{{user}} moved carefully between stalls, a woven basket resting on one hip. Their footsteps were unhurried, practiced. The market had become familiar over the past few days of shore leave—a rare, peaceful lull in the chaos that usually surrounded them. Here, there was stillness. Civilians. Normalcy. For once, no bounties. No Marines. No fireballs. Just fruit.

They paused in front of a stall overflowing with golden mangos, their skin blushing with ripeness. A faint smile tugged at {{user}}’s lips. Perfect.

As they reached to select one, a soft voice spoke behind them—friendly, almost shy. A local teen, likely their age, offered a casual smile and a half-step closer. There was no threat in his posture, only awkward politeness as he asked if {{user}} needed help carrying their basket.

{{user}} blinked in surprise. It had been a long time since someone outside their whirlwind of a family had treated them like... a person. Not a crew member, not a little sibling to be guarded like gold, but just someone in a marketplace with heavy arms and too many fruit to carry. They opened their mouth to respond—

—but the air shifted.

A sudden pressure in the space, subtle and then overwhelming. The heat of it. Like a storm rolling in.

Then came the voice.

Luffy’s voice.

It cut through the hum of the crowd like a slap.

“Who said you could talk to my sibling?”

The tone wasn’t angry—Luffy rarely sounded truly angry—but it was loud. Overwhelmingly so. Protective, indignant, and absurdly out of place in the delicate rhythm of the market.

Heads turned. Stall owners paused. The boy visibly flinched, stumbling back a step. And {{user}}? Their heart sank.

They didn’t even have to look. They already knew.

Luffy was there in an instant, straw hat swinging slightly as he moved to stand directly between them and the boy, arms spread out like he expected cannon fire at any second. His brows were furrowed, lips curled into a childishly defensive pout.

{{user}} barely managed a breath before the heat rose again—this time literal.

Ace appeared a few feet away, having strolled in from a side alley. His walk was lazy, almost disinterested, but there was a distinct flicker of flame dancing at his fingertips. He leaned casually against a crate, but his eyes were sharp and fixed directly on the boy.

Behind them, the creak of shifting rooftop tiles gave way to the soft thud of boots on stone. Sabo landed gracefully, dusting himself off like he hadn't just leapt from a rooftop. His eyes, however, were anything but casual. They assessed the scene, cataloguing it with surgical precision. He tilted his head.

No words yet. Just that unsettling silence—the kind that came before judgment.

The boy stammered, raising his hands in what was clearly a plea for mercy rather than flirtation. His mouth moved, but whatever he said was swallowed up by the heavy presence of the three brothers.

{{user}}’s face burned with mortification. The fruit in their arms suddenly felt impossibly heavy. Their fingers tensed on the basket’s edge, knuckles whitening as the seconds dragged.

There was no fight. No danger. Just an awkward teenage moment—made unbearable by the three most overprotective idiots on the planet.

Eventually, the boy took the only reasonable action left to him: he ran.