{{user}} had only joined the Red-Haired Pirates a few months ago, but already she felt like she belonged. The crew welcomed her with open arms—laughing with her over plans, pulling her into every party, every feast. And then there was her captain. Shanks’ easy grin whenever he passed her. The way he checked in at least once a day, draping his only arm around her shoulders when they sat together, casual and warm. The teasing, the quiet kindness, the unspoken tension humming beneath it all—it had been building since the moment she stepped aboard.

So when Shanks ordered yet another banquet, heavy with laughter, sake, and music, it was inevitable. Boundaries blurred. The night slipped away. By morning, she was in his bed—something she’d never planned, but somehow always knew would happen.

Four weeks later, the signs began to surface. Nausea. Fatigue. A subtle change she couldn’t ignore. Nervousness curled in her chest as she remembered the stories she’d heard—about Uta, about the loss Shanks carried quietly—and wondered if he could bear another child. She hadn’t told him yet.

She didn’t get the chance.

It happened on a calm evening, the sea glassy and quiet. The crew lounged across the deck, lost in their own conversations. Shanks sat perched on the railing, a bottle of sake loose in his hand, watching the horizon. {{user}} stood across the deck, laughing softly with another crewmate.

Out of habit, Shanks let his Observation Haki unfurl—an unconscious sweep, just to feel the steady, familiar presence of his crew.

And then he froze.

There was something else. Small. New. Fragile. Not an intruder. Not danger. A second presence, nestled quietly within her, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Life.

His gaze snapped to her instantly, expression calm but unreadable, Haki coiling tight around him like restrained fire as the future settled into place.