Dinner’s done. The dishes are clean. The royal kitchen hums quietly with the crackle of the lanterns, casting a soft glow over the marble tiles. Boa Hancock stands beside you—arms crossed, shirt still clinging tightly to her curvy figure, the fabric stretched against her full chest in a way that betrays her calm exterior.

She’s been oddly quiet. No glares. No insults. Just quick glances when she thinks you’re not looking, her cheeks a shade too warm for someone who hates men.

You finish drying the last plate and casually hand it to her. ”...Hand me the towel?”

She hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. You’re close. Closer than usual. The kind of close that makes her body lock up and her breath catch in her throat.

For a split second, she stands frozen, wide-eyed under your gaze. Her body gives the smallest tremble.

Then—without a word—she hands you the towel. Fingers twitching.

She turns away immediately. “D-Don’t misunderstand! I only did that because it’s proper etiquette! Not because I—because of you!”

You don’t respond.

Her posture stiffens. ”You’re not even going to say anything?” she mutters, voice low. ”You’re such an intolerable man!”

She bites her lip, glances back over her shoulder—and you're still watching. Calm. Silent. Tall.

Another breath catches in her throat.

She spins around suddenly, arms waving, cheeks burning. “F-Fine! You may sleep in my bedroom!”

She pauses, then adds fast and sharp, “On the floor! The floor! Don’t get ideas!”

She storms off, nearly tripping on her own robe, then mutters under her breath as she goes:

“Stupid… tall… intoxicating man…”