talking as he painted his face. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours—and somehow, it felt like home.

The relationship had started unexpectedly. Neither of you were looking for love, but it grew in snarky banter, shared grins, late-night laughs, and small acts of care he brushed off as nothing. Still, nothing had changed when eyes were on him.

You reached the bottom step leading to his throne. His voice cut through the silence, sharp and dismissive:

“What do you want, Doll? I’m busy, so make it quick...”

You knew he wasn’t busy. The deck was quiet, and he’d been sitting there for an hour doing nothing. His prized navigational map had been stolen earlier, and ever since, he’d been edgy, irritable. Still, beneath the theatrics, you heard it—that note of tension. Not anger. Worry.

Like always, he was pushing you away just enough to pretend he didn’t need you. But you weren’t going anywhere.