Back on the Dune Serpent.
Takuya wrung out his hair and spread the recovered items on a deck table. The gold coins clinked. The altimeter gleamed. The map drew every eye.
"Homework is postponed," Takuya said, water still dripping from his sleeves. He looked at Nami. "Plot a course for wherever that needle points. And find me everything you can about Knock Up Streams."
Nami stepped closer, her irritation momentarily buried under the navigator's instinct. She studied the map, tracing the dotted lines. "This 'Corriente Ascendente'—Knock Up Stream. It's marked here, south of Jaya. We'll need to cross-reference with sea charts and talk to locals. Someone on Jaya might know more."
She paused, glancing at the South Bird carving. "And we'll need one of those. A real one. The carving shows a bird that always points south. That could be useful for orientation above the clouds."
While Nami spoke, Takuya grabbed a thick towel from a nearby bench. He dried his own face and arms in quick, efficient strokes, then turned to Robin. Without a word, he began drying her.
He started with her arms, patting the wet sleeves of her shirt. Then he knelt slightly and worked the towel down her legs. Robin stood still, allowing it, her dark hair plastered to her cheeks.
When he finished with her clothes, he took a fresh corner of the towel and gently gathered her hair, squeezing the salt water out in slow, careful presses.
She closed her eyes. Her lips parted. The expression on her face was one of pure, quiet bliss—the look of a woman who had spent twenty years drying herself alone in cold rooms and cramped ship cabins, suddenly relieved of that small, wearying task.
Takuya wrapped the towel around her head and rubbed her hair the way a mother would dry a daughter's after a bath. Gentle. Thorough. Unhurried.
Robin hummed softly. Her shoulders relaxed.
"Then Jaya first," Takuya said, still working the towel through Robin's hair. "Then the sky."
Mira cheered. Vivi took a deep breath and steadied herself, her eyes fixed on the map. Robin smiled, her face half-hidden under the towel, already imagining the history waiting above the clouds—and the gold that might be waiting with it.
Nami picked up one of the gold coins, bit it, and nodded. "At least we got something out of that wreck. Two coins and a broken compass." She tossed the altimeter back onto the table. "But if this map is real..."
"It's real," Robin said quietly, her voice slightly muffled by the towel. "The wood, the symbols, the age. That ship was in the clouds for a long time, or it has recently tried going to the sky island but it failed miserably."
Takuya finished drying Robin's hair and draped the towel over his own shoulder. He didn't make a show of it. He just moved on, as if tending to her was as natural as breathing.
Nami tucked the gold coin into her pocket. Her earlier anger at Takuya had faded into something more practical. Gold had a way of doing that.
The Dune Serpent turned toward the island of Jaya, the fallen ship sinking slowly behind them. Above, the clouds swirled, hiding secrets that had waited centuries to be found.
And on the Going Merry, Sanji watched the horizon, his hand in his jacket, fingers brushing the photos. He flipped open his recipe book to the Sky Island Special page.
"I'll be ready," he muttered. "This time, I won't lose."
As the deck settled into the quiet rhythm of sailing, Nami leaned against the railing, her eyes fixed on the horizon but her mind elsewhere.
She had watched the whole thing—the way Takuya had dried Robin without being asked, the way Robin had closed her eyes like a cat in sunlight, the way neither of them had thought it unusual.
Then the memory hit her. Not a thought—a flash.
She was small again. Eight years old. She had jumped off the pier into the cold sea, chasing a tangerine that had rolled into the water. Bell-mère had fished her out, scolding her the whole time, but then she had wrapped a towel around Nami's head and dried her hair.
Gentle. Thorough. The same slow presses of the towel, the same careful squeezing of water from her hair.
Nami's throat tightened.
'Bell-mère.'
The jealousy, the strategy, the game—it all dissolved. There was only an ache. The hollow place in her chest where her mother used to live. She missed her. She missed her so much it hurt to breathe.
She turned away from the railing before anyone could see her face. Her eyes were already wet. She walked quickly, quietly, toward her cabin. No one stopped her.
Inside, she closed the door and leaned against it. Then the tears came. Silent at first, then soft sobs she muffled with her hand. She stumbled to her bedside table and picked up the framed photo Takuya had given her—Bell-mère, grown-up Nami, and Nojiko, all smiling like a real family. Like the family she had lost.
Next to the photo sat the small music box. She wound the key with trembling fingers.
The melody began, soft and sweet. And then Bell-mère's voice, recorded somehow, somewhere, filled the tiny cabin.
"Nami. My brave little navigator. Don't cry. I'm always with you. The sea, the tangerines, the wind in your hair—that's me. Give your best. I'll be watching."
Nami hugged the photo to her chest, curled onto her bed, and let the tears fall. She wasn't jealous. She wasn't competing. She was just a girl who missed her mother.
On the deck, Vivi had watched Nami leave. She had seen the quick turn, the hidden face. She understood.
Then her own chest tightened.
She thought of her mother. Queen Titi. Dead when Vivi was so young that she had no clear memory of her face—only paintings, only stories. She had never felt her mother's hands dry her hair. Never been scolded for jumping into the sea. Never been held the way Takuya had held Robin.
'If she were alive,' Vivi thought, 'would she have dried my hair like that? Would she have looked at me the way Takuya looks at Robin?'
The void opened inside her. Grief. Pure, simple grief for something she had never truly had.
She didn't plan to move. But her feet carried her anyway. Past the navigation table, past the galley, down the short corridor to Takuya's cabin. She didn't knock. She just opened the door.
He was inside, sitting on the edge of his bed, removing his wet shirt. He looked up, saw her face, and didn't ask questions.
Vivi walked to him, her steps unsteady. Then she fell into his arms—not gracefully, not like Robin. Like a child. Like a baby. She buried her face in his chest and sobbed.
"I never felt my mother's love," she choked out between cries. "Not really. She died when I was too young to remember. And I saw you with Robin and I just—I wanted—I don't know what I want—"
Takuya didn't shush her. He didn't say anything. He simply wrapped his arms around her and held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the same way he had held Nami and Robin before.
"You want to be mothered," he said quietly. "You want someone to take care of you without you having to ask."
Vivi nodded against his chest, her tears soaking his bare skin.
He waited. He let her cry. When the sobs softened into hiccups, he reached to his bedside table and picked up a small tin. He opened it. Inside were cookies—her favorites, the ones she had mentioned weeks ago in passing.
"Eat," he said gently.
Vivi took one, then another. They were warm, soft, and perfect. She didn't notice the slight bitterness at the edge. A sleeping medicine. Gentle. Safe.
Within minutes, her eyes grew heavy. Her head drooped. Takuya laid her down on his bed, pulled a blanket over her, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
He stepped out and found Mira in the corridor. "Stay with her. She's asleep."
Mira nodded, her usual behaviour not changing one bit. "Yes, Master."
Takuya walked back toward the deck. Robin was leaning against the wall near the cabins, her arms crossed, her expression soft but knowing.
"Don't ignore Nami," she said.
Takuya stopped.
"If there's anything common in all of us," Robin continued, "it's that we all went through too much, too young. And apart from that, we all lost our mothers very early.
I didn't cry because you held me. Vivi cried because you held her. But Nami—she's not your wife yet. She might be hesitant. She might be crying alone right now. Please—console her as well."
Takuya looked at her for a long moment. Then he smiled—small, genuine.
"What made you think I wouldn't?"
He extended his hand. "Come with me. Let's console our navigator together."
Robin took his hand without hesitation. Together, they walked toward Nami's cabin.
Takuya knocked softly on Nami's cabin door. Three quiet raps.
No answer. Just the faint sound of music box melody seeping through the wood, and underneath it, the occasional wet sniffle.
He tried the handle. Unlocked.
He pushed the door open slowly. The cabin was dim, lit only by the afternoon sun filtering through the small porthole. Nami lay curled on her bed, the framed photo clutched to her chest, her face buried in the pillow. The music box sat beside her, still playing its gentle tune, Bell-mère's voice having faded back into silence.
She didn't look up. "Go away," she mumbled, but her voice cracked halfway through.
Takuya stepped inside. Robin followed, then quietly closed the door behind them and leaned against it, her arms folded. She said nothing. She simply watched.
Takuya walked to the bed and sat down on the edge. The mattress dipped under his weight. Nami stiffened but didn't pull away.
He didn't speak. He just reached out and gently pulled the photo from her hands, setting it on the bedside table. Then he took her hand—the one that had been clutching the frame—and held it in both of his.
"I watched you," he said quietly. "On the deck. Missing Bell-mère?"
Nami's breath hitched. She still didn't look at him. A sad sigh escaped her lips.
"I don't even wonder now why or how you know all this about me anymore," she whispered. "It was Bell-mère indeed. She used to dry my hair. Just like you did with Robin. The same way. The same gentle hands." Her voice broke. "I miss her so much. It's been years and I still—I still—I miss my mom."
She couldn't finish. The tears came again, hot and fresh.
Takuya lay down on the bed beside her and pulled her into his arms. He twisted her gently, turning her so her head rested on his chest, her ear pressed over his heart. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other came up to brush the damp hair from her tear-wet face.
"Cry," he said. "I've got you."
And she did. She cried like she hadn't cried in years—not the controlled tears of a woman who had learned to hide her pain, but the raw, ugly sobs of the eight-year-old girl who had watched her mother die right in front of her face.
She cried for Bell-mère. She cried for the tangerine groves she had promised to plant with Bell-mère. She cried for every lonely night she had spent drawing maps by candlelight, pretending she didn't miss the sound of her mother's voice.
Takuya held her through all of it. His hand moved in slow circles on her back. His chin rested on the top of her head. He didn't shush her. He didn't rush her. He just was there.
Robin watched from the door. Her expression was soft, her eyes glistening. She didn't move to interrupt. But her mind was far from still.
'She's lucky,' Robin thought. 'To have had a mother she can remember. To have someone to miss.'
Her own mother's face was clear in her memory—she could still picture Olivia's features, her dark complexion, white hair, her serious eyes. But that was all. Just the face. No childhood games. No sweet moments. No memories of being held or dried after a bath. Nothing.
Olivia had left when Robin was two, chasing the truth of the Void Century. By the time they finally met again, Robin was an 8 year old kid—and even then, the reunion had been stolen away by the Buster Call. Fire. Cannonfire. The sea swallowing everything.
She had cried for her mother once. Decades ago. Now there was only the quiet ache of a child who had never been held before like Nami was being held right now. A child who had finally found her mother, only to lose her again in the same breath.
'I remember her face,' Robin thought. 'But I don't remember her.'
She watched Takuya's hand on Nami's back, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath Nami's cheek. A part of her wanted to be the one in his arms once again. But another part—the part that had survived twenty years alone—recognized that Nami needed this more right now.
'I'll have my twenty-four hours,' she reminded herself. 'Let her have this moment.'
She folded her arms tighter, leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, and stayed. A witness. A guardian. A woman who understood that love wasn't always about taking—sometimes it was about making space for someone else to receive.
After a long time, Nami's sobs quieted into shaky breaths. She turned her face further into his chest, her fingers clutching his shirt.
"Don't let go," she whispered.
"Never," he said.
She felt his heartbeat under her cheek. Steady. Strong. An anchor in the storm of her grief.
"I don't want to compete," she mumbled. "I don't want to be jealous. I just want—" She stopped.
"What?" he asked gently.
"I just want someone to dry my hair like she did. Without me having to ask."
Takuya pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Then that's what you'll have. Whenever you need it. No asking required."
Nami closed her eyes. The music box had wound down, the cabin silent except for the soft lap of waves against the hull and the slow, synchronized breathing of two people holding each other.
A/N: If my story made you smile even once, that's a win for me. That's what I want to live for—brightening dull days and reminding people that joy still exists. My dream is to make a difference in someone's life through my stories, to someday reach a legendary level of storytelling, and spread as much happiness I can in this world, before I take my leave from this world.
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