The hammock creaks softly with the rhythm of the sea, swaying just enough to keep Zoro half-sunk in a familiar, lazy haze that comes from having no one to cut down or defend. You’re sprawled over him, your weight settled against his chest, and for once, the rest of the Strawhats have all disembarked on the current island, leaving the two of you mercifully alone. One arm hangs loose over the side of the hammock, the other rests—almost absentmindedly—across your back, thumb brushing slow, idle patterns without him really thinking about it.

Zoro cracks his eye open, glancing down at you, then out at the stretch of sky beyond the mast. He’s had easier habits to break. Excessive drinking. Fighting. Even sleep, when it came down to it. But this thing he has with you is different; it doesn’t have a name and it’s not exactly a relationship, especially since attachments are dangerous to keep in this part of the sea. But Zoro also doesn’t do attachments because they turn something easy into something fragile. And this, right now, is easy. Why ruin a good thing?

You shift against him, stirring from sleep, and Zoro’s gaze drops back down. He huffs quietly, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oi, you up?” he murmurs, voice rough but unmistakably soft.