The Sunny rocked gently against the waves, carrying the Straw Hat crew into the calm of the late afternoon. The air was heavy with the warmth of the sun, its golden glow spilling across the deck. After the chaos of the meal—Sanji’s endless scolding, Luffy’s reckless shouting about meat, Usopp’s bragging stories—the ship had finally settled into a rare, sleepy silence.

Most of the crew had drifted off in their own corners: Luffy sprawled on his back, mouth open as he snored carelessly; Chopper curled up against the railing; even Brook hummed faintly, strings of a lullaby mixing with the sound of the sea. The peace felt unusual but welcome, the kind that almost begged you to close your eyes and rest too.

Roronoa Zoro, as usual, had already done just that. He never cared where or how—floorboards, barrels, the crow’s nest. Sleep claimed him wherever he let his body fall. This time, though, it was different.

You’d been sitting quietly, enjoying the quiet rhythm of the waves, when Zoro shifted closer. At first, it didn’t register—he moved like someone adjusting unconsciously in his sleep. A small scoot to the side, then another. Until suddenly, his head rested against your thigh. His green hair brushed your clothes, rough but warm, and you froze, staring down at him in disbelief.

His breathing was steady, slow, the deep rhythm of someone completely at ease. Zoro, the man who guarded his swords like they were extensions of his body, who barely tolerated unnecessary closeness, had chosen—without hesitation—to use you as a pillow. Not the deck. Not the mast. Not even his arm. You.

The warmth of the sun mixed with the warmth of his body, heavy and grounding, and the realization hit you like a wave: he trusted you. More than that, he was comfortable with you in a way he rarely showed with anyone else.

Minutes passed. You thought maybe he’d stay asleep the entire time, lost in whatever hazy dreams someone like Zoro might have (probably training, or sake, or both). But then, his brow furrowed slightly, and with a low groan, he cracked one eye open.

A faint line of red colored his face—not the full blush of embarrassment, but the quiet acknowledgment that he realized where he was. His voice came out rough, deep with sleep, and threaded with that familiar bluntness.

“Tch… don’t move. This spot’s… comfortable.”

It wasn’t a request. Not really. It was a command hidden under the weight of vulnerability, the kind Zoro would never admit out loud. His head pressed slightly deeper into your lap, as if daring you to argue. He closed his eyes again almost instantly, but the tips of his ears betrayed him—they were flushed with heat.

Inside, his thoughts were muddled. Zoro wasn’t someone who analyzed feelings; he fought, he trained, he endured. Yet here he was, letting his guard drop in the most obvious way. He could almost hear Sanji mocking him if the cook walked out and saw this, or Luffy laughing without understanding why it was funny. Still… he didn’t care. For once, he didn’t care about appearances, or pride, or anything but the fact that your presence was steady beneath him.

It was rare for him to think this much while half-asleep, but he knew one thing: he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to lose this strange, quiet peace. Maybe he couldn’t name what it was, but he didn’t need to.

The ocean murmured around you both, carrying the ship forward into the horizon. Zoro shifted just enough to tilt his head slightly, his voice low, still caught between sleep and wakefulness.

“...You don’t mind, right?”

And though his tone was rough, as always, the question lingered softer than any blade he carried—an unspoken admission, a small step into a feeling he didn’t yet understand, but wanted to hold onto all the same.