"As far as your capabilities and emotions push you," he said. "I like my women submitting to me completely. Don't you want to become someone who can rely on me one hundred percent? Someone who can rest assured that no harm in this world would ever reach you?"
Nami was quiet for a long moment.
"No," she said.
Takuya's hand stilled.
"Not that," she continued. "I don't want to be someone who just submits. I want to be someone who chooses." She met his eyes in the mirror. "I want to choose you. Over and over. Not because I have to. Because I want to."
His expression shifted, he had a small imperceptible smile on his face. Just slightly. "Then tell me why. Why did you run to me? Why did you want to see me? Why did you want to be in my lap when you thought you were dying?
Why did you want me to be the last person you wanted to see if you were going to die? Like Sanji said to you, I wasn't worried even one bit about you."
Nami's tears spilled over again. But these were different. Softer.
"Because you brought my mother back to me," she whispered.
She felt his arms tighten around her.
"Not just through the music box," she continued. "Not just through the cookies. Everything you do reminds me of her. Belle-mère took me in when my parents abandoned me or died in the war. I don't even know which.
She wasn't my real mother—she wasn't Nojiko's either—but she loved us like we were her own. She sacrificed everything. Her private life. Her dreams. Her safety. Her life. All just for us."
Her voice broke. "And you... you're doing the same for me. Not the way I expected. Not the way I wanted. But no matter what you do—the teasing, the control, the way you make me feel small and safe all at once—every time I look at you, I see her. Standing behind you. Smiling at me. The more I stay by your side, the more I feel like she's still here."
She paused, swallowing hard. "Ever since I let you in, every night when I play the music box or hold the photo and sleep, I feel like Belle-mère is hugging me.
Wrapping her arms around me the way she used to. And I sleep. Really sleep. The kind of deep, peaceful sleep I haven't had since I was a child, curled up beside her, knowing nothing could hurt me."
Her fingers tightened against his chest. "You gave that back to me. Without even knowing it."
She turned in his arms, facing him. Her naked body pressed against his chest. Her hands came up to frame his face.
"Your warmth. Your embrace. The way you're calm when I'm bursting emotionally." She pressed her forehead against his. "I know it's selfish. I know I'm using you as an emotional crutch. But I don't care. Because without you, I feel like I'll never be complete."
Takuya listened. Calm. Quiet. His hands rested one on her head, another on her waist.
He didn't speak for a long moment.
Then he asked, "And if I wasn't here? If you had to fight alone?"
She answered immediately. "Then I'd still fight. I'd survive doing whatever I did to survive till now. I've done it before." Her hands tightened on his face. "But I'd always feel like something was missing, no matter how much money I would have gotten."
Takuya's hands moved to her shoulders. Gently. Steadily.
He pulled her closer. His lips brushed her forehead.
"You're not going to die," he said quietly. "Not alone. Not ever. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." His hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face toward his. "And as long as I'm alive, nothing in this world can kill you. I've claimed you as mine, and nothing has the right to take what I've claimed. Didn't Robin tell you what I do for the people I claim?"
Nami's eyes widened. Her breath caught. "She did," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "She said... she said you'd burn the world for them. That you'd tear apart anyone who tried to take them away."
"And she was right."
Nami stared at him, her tears still flowing. For a moment, she saw Robin in her mind—calm, certain, speaking those words with absolute conviction. 'He'll never let you go. That's what makes him terrifying. That's what makes him safe.'
She had thought Robin was being dramatic. Or poetic. Or just... Robin.
But hearing it from him now, feeling it in the way he held her, the way his voice didn't waver—she understood. Robin hadn't been exaggerating. She had been stating a fact.
"You really mean that," Nami said.
"I don't say things I don't mean."
Her tears flowed freely. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her body shaking. Not from fear. From relief. From the overwhelming weight of being claimed so completely.
He held her. His hands moved to her back, tracing the lines of her spine. He didn't speak. He just let her cry.
When her sobs quieted, he reached for the blouse on the bed and helped her into it. His fingers worked the buttons carefully. Then the pants. He didn't rush. He didn't pull away.
When she was dressed, he lifted her chin with one finger and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Better?" he asked.
She nodded, her throat tight. "Yeah. Better."
He smiled. Just a little. "Good. Though I have to say, you've cried more times since meeting me than anyone else I know. I'm starting to think you'll be my most crybaby wife."
Nami's head snapped up. Her eyes were still red, still wet, but something else flickered in them now. "Wife?"
"Did I stutter?"
"You—" She sputtered. "You've never called me that before."
"I'm calling you that now."
Her face went through several shades of red. "You can't just—after everything—you don't just—"
"I just did." He tilted his head. "You don't want me to?"
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You're impossible."
"Probably. But you're still mine." He smirked. "You can cry if you want, crybaby."
She stared at him. Then she laughed—a wet, broken, genuine laugh. "I don't know if I should hit you or hug you."
"You can do both. I don't mind." His voice dropped, just slightly. "But keep in mind, I'm going to balance it off in bed."
Nami's face went red again. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible. You can't just keep calling me a crybaby and joking about things."
"Someone has to lighten the mood." He paused. "Especially when you're being such a crybaby."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
She pressed her forehead against his chest, her shoulders shaking. But she was smiling now. Really smiling. "I don't," she admitted quietly. "I really don't."
His hand came up to rest on the back of her head. "I know."
She pulled back just enough to look at him. "But if you ever call me a crybaby again, I'll make you take it back."
"You'll what?" He tilted his head, a challenge in his eyes. "What are you going to do, crybaby?"
She opened her mouth to threaten him again, but the words wouldn't come. The way he looked at her—calm, amused, utterly unbothered by her glare—made her feel like a child trying to scare a mountain.
Her glare faltered. Then crumbled. She couldn't even hold it for fifteen seconds.
He kissed her forehead again. "Let's go. The others are waiting."
Nami took a deep breath. "Okay."
She walked toward the door after Takuya dressed her up completely, then paused. Without turning around, she said, "I don't mind. Being your wife, I mean."
Takuya's smile widened. Just slightly.
"I know." He paused. "I said, do you have any choice?"
Nami turned to look at him. Her eyes were still red, but her smile was real. "Not really," she admitted. "And I don't think I mind that either."
He walked toward her, placing a hand on the small of her back. "Good answer."
She rolled her eyes, but she leaned into his touch as they walked out together.
"Though I have to say," he continued, his voice light, "In just a matter of moments you went from 'I'll make you take it back' to 'I don't mind not having a choice if it's you.' That's quite a shift, little miss crybaby."
Nami stopped walking. Her face flushed. "That's not—that's not what happened!"
"Isn't it?"
"No! I was just—you caught me off guard—it was the forehead kiss—"
"The forehead kiss made you compliant?"
"It was a very good forehead kiss!"
Takuya's smirk widened. "So all I have to do is kiss your forehead really nicely and you'll agree to anything I tell you to do?"
Nami opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"That's not fair," she finally said.
"I never said I played fair."
She glared at him. It lasted about five seconds this time.
"I hate you," she muttered.
"No you don't."
"I really, really want to."
"But you don't."
She sighed. The sound was loud, exaggerated, and full of theatrical frustration. "Fine. I don't. But you're still impossible."
"I know." He started walking again, his hand still resting on her back. "That's what makes this fun."
Nami followed, shaking her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite everything. She tried to suppress it—pressed her lips together, furrowed her brow, the whole effort—but the smile kept breaking through like sunlight through clouds.
"You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?" She threw her hands up in mock defeat.
"Absolutely."
"Of course you are." She stopped walking, planted her hands on her hips, and gave him her best glare. It was about as threatening as a kitten pretending to be a lion. "And you're just going to stand there and agree with me?"
"I'm just agreeing with you."
"That's not—you're supposed to deny it!"
"Would that make you feel better?"
"Yes!"
"I see." He paused, tilting his head. "Then I'll definitely not agree."
Her glare intensified. Then cracked. She pressed her palm against her forehead. "You're impossible. You know that? Actually impossible. Like, scientifically impossible. If I wrote a report on you, they'd lock me in an asylum instead."
"Make sure to cite your sources properly okay."
She dropped her hands. "You're not even trying to make this easy for me."
"Correct."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting today."
She opened her mouth to fire back, but nothing came out. She just stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.
She stomped her foot. Actually stomped her foot. Like a child throwing a tantrum. Then she caught herself and froze.
"...I just stomped my foot."
"Yes, you did."
"That's... that's embarrassing."
"Yes."
She buried her face in her hands. "This is your fault."
"Everything is my fault."
She looked up at him through her fingers. "You're not even going to pretend to be sorry?"
"Why would I pretend to be sorry when I'm not?"
She dropped her hands. She stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
Then she laughed. A real laugh. Loud and surprised, like she hadn't expected it to escape.
"You're ridiculous," she said, the word coming out warm instead of sharp. "Actually ridiculous."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
"Don't you dare."
"Too late."
She shook her head, still laughing. "Fine. I'm done. I give up. You win. Congratulations. You've officially broken me."
"I haven't even started breaking you yet."
Her laughter stopped. Her eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't answer. He just looked at her, his expression calm, his lips curved in the smallest smirk.
"That's not ominous at all," she said flatly.
"Maybe because I don't want you to suspect anything."
She shook her head, getting a headache from just trying to argue with him, but at the same time she was still smiling. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Probably. Wouldn't that be fun?"
"And you're not even going to feel bad about it?"
"Not even a little. If anything, I'd be curious to see how you'd manage it."
She stared at him. Then she laughed again—a softer laugh this time, almost resigned.
"You know," she said, her voice quieter now, "I used to think I had things figured out. I had plans. I had walls. I had everything under control."
"And now?"
"Now I'm standing on a cloud island, covered in scratches that you just healed, arguing with a man who just spent the last ten minutes making me admit I want him, and somehow I'm not even mad about it."
He didn't say anything. He just watched her.
She met his eyes. "What kind of person does that?"
"Someone who knows what he wants."
"And what do you want?"
He stepped closer. "You know the answer to that."
She didn't step back. "I want to hear you say it."
He paused, his eyes tracing down to her stomach and back up.
"Currently, I want to plant a baby—mine and yours—in that beautiful flat belly of yours. And if she takes after you and ends up being a crybaby, I'll compare who's more of a crybaby. If she wins, she gets the crybaby title.
If you win, you'll get a sash and be felicitated with the official crybaby award. If you're both equal, I'll tease both of you as the crybaby pair. Like mother, like daughter."
Her breath caught. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
He tilted his head. "Satisfied?"
She swallowed. "You—you want to—with me—a baby—"
"Did I stutter again?"
Her face went through several shades of red. "That's—you can't just—I'm not even—we haven't even—"
"We will. Eventually."
She stared at him. Then she laughed—a helpless, breathless laugh. "You're absolutely insane."
"Probably. But you're still here."
She shook her head. "I was going to say that was unfair. But I don't even know what to call it anymore."
"Honest works."
"It's terrifying."
"That too."
She let out a shaky breath. "You're not going to let me have a single victory, are you?"
"I'll let you have all the wins you want." His voice softened. "Just not the ones that involve you trying to win against me. Stop trying to win from me, and I'll give the whole world to you."
She stared at him. Then, slowly, she shook her head. "I don't know if I should thank you or run away."
"You can do both. But I'll catch you."
"I know."
She was about to say something else—something soft, something she wouldn't have admitted to herself a few hours ago—when a voice cut through the silence behind them.
"Well, well, well."
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