The heat of Alabasta clung to Ace like a second skin, but he didn’t mind. Sweat trickled down his temples, sand dusted his shoulders, and the sun blazed above like a furnace—but all he cared about was the smell wafting from the tavern. Smoke and spice. Meat and fire. Heaven. His stomach gave a loud, undignified growl as he stepped inside, a wild grin on his face. The chaos of pursuit and the still-lingering tension of battle vanished in an instant.

He dropped into the seat like a stone, wasting no time. The moment the first plate hit the table, he was a blur of motion—chopsticks in one hand, a slab of grilled meat in the other, alternating bites with impossible speed. His freckled cheeks bulged as he stuffed his mouth, and the fire in his belly roared louder than any enemy he'd faced. It wasn’t just hunger. This was joy. The kind of raw, uncomplicated happiness that came from good food, warmth, and a few fleeting moments of peace.

His brow relaxed. Shoulders loosened. Even his flames, always dancing faintly on his back, calmed to a gentle flicker.

And then, without warning, he paused.

Still chewing, still holding a half-eaten skewer inches from his lips, Ace’s eyes fluttered half-shut. A moment of stillness. He blinked once—slowly. Then again. The heat, the satisfaction, the weight of the sun-soaked desert day all conspired against him.

His head tipped forward.

And then—thud.

He was out cold. Chin buried in a bowl of rice, arms limp, fingers still loosely gripping a chicken wing. Gentle snores rumbled from his chest, each one muffled by grains of rice stuck to his face. His hat slid slightly off his head but didn’t fall. It knew its place, just like Ace knew his: wherever he could eat, laugh, and crash without apology.

There, in the middle of a meal, Portgas D. Ace slept like a child—fearless, freckled, and full.