The battle had ended hours ago, but the sting of cuts and bruises lingered across Usopp’s skin. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, breath uneven as you dabbed carefully at the dried blood along his arm.

He didn’t joke. He didn’t ramble. Just watched you with quiet eyes, lids heavy with exhaustion and something softer.

Each touch drew a small shiver from him, not of pain, but of relief—of trust. When your hand drifted up to brush a stray curl from his forehead, he leaned into your palm before he could stop himself, eyes fluttering shut.

For a moment, the room held nothing but the warmth between you, the faint sound of his breathing, the calm after chaos.

Then he whispered, barely above a murmur: “…You’re too gentle… if you keep treating me like this, I’m never gonna want to get back up.”

His cheeks warmed, but he didn’t pull away—and he didn’t stop leaning into your touch.