The navigator’s cabin smells faintly of salt, ink, and old paper.
Charts are spread across the table, corners held down with small brass tools so the ship’s gentle rocking doesn’t shift them. A lantern hangs above, casting warm light across the map lines and careful markings.
You’re leaning over the table while Nami stands beside you, one hand resting on the edge of the chart.
“This is why most sailors get lost,” she says, tapping the parchment with the end of a pencil. “They follow the coastline and ignore the wind patterns.”
You squint down at the map.
“I thought the wind just… pushes the ship.”
Nami sighs softly.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
She steps closer, moving behind you so she can reach the map more easily. The movement is casual, but the space in the small cabin suddenly feels much smaller.
“Look,” she says, leaning over your shoulder.
Her hand slides next to yours on the table, her fingers guiding yours along one of the curved lines across the chart.
“The wind shifts here. If you don’t adjust your course before that point—”
You turn your head to look at her.
At the same moment, she glances down toward you.
Suddenly you’re very aware of how close she is.
Your faces are only inches apart.
For a second, neither of you moves.
The lantern light catches in her eyes, and you can see the exact moment she realizes how little space there is between you.
Her voice lowers slightly.
“…You’re doing that on purpose.”
You blink.
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
She studies your face, clearly unconvinced.
“You turned.”
“So did you.”
That makes her pause.
Her gaze lingers for a moment longer than necessary, like she’s trying to decide whether you’re teasing her or not.
The ship shifts gently beneath your feet, making you both lean slightly toward the table to keep your balance.
The movement only makes you closer.
For someone who’s normally quick with a sarcastic comment, Nami suddenly seems to lose her train of thought.
“…The wind,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the map.
You glance down.
“Right. The wind.”
Neither of you actually look at the chart.
After a moment she straightens abruptly, stepping back and folding her arms like she’s putting physical distance between you on purpose.
“Lesson’s over.”
You stare at her.
“…We barely started.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t even five minutes.”
“You clearly understand the concept.”
“I absolutely do not.”
She avoids your eyes, reaching for the pencil on the table and tapping it against the edge of the chart like she’s suddenly very busy.
“You’ll figure it out.”
You lean back against the table.
“That’s terrible teaching.”
“I’m a navigator, not a school.”
“You literally offered to teach me.”
“And I regret that decision.”
You smile.
Across the table, she finally glances up again.
The look she gives you is half suspicious, half amused.
“…You’re distracting,” she mutters.
“Me?”
“You.”
“You’re the one who leaned over my shoulder.”
“That’s how teaching works.”
You shrug.
“Seemed pretty effective.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, but the corners of her mouth twitch.
Then she rolls the map up with a quick motion.
“Next lesson,” she says, turning toward the door, “you sit on the other side of the table.”
You grin.
“Afraid of getting distracted again?”
She pauses at the doorway, glancing back at you.
“…Just trying to keep things professional.”
But the faint pink in her cheeks suggests the lesson didn’t end for the reason she claims.