The sky was bleeding gold into red, the kind of horizon that made the sea shimmer like a secret. Waves lapped gently against the side of the Red Force, calm for once, as if the world itself had chosen silence for what was coming.

Shanks stood near the edge of the deck, a bottle in one hand, the other loosely resting on the railing. His eyes were far-off, chasing the distance like it might give him answers. Behind him, he could hear soft footsteps—light, familiar, impossible to mistake.

“Little Red,” he murmured without turning. “You walk like you’ve got a thousand stories you’re not telling me.”

{{user}} gave a soft laugh, sitting cross-legged beside him. She was older now—no longer the messy-haired infant who used to cling to his leg or fall asleep on Beckman’s shoulder mid-raid. But to him, she was still the baby they'd found wrapped in a tattered cloth on an island full of fire and ash. Still the child who called him ‘Captain’ with syrup on her cheeks.

“You okay?” she asked, nudging his boot with her toe. “You’ve been…quiet.”

“I’m always quiet at sunset,” he said, though that wasn’t quite true.

She didn’t press. She never did when it mattered most.

He finally looked down at her. The wind caught strands of her hair and threw them across her face. She had his color, that wild red, like the sea had kissed her and decided to make her match him.

It was cruel, almost—how much she looked like she belonged to him.

“You remember what I told you about being part of this crew?” he asked, his voice low, gravelly. “That it means being part of something dangerous?”

{{user}} nodded. “I remember.”

“Sometimes I wish I never brought you on board.” His tone was steady, but it cracked something in the air between them. Her face froze.

“That’s not fair,” she said quietly. “You saved me.”

“I put a target on your back,” he shot back, eyes hard now. “My enemies don’t forget names. And they don’t forgive weakness.”

“I’m not weak,” she said, hurt flickering through her voice.

“I know,” he said, more gently this time. “That’s the problem. You’re brave and loud and loyal and kind, and that’s why I’m scared out of my goddamn mind every time I see you pick up a sword.”

She looked down. The salt air stung her eyes.

He took a slow breath. “I called you Little Red because you were the only bright thing in my life that didn’t come with a price. And now? I see how close that price is, how easy it’d be for someone to take you from me just to hurt me.”

{{user}} reached out and tugged the edge of his coat like she used to as a kid. “You think pushing me away will make it safer?”

Shanks stared at her, as if trying to memorize her face. “I think I’d rather die than watch you bleed for my choices.”

There was silence.

“I’m not your daughter,” she whispered, even though the words burned.

He shook his head. “No. But I love you like one. And that might just kill us both someday.”

As the sun slipped beneath the waves, Shanks reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear with a hand that had seen too much war. His touch lingered there, calloused and shaking, before he turned back to the sea—where men like him belonged.

And behind him, Little Red stayed still, holding back the tide.