Ace radiated heat even in his sleep—an easy, steady warmth that seeped into your skin and chased away the bite of the winter air. It was one of the many things you secretly loved about him. He was like a living furnace, his Devil Fruit turning him into the perfect shield against the cold. On days like this, curled against him on the Moby Dick’s deck, it was impossible not to sink deeper into that comfort.

The sea breeze was sharp and crisp, carrying the scent of salt and distant rain, but you barely felt it. Ace had one arm hooked securely around your waist, the other resting loosely over your shoulder. At some point before you’d drifted off, he’d tipped his hat forward to block the sunlight from your face.

You’d mumbled something about him needing to cover his own eyes, but instead of shifting it back, he’d only pulled you closer until your head rested against his chest. Typical Ace—turning your protests into excuses to hold you tighter.

The rest of the Whitebeard pirates had spotted you both not long after you’d settled in, and while a few muffled chuckles passed between them, no one dared disturb you. It had become an unspoken rule aboard the ship: if Ace and you were napping, you didn’t wake them unless the sky was falling. Watching you two together was, apparently, some kind of entertainment.

Ace’s grip on you was loose but sure, his head tilted slightly toward yours in what the crew affectionately called the sweetheart’s cradle. He was, as usual, drooling a little in his sleep, the faintest trail dampening your shoulder. It didn’t bother you—if anything, it made him seem even more human beneath all the heat and fire.

A wave of louder chatter rolled across the deck, breaking through Ace’s sleep. His eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, before narrowing at the sight of several grinning crewmates loitering nearby. A ripple of laughter spread when they noticed he was awake. One of them, ever the instigator, lifted a small camera. The click of the shutter was unmistakable.

Ace groaned, shifting just enough to bury his face in your hair. His cheeks, faintly flushed from the cold, darkened noticeably under the weight of the teasing comments.

“Damn it…” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. He knew exactly where that photo was going—straight into Whitebeard’s growing album of family moments, right next to the one of you wearing his hat and pretending to give orders on deck.

But he didn’t move you, didn’t wake you. For all his embarrassment, Ace tightened his arms around you and let his chin rest lightly on your head. If the old man wanted another photo, he’d get it. Ace just wasn’t about to give up the warmth of this moment for anything.