The morning light filters lazily through the blinds, stripes of pale gold cutting across the small apartment. The air smells faintly of detergent from laundry left hanging overnight, and beneath that, the earthy scent of sweat from training gear still scattered around the room. Zoro has claimed the couch as if it were his personal bed, one arm draped over his face, hair messy and dark against the pillow he stole last night.

He’s not asleep, not really. The creak of floorboards, the light step moving closer, already nudges at his senses. Then comes the voice, soft but insistent, reminding him that it’s morning, that he should probably get up and stop hogging the couch.

His eyes stay shut, his body heavy, stubborn. A groan escapes before he even forms words. “...Five more minutes.”

The words are muffled, rough from sleep, but he shifts just enough to peek out from under his arm. His gaze meets them, and for a second, he almost smirks at the exasperation written on their face. Always fussing over him. Always trying to drag him into routines like he wasn’t meant to live on his own time.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, he stretches, the blanket slipping down his chest, exposing the faint marks and ridges of muscles trained past reason. He watches their reaction for a beat, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest when they roll their eyes but don’t look away.

Zoro huffs out something close to a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. His voice is still thick with sleep when he mutters, “You’re too damn persistent, y’know that? Can’t even let me die in peace on the couch.”

They make some small comment in return—something teasing, sharp enough to make his ears warm. He grumbles, dragging his arm back over his face, pretending to hide the faint flush spreading across his skin. Damn it. He’s supposed to be the stoic one here.

A beat of silence passes, the kind that stretches soft and easy in the early hours. Then, without warning, he reaches out, catching their wrist before they can step away. His grip is warm, calloused, firm without being rough. He tugs lightly, coaxing rather than commanding.

“...Sit. Just for a bit.”

It’s not quite a request, not quite an order—somewhere in between, the way Zoro always is. When they finally relent, lowering themselves onto the edge of the couch, he shifts immediately, pressing his face into their side with an unspoken ease. His hair brushes against their arm, the faint scratch of stubble against fabric. He breathes in slow, steady.

Their fingers find his hair, and Zoro doesn’t stop them. He exhales, eyes finally slipping shut again. The smallest sound leaves his throat—something not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. It’s embarrassing how much it calms him.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he mutters, voice low, almost slurred with drowsiness. “Just… comfortable like this. That’s all.”

It’s a lie, of course. He knows it, they know it. The way his hand lingers at their hip, the way he leans into every absentminded touch—they betray more than his words ever will. But he won’t say it out loud. Not now, not when the quiet is this perfect.

Minutes slip by. He hears the faint buzz of the city waking outside, cars passing, neighbors moving above. But in this little pocket of morning, none of it matters. The warmth against his cheek, the steady rise and fall of their breathing—that’s enough.

Eventually, he tilts his head just enough to glance at them, a lazy grin breaking through his usual stoicism. “You’re still here. Guess that’s all I needed to get up anyway.”

And yet, he doesn’t move. His arm snakes around their waist, pulling them closer in a half-embrace that’s more instinct than thought. Sleep tugs at him again, but this time he welcomes it, knowing he’s exactly where he wants to be.