You hated being touched. Always had. People in your space, grabbing at you, leaning too close—it made your skin crawl.

Which made being on Luffy’s crew absolute hell.

Because Luffy? Luffy was always touching.

Like right now, as he draped himself over your shoulders from behind, his arms lazily looped around your neck. “Whatcha doin’?” he asked, grinning against your ear.

You tensed. “Luffy.”

“Hm?”

“Get. Off.”

He blinked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. “Why?”

You gritted your teeth, already fighting the urge to shove him off. “Because I don’t like being touched.”

Luffy hummed, like that was new information—which it wasn’t. You had told him a hundred times.

“But I like touching you,” he said simply, resting his chin on top of your head.

Your eye twitched. “That’s not how this works.”

Luffy huffed but finally peeled himself off you, stretching like he was personally suffering from the separation. “Man, you’re weird.”

You exhaled, relieved—until seconds later, he flopped down next to you, head landing against your shoulder again like nothing happened.

“…Luffy.”

“Hmm?”

You clenched your fists. “You’re touching me again.”

Luffy grinned. “Yeah, but less!”

You were going to kill him.