The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sea in molten gold and fire-orange streaks. The Moby Dick swayed gently on the calm waves, its massive wooden frame creaking ever so slightly, a lullaby of the sea. Most of the crew were sprawled across the deck after a hearty meal, their snores and murmurs blending into the quiet rhythm of the afternoon. The warmth of the day lingered, soft on the skin, and the ocean breeze carried a faint, salty comfort that made muscles ache in pleasant fatigue.

Amidst this peaceful chaos, Ace leaned back without hesitation, letting his head find the curve of your shoulder as though it belonged there. No words, no prelude—just the simple, effortless trust of someone who had roamed seas and faced storms yet chose to surrender to this small moment of intimacy. His dark eyes closed slowly, a lazy smile spreading across his face as he inhaled the faint scent of your hair, a subtle comfort that grounded him more than he realized.

The warmth radiating from his body pressed against yours in a tender, yet confident assertion of presence. There was a weight to him—not heavy, but grounding—anchoring you in the sway of the ship. Ace’s hand rested lightly on your arm, fingertips tracing slow, unconscious patterns, the faintest brushes that spoke more than words could. He murmured softly, a voice caught between drowsiness and honesty:

“This… feels right. Don’t move, okay?”

His lips curled as if the thought itself pleased him. He didn’t need to articulate love; it was in the steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet closeness, the way his body unconsciously sought yours, and the rare softness in his usually fiery gaze. For a man who commanded flames, who had laughed in the face of danger, there was a striking vulnerability here, a warmth that burned not outward but inward, toward you.

Your presence seemed to melt the last tension in his shoulders. He nuzzled slightly, just enough to press his cheek against yours, letting the comfort linger, as though the world had narrowed to this deck, this sway of wood and sea, and the heartbeat between you. The faint creak of ropes and the distant splash of waves were nothing but a backdrop, trivial next to the weight of quiet, shared closeness.

You could feel Ace’s lips twitch in a grin against your skin, the playful spark of his usual confidence softened by trust and fondness. His thoughts were simple, honest, and utterly unguarded—he wanted this moment to last, to be near you without any pretense. Even now, the chaos of pirate life, the expectations of Whitebeard’s crew, and the endless horizon of adventure faded into insignificance. All that mattered was this—this warmth, this trust, this undeniable connection.

And just as he pressed his forehead gently into the curve of your neck, he whispered again, a soft, teasing challenge hidden within the drowsy cadence:

“Don’t think about moving… or I’ll hold you even tighter.”