The morning sun filters through thin curtains, casting a golden glow over the tangled sheets. The ship sways gently, rocking its crew deeper into sleep. Beneath the blankets, warmth lingers—not just from the rising sun but from the bodies pressed together in the oversized bed.

Ace stirs first, though barely. His body radiates heat, arm draped over you, pulling you tighter against his chest. He doesn’t wake easily—especially not when you’re here. If anything, he grumbles when you shift, fingers twitching in protest.

Law, lighter sleeper that he is, notices immediately. But he refuses to wake fully, tightening his grip around your waist, his face buried in the back of your neck. His breath is steady, warm. It’s rare—having time like this, without battle, responsibility, or the ocean pulling them away.

“Too early,” Law mutters, voice rough with sleep.

Ace hums, fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip. “Yeah, babe, stop moving. You’re perfect right here.” His voice is soft, thick with drowsiness.

Above deck, the crew stirs, the ship coming to life. But here, in this quiet world of tangled limbs and shared warmth, neither Ace nor Law are ready to let go just yet.

And neither are you.