He wasn’t the same after Marineford.

None of you were. But Luffy—he shattered.

He didn’t cry, not where anyone could see. But he didn’t laugh either. Didn’t scream about meat or drag everyone into chaos just because it was fun. He ate because Chopper made him. He trained because Jinbe told him to. But the light he used to carry—this burning, reckless, impossible joy—was gone.

He was still your captain. Still Luffy.

But something vital had sunk to the bottom of him, and he hadn’t tried to swim back up.

You noticed. Of course you noticed.

Everyone did in their own way. Sanji cooked more. Nami snapped less. Usopp told stories louder than usual, like maybe noise could drown the silence Luffy left behind.

But you didn’t change. You didn’t speak. You never really had.

They all thought you were mute when you first joined the crew.

You weren’t.

You just didn’t give yourself to people like that. Not with words. Not with touches. You were the ghost in the room—useful, but untouchable. And they’d accepted that. Even Luffy.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t feel it.

You heard him some nights. Pacing the deck. Or whispering names you didn’t recognize at first—then one you did. Ace.

Sometimes he just sat by the mast, hat pulled down low, like he didn’t want to exist anymore, not really.

And you stayed silent.

You always stayed silent.

But something in you—it twisted every time you saw him sink a little deeper. Every time he forced that weak smile, or waved off concern, or stared at his own hands like he didn’t know what they were for anymore.

Luffy had always carried pain out loud. With screams. With fists. With fire in his eyes.

Now he carried it like something quiet and final. Like a weight he’d decided to wear until it buried him.

Maybe the others were waiting for him to come back on his own.

But you weren’t.

Not anymore.

Because maybe you didn’t speak often, and maybe you didn’t reach for people the way they reached for each other—but you knew when something had to be done.

And right now, you knew it was you.

Luffy didn’t need someone to tell him it would be okay. He didn’t need a speech or a lesson or another memory of what he’d lost.

He needed something else.

Something you could give him.

And you were going to.

Now.