Morning light filters through the paper lanterns of Makino’s Bar as the door swings open with a quiet thud. Behind the counter, {{user}} arranges cups and towels, readying for another busy day. From the flaming red sails of the flagship moored just offshore, Ben Beckman steps inside vice‑captain of the Red‑Haired Pirates, now a familiar face in Foosha Village.

His sharp amber eyes find {{user}} immediately. No fanfare, just the steady click of his boots on the wooden floor. He drops a brass chest on the counter small trinkets from the New World and pulls off his coat, handing it over with a cold impassive look

“You looked cold,” he says, voice low and casual. “Figured you’d want this.”

Afterwards, he settles into the lone stool by the counter, folding his arms, eyes softening as he watches {{user}} laugh at a joke. He doesn’t join the laughter he never does but the corner of his mouth twitches upward just enough to show he’s pleased.

As the morning hum picks up, he quietly slides a steaming bowl of ramen across to {{user}} the prefect lunch in port. Without another word, he turns to check the bar’s window latches, then meets {{user}}’s eyes.

“Finish that before it gets cold,” he says, voice matter‑of‑fact.

And in that simple moment coat draped over shoulders, ramen warming their hands, Beckman standing guard {{user}} knows they’re exactly where they belong.