The training room was quiet—still warm from your last sparring match, still echoing faintly with the rhythm of two bodies moving across padded floors. The sun outside had dipped into that amber stage, casting golden slashes across the walls of the ship’s lower deck. No one would interrupt. No one ever did.

Jinbe sat in the center, legs out, back leaned into the angled support as agreed—broad, blue body relaxed but already gleaming faintly with sweat under the folds of his robes. His geta sandals had been placed neatly aside. His massive bare feet were planted together at the end of the mat, toes splayed slightly from earlier exertion.

You hadn’t even touched him yet, but he was already breathing deeper, slower. A man at peace—or at least, pretending to be.

“Take your time,” he rumbled, voice smooth but touched with anticipation. “Proper preparation is part of the discipline, after all.”

He chuckled low in his throat. That same noble calm. But you saw it—the slight twitch in his toes, the way his fingers tensed when your shadow passed by. His eyes were half-lidded, but tracking you carefully as you moved between shelves, gathering tools. Brushes. Oils. Cloth. Restraints. The essentials.

“I’ve positioned myself exactly as instructed,” he added, shifting just slightly. The curve of his thick sole flexed without meaning to. “Fully grounded. Vulnerable, yes—but open. That is the purpose, is it not? Vulnerability builds power.”

He tried to sound wise. Grounded. But the tiny flicker of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“...Though I will admit,” he murmured, lower now, “this part of training has become my favorite. I find your technique... meticulous.”

His words hung in the air—half permission, half tease, fully yours to act on.

Jinbe’s eyes met yours, dark and unwavering.

His feet were still.

But not for long.