She didn't say a word. The only sound was the soft rustle of her thick blankets and the whisper of her footsteps on the stone floor. She moved slowly, deliberately, a ghost of the vibrant, energetic woman he knew, but her presence filled the room more completely than any shout could. She approached his bedside and sat on the edge of the mattress, the dip in the frame bringing her achingly close. Then, with a surprising gentleness, she placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back down onto the pillows.
„Lie down. Your injuries are not healed," she said, her voice soft but leaving no room for argument. Her face was a perfect, unreadable mask, her eyes giving nothing away.
Mario's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat she must have felt beneath her palm. He didn't resist, letting her guide him back down. He tried to play it cool, to deflect, his gaze shifting to the window where the snow still fell.
„I'm fine. Nothing a good night's sleep won't heal…" he muttered, the words feeling hollow and foolish even as he said them. His mind was screaming, a chaotic loop of a single memory: the feel of her burning skin under his lips, the softness of her forehead. Why did he do that? And to Nami, of all people? Was he insane?
Nami was silent for a long moment, her poker face unwavering. Then she spoke, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur that sent a shiver down his spine.
„So," she began, ticking off each point on her fingers, her tone deceptively calm. „You took me in a harness through the forest and a blizzard, battled carnivorous rabbits the size of Bear's, surfed a tidal wave of snow down a mountain, took two massive arrows in your body to protect me, scaled an impossible, vertical peak while bleeding out, and nearly froze to death in the process…" She leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper now, laced with a terrifying intensity. „…and you have the nerve to sit there and tell me you're fine?"
Her small hand, the one that had been resting on his chest, clenched into a tight fist, gripping the fabric of his bandages. Mario saw it and instinctively closed his eyes, bracing for the punch.
It never came.
Instead, he felt a different pressure. A soft, warm weight.
He opened his eyes, and his breath caught in his throat.
Nami had leaned forward, her forehead now resting gently against his. Her eyes were dangerously close, her gaze holding his captive. He could see the flecks of gold in her brown irises, could feel the faint, warm puff of her breath on his lips. The world outside—the cold, the castle, the distant shouts of Luffy—all of it faded into a distant hum. In this suspended moment, there was only the soft pressure of her skin against his, the unspoken words hanging in the scant inch of air between their mouths, and the deafening, hopeful, terrifying silence.
Mario was frozen, lost in the universe of her eyes.
He was no playboy, no suave charmer. His understanding of relationships was… theoretical, at best. His one attempt at a lifelong partnership in his previous life had been a brief, fizzling spark—a year-long marriage that ended not with a bang, but with a weary sigh, leaving him with a quiet conviction that such profound connections weren't in the cards for him. He had never dared to try again.
But this voyage… this crew… they had dismantled his defenses brick by brick. In the spaces between the life-or-death battles and his frantic training sessions with Zoro and Sanji, between the chaotic joy of Luffy's antics and Usopp's tall tales, a different kind of rhythm had emerged. It was the rhythm of shared, quiet moments.
He'd shared meals with her, learning she had a surprisingly voracious appetite when no one was looking. He'd helped her hold down maps as the sea breeze tried to steal them, his hands brushing against hers, finding a strange comfort in the simple, collaborative task. He'd even tried to explain the concept of meditation, only for her to poke fun at him, calling him a "wannabe sage" before sitting beside him in a companionable silence that felt more profound than any mantra.
Through it all, a part of him had held back, a ghost from another world watching a beloved fictional character play out her part. He saw her fiery spirit, her cunning mind, and yes, her terrifying punches, all from the safe distance of a spectator.
But then, it happened. The moment she collapsed, a switch had been flipped. The intellectual appreciation shattered, and something raw and primal took its place. Watching the fever steal the light from her eyes, feeling the terrifying heat of her skin—it wasn't a plot point anymore. It was a personal, visceral agony. The frantic, painful climb up the mountain wasn't a heroic feat; it was a desperate, single-minded compulsion, a physical manifestation of a truth he could no longer deny.
In that moment, the last vestiges of the spectator vanished. She wasn't a 2D character on a page. She was Nami. A living, breathing, infuriating, brilliant, and beautiful woman whose absence would have left a hole in the world he couldn't bear to contemplate.
And now, with her forehead resting against his, her breath mingling with his, that terrifying, wonderful, confusing truth was staring him right in the face. He had feelings for her. Deep, complicated, and utterly undeniable feelings that he had no map for, no strategy to navigate. He was adrift in a sea of emotion more unpredictable than the Grand Line itself, and the only anchor he had was the warm, steady pressure of her skin against his.
„You stupid… stupid man," she whispered, her voice a low, intimate murmur meant for his ears alone. „What am I going to do with you?"
Mario was utterly paralyzed, shocked into absolute stillness. He barely dared to breathe. A frantic, pedantic part of his brain, the part that was still a reader, screamed a warning.
This isn't how it goes! One Piece is a shonen manga! Romance is the forgotten stepchild, a side-quest never embarked upon!
The Straw Hats were a family of chaos and dreams, bound by adventure, not romance. Look at Sanji—the self-proclaimed knight, the hopeless womanizer whose grand affections were a running gag, a one-way street that never led to a real connection with Nami or Robin. It was part of the world's unspoken rules.
But the feel of her forehead against his, the warmth of her breath, the weight of her hand on his chest—it was all screaming a different, more terrifying truth.
THIS IS NOT A MANGA.
The realization hit him with the force of a Gomu Gomu no Pistol. This was his life. His reality. And in this reality, his actions had consequences he had never anticipated.
He thought back. He had always been drawn to Nami's character—her strength, her vulnerability, her fierce intelligence. When he found himself here, living alongside her, that admiration had unconsciously bled into his actions. The extra cup of coffee brought to her chart table after a long night. The stupid joke told just to see her roll her eyes before a smile broke through. The casual, seemingly incidental touch on her shoulder to steady her during a sudden wave. He had done it all because he enjoyed her presence, because he liked her.
He'd told himself it was just being a good crewmate, a friendly quartermaster.
He never, ever expected it to lead to this. To a quiet room in a snowbound castle, with her leaning over his wounded body, her voice filled with a soft, exasperated tenderness that shattered every preconception he had about this world.
His heart was hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against his ribs, a desperate drumbeat she could surely feel beneath her palm, a traitorous confession his lips couldn't form. He was laid bare, not just by his bandages, but by the sheer, terrifying, wonderful impossibility of the moment.
His mind went utterly, blissfully blank. All that existed were her eyes, holding a universe of unspoken questions and answers. The clean, soft scent of oranges and sea air that always clung to her hit him, a sensory wave that obliterated the last vestiges of his rational thought.
Driven by an instinct deeper than fear or logic, he began to slowly, hesitantly lean forward, closing the minuscule distance between them.
She didn't back away. Her eyes fluttered shut.
The door was still wide open, letting in the frigid air, but the warmth blooming between them was a furnace, a private summer in the heart of the snow castle.
"GIAAAAAAAHHHHH! RUN! THE CRAZY GRANNY WILL KILL US!"
Usopp's blood-curdling shriek shattered the moment like a stone through glass.
Both Mario and Nami jerked apart, their heads snapping toward the doorway in unison. The first thing they saw was a volley of kitchen knives embedding themselves in the wooden frame with a series of violent thwacks.
"GAAAAHHH!" Chopper screamed, transforming into his Walk Point and zipping past the door in a blur of terrified speed.
"UaAAAHHH!" Luffy and Usopp followed, their arms flailing wildly as they scrambled past, a comical tornado of panic.
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING GRANNY, YOU STUPID BRATS?!" Dr. Kureha's roar echoed down the hall, followed by the lethal whir of thrown daggers and a small hand-axe that lodged itself in the wall opposite Mario's room.
The chaotic procession vanished down the corridor, their screams fading. Then, Kureha herself appeared in the doorway. She paused, her sharp eyes taking in the scene: the wide-open door, the flushed faces, the hastily created distance between Mario and Nami that was as telling as if they'd been caught in an embrace. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face.
She stepped inside, the storm of violence replaced by an unnerving calm.
"So," she said, her voice dry as dust as she looked at Nami. "You're awake." Her gaze then flicked to Mario, the smirk widening a fraction. "And you're still in one piece. More or less."
Mario and Nami, their hearts still pounding from two very different reasons, quickly put more respectable distance between them, their faces burning with a mixture of embarrassment and thwarted anticipation. The spell was broken, replaced by the jarring, chaotic reality of life aboard the future Pirate King's ship.