Operation Cold Front: 03
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Aokiji Kuzan x reader Chapter: Proximity Drift Length: 5 K+ Rating: 16+
An Admiral develops a suspicious habit of showing up wherever you are, and the Marines around you start acting very strangely.
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Kuzan, it seems, had seen your acknowledgement of his existence as active permission to infiltrate your life.
A casual walk to the mess hall… and who’s that sitting two tables over, reading a book upside down?
Oh look.
It’s Kuzan.
Again.
You told yourself it was a coincidence. Marineford was a big base, sure, but maybe he was just taking lunch in your wing that day.
No big deal.
The next day? He’s in the hallway outside your division’s office. Just leaning against the wall.
Doing nothing.
You froze mid-step. “Um. Admiral?”
He looked up. “Yo.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Can I help you?”
He shrugged. “Nope.”
And then just… stayed there. Until you went inside. Like a very suspicious cat who’d decided you were the warm spot on the couch.
By the third time you “accidentally” ran into him in the supply archive, your friends were starting to catch on.
“So, Admiral Kuzan, huh?” your closest friend snickered, nudging you at lunch. “Is that just your new shadow now, or…?”
You blushed. “It’s not like that. He’s just a guy.”
“You sure? Because he just offered to help carry your tray. And he’s the Admiral Aokiji. The last time someone tried to hand him a clipboard, he used it to fan himself and left it on a dog.”
You hissed under your breath. “He’s just… around.”
“Oh yeah,” another friend chimed in. “Like a sexy glacier. Just slowly inching closer every day until you’re trapped.”
You tried to wave it off. “Marineford’s small. We probably just keep running into each other.”
Your friend raised a brow. “No, it’s not. You work in the east tower. He doesn’t. You train in the west yard. He doesn’t train like us peasants. You live in the dorms. He absolutely does not.”
“Okay, well—”
“Yo.”
You nearly dropped your chopsticks.
Kuzan was standing at the edge of the table, perfectly calm, looking like he belonged there. Which, in retrospect, he unquestionably did not.
Your friends blinked. “…Admiral?”
He nodded once, casually. “Hey.”
You stared at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d say hi.” He looked over your tray, then calmly picked up one of your dumplings with his chopsticks and popped it into his mouth. “Mm. These are good.”
Your jaw dropped.
He looked at your friends, completely deadpan. “What a crazy coincidence, huh?”
Your friends, in unison: “LOL, what?”
You: “This isn’t normal. This is not normal.”
Kuzan, chewing: “Sure it is.”
Your friends stared at you like you’d already moved in together.
So yeah, you could say he was getting pretty comfortable.
The training yard was safe.
Mostly.
It was neutral ground. Sandbags, training dummies, instructors too busy yelling to notice you still hadn’t fully recovered from your New Year’s kiss-turned-career-threat. You threw yourself into drills harder than usual, trying to sweat it out. Burn it off. Forget the feel of his mouth on yours and the way he’d disappeared like a cryptid with excellent taste in forearms.
You were halfway through your third round of weapons form when something shifted in the air, sharp and cool, like a breeze that didn’t belong.
You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t need to. You felt it in your bones.
That lazy pressure of eyes, rampant with too-long lashes and bad intentions, watching.
You glanced toward the fence line.
And there he was.
Admiral Kuzan.
Hands in his coat pockets. Sunglasses on. Beanie tilted just slightly like he didn’t give a single damn about how out of place he looked.
He was “observing.”
That’s what he’d said. Just observing.
Totally normal. Completely casual.
Which might have been believable… if he hadn’t shown up during your set of drills. If he hadn’t already “coincidentally” dropped by the mess hall, the archive hallway, and the gym in the last three days like some wandering iceberg with a hard-on for dramatic entrances.
You tried to ignore him. Failed. You fumbled your grip mid-spin and nearly clocked the poor ensign next to you.
“Form’s off,” a low voice said behind you.
You turned around, and he was there.
Right there.
You hadn’t even heard him move. His body heat (or what passed for it) ghosted just inches behind you. You could smell that same icy scent again: clean, crisp, slightly minty, deeply inappropriate for a commanding officer.
“I got it,” you said tightly, trying to re-center.
He ignored that. “You’re compensating with your shoulder. That’s why you’re over-rotating.”
“I know what I’m doing,” you muttered.
Kuzan stepped closer. “Sure you do. Mind if I help anyway?”
You didn’t get a chance to answer before his hand slid down your arm. Slowly. Fingers brushing your shoulder blade as he repositioned you. His palm was broad, firm, and confident.
Your whole body went rigid.
“This part should stay loose,” he murmured, adjusting your grip like you were some delicate, freezing porcelain doll. “You’re overthinking the follow-through.”
“I’m not—”
“And you’re holding your breath.”
“I’m—not.”
His breath was right next to your ear. “Okay.”
He stepped back just enough to give you room, still hovering behind you like gravity had a kink.
You tried the form again. Perfect. Crisp. Textbook.
He whistled. “Now that’s what I like to see.”
You turned to glare. “Are you done?”
Kuzan tilted his head, a slow grin curling the corner of his mouth. “Just observing.”
You stared.
He stared back.
He winked.
And walked away.
Like, he didn’t just make your entire nervous system short-circuit in front of your squad. Like you weren’t now sweating in places that had nothing to do with cardio.
One of your friends, who’d clearly been watching the whole thing, sidled up and whispered, “…I think he adjusted your form just to feel you.”
You choked.
You survived the training drill.
Barely.
Your body hurts, your pride is limping, and your brain is still sizzling from Admiral “Hands-on-Learning” Kuzan’s little demonstration.
You need food, a bath, and space to scream into a pillow.
But the moment you step outside the yard, towel slung over your shoulder, there Kuzan is again.
Leaning against the fence like he lives there.
Still in uniform. Still wearing sunglasses at night and still radiating the energy of someone who’s been waiting specifically for you and would rather die than admit it out loud.
Kuzan doesn’t say anything at first. Just falls into step beside you, sauntering with those unnaturally long legs.
You glance over, already tired. “Are you… following me?”
Kuzan yawns. “Just figured I’d walk you back to the dorms. It’s late. Could be dangerous.”
You deadpan. “This is Marineford.”
“Yeah,” he says, as if that proves his point. “Dangerous.”
You squint. “From who, exactly?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Never know. Lotta weirdos around here. Pretty girl walks around after dark, someone might get the wrong idea.”
You stare at him. “Are you implying you’d beat up a fellow Marine for talking to me?”
Kuzan turns his head just slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Wouldn’t have to. They’d see me first.”
You stop walking. “That’s not subtle.”
He stops, then blinks. “Wasn’t trying to be.”
You’re stunned into silence for a moment. Then you throw your hands up and keep walking.
He follows again, hands in his pockets.
You try to be rational. You try to tell yourself that he’s probably just messing with you. Admirals don’t do relationships. They don’t walk junior staff home like some winter-scented bodyguard with boundary issues.
“So,” you say after a stretch of silence. “This is… what, now? Another coincidence?”
“Could be,” he muses. “But that’d make me real lucky, huh?”
You nearly trip on a rock.
The rest of the walk is quiet, but charged. You’re hyper-aware of how close he is. The occasional brush of his sleeve. The sound of his footsteps syncing with yours. The casual way he keeps looking at you, like he’s just waiting for you to crack.
When you reach the dorm building, you stop at the bottom of the steps and cross your arms.
“Okay,” you say, staring him down. “What are you doing?”
He tilts his head. “What’s what?”
You frown. “The weird haunting. The lunch ‘coincidences.’ The training interference. This. You.”
He thinks for a second. Then says simply, “I like you.”
You blink.
Hard.
“Since when?”
Kuzan shrugs. “A while.”
You gape. “So your plan was… kiss me under false pretenses and then hover me into submission?”
He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepish. “You’re not easy to talk to.”
“I’m perfectly easy to talk to!”
“Mm. Not for me.”
You stare at him.
He stares back.
Then, quietly, “You gonna invite me in?”
You make a strangled noise. “No!”
Kuzan smiles, unbothered. “Didn’t think so. Just asking.”
He turns like he’s going to leave, but pauses halfway, looking back over his shoulder.
“Sweet dreams,” he says, voice soft now. “Try not to dream about me too hard.”
And then he vanishes into the night again, leaving you halfway up your steps, burning with frustration and something dangerously close to excitement.
You were at your desk, living your best paper-filled, report-submitting, I-am-not-dating-an-Admiral fantasy. Your coworkers were scattered around the office; some drafting memos, some pretending to work while obviously eavesdropping every time your chair creaked.
It had been two days since the walking home incident. You hadn’t seen Kuzan since. You thought maybe, just maybe, he got bored. Or distracted by, say, an international pirate incident.
You were wrong.
Because then he brought you lunch.
Not just “here’s a sandwich” lunch.
No.
A complete, hot bento tray. One brimming with grilled fish, seasoned rice, pickled vegetables, and a tiny handwritten note tucked under the chopsticks that said,
“Eat properly. You forget when you’re thinking too hard. —K”
You didn’t see him arrive. He ghosted in during a meeting, dropped it on your desk like it was a totally normal thing for a god-tier Admiral to do, nodded, and walked out before your brain rebooted.
The rice was shaped like a polar bear.
And that’s when your office lost its goddamn mind.
You blinked down at the tray.
Your seatmate leaned over slowly. “Is that… lunch?”
“…Yes.”
“From Kuzan?”
You stared. “Maybe?”
Another colleague peeked around the divider. “Are you dating him?!”
You hissed, “No!”
Someone in the back: “You have a note. That’s a love note. That’s food-based affection. That’s courtin.”
The tech clerk: “That fish is perfectly grilled. Do you know what that means? It means he planned this.”
“Why is the rice shaped like a polar bear?” another whispered. “That’s intimacy. That’s crafted desire.”
You covered the tray as if it were contraband. “Everyone, please shut up before a Vice Admiral shows up and courts-martials my ass for ‘romantic fraternization via lunchbox.’”
Your team leader peeked in. “Is that Admiral Kuzan’s handwriting?”
You froze. “How do you know what his handwriting looks like?”
She gave you a haunted look. “I audit reports. He writes like he’s seducing the margins.”
A pause.
Then the intern, utterly starstruck, said, “You’re going to be an Admiral’s spouse. You’ll get custom quarters. Heated floors. Breakfast cocoa.”
You paled. “I kissed him once at New Year’s!”
“You say that,” someone muttered darkly, “but he brought you a polar bear bento. That’s emotional commitment.”
You stabbed a piece of fish, your face red. “If I eat this, will everyone stop talking?”
No one moved. Someone might have been taking notes. Someone else was openly sweating.
You looked at the note again.
You looked at the food.
You looked at your team and hissed, “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
And then you took a bite.
Someone screamed.
You step into the mess hall, your tray clutched in your hands, hoping to eat your lunch in peace, but you’re already bracing for impact. You’ve been here before, dodging looks, side comments, and knowing glances. The last thing you want is for the chaos that is your romantic life to be dissected over plates of soggy vegetables, sad fries, and mystery meat.
You glance around, mentally checking off your usual suspects. At least Kuzan isn’t around yet…then again, the mess hall’s usual chaos might give him the best cover for whatever his next move is. And, okay, maybe you’ve been avoiding him just a little, since that incident where you joked that he’d never survive your friend group’s merciless gossip session.
You’d said it casually enough, half-laughing, but that doesn’t stop you from flushing at the memory. "You’re too chill," you’d told him. "We gossip like we’re paid for it. You’d melt."
His sunglasses had slid down his nose a little, revealing the smallest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Try me.”
You hadn’t taken him seriously. Who would? You’d seen how he handles everything like he’s always just a step away from having the most philosophical conversation with a snowstorm. But still, there was that nagging little feeling of dread as you approached the cafeteria, your steps slowing just a bit.
You set your tray down, hopeful. A sip of water, maybe a quick nibble, and you could just eat. Peacefully.
But no.
The moment you sit, it happens. Like the universe has conspired to make sure your romantic drama is always the main event. You can’t even take a breath before you hear it.
“Oh my god, tell me she didn’t go back to him again.”
You groan inwardly, squeezing your eyes shut. Seriously? Out of all the places to catch a break...
“Swear on Garp’s beard. She did. She always does.”
“Tragic.”
You round the final corner, and then it all slows down. There he is. Admiral Kuzan. Sunglasses on, of course, because what else would an Admiral do in the middle of your social disaster? Legs casually propped up on a chair. A cup of tea in both hands, looking like the world’s most jaded old lady who’s heard all the gossip, but still wants to listen to it again for kicks.
He doesn’t notice you yet. Or maybe he does, but he's pretending not to because he's too busy saying:
“So wait, was it the twins from the West Wing or the guy with the sword collection?”
You choke. The sound barely leaves your throat, but it's enough. “KUZAN.”
The table turns as one, like a synchronized feeding frenzy. Every single one of them catches the shift in your tone, ready to enjoy the latest episode of Your Life, Season 2: Kuzan's Unlikely Commentary.
“Kuzu was just helping us pick sides,” one friend says, her voice sweet with mock innocence.
“Yeah,” another grins, “He’s Team Dump-Him-For-Your-Own-Good-You-Deserve-Better.”
Kuzan raises a hand lazily in solidarity. “They asked for my opinion.”
Your seatmate, with an air of unearned pride, adds, “He has insight. He’s seen things.”
You can’t take it anymore. You snap, sitting down beside him, your tray pushed aside in frustration. “He’s a living disaster.”
Kuzan, unfazed, leans toward you with a low smirk, his voice dropping to a private pitch, just for you. “I make exceptions.”
It’s like he’s daring you to do something about it. And for a moment, all you can do is blink at him. He’s not wrong. He makes exceptions for everything, like, say, inserting himself into your drama like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
A quick glance around the table confirms that everyone’s waiting for the next punchline. They love this. All of them, grinning, eager for you to explode or for Kuzan to throw another snide remark. Either way, they’re entertained.
You glance at him, your heart still racing, and sigh dramatically, hoping your sheer exasperation will be enough to make him reconsider.
It’s not.
He raises his teacup, sipping it slowly, almost too carefully, as if savoring the chaos he’s helped stir.
Your friend casually chews her food, completely unbothered by the fact that the room is now an arena of your personal life. “So when’s the wedding?”
You blink, horrified. “There’s no wedding.”
Kuzan just shrugs, his grin widening. “Not yet.”
Your head slumps onto the table in defeat. You swear you feel the weight of the entire cafeteria pressing down on you.
One of your friends reaches over and pats your hair, trying to comfort you as if you’re the one in emotional turmoil. “It’s okay, sweetie. He’s basically your boyfriend now.”
“He’s not my—” you start, but Kuzan cuts you off with a smug, self-satisfied smile.
“She kissed me on New Year’s,” he announces to the table, taking another sip of his tea. “Didn’t know who I was. Pretty romantic, honestly.”
You groan, mortified beyond reason. “You’re conniving.”
“I know,” he replies smoothly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You looked really cute when you said it.”
You squint at him, your annoyance bubbling over. “You’re here because you want more intel on me, aren’t you? You’re infiltrating my group.”
He doesn’t even pretend to deny it. He just smiles wider, the ice in his gaze cooler than the tea in his cup.
“If I wanted to know everything about you,” he says smoothly, “I’d just ask your friends. They like me.”
Your entire table nods in unison, like they’ve all been quietly plotting to make him feel like a member of the group.
“I made dumplings,” one of them announces with a grin, pulling out a small container like they’re offering up a sacrifice. “Kuzu gets first pick.”
You watch in resigned horror as Kuzan reaches forward and picks one up, acting like the smug, frostbitten gossip queen he now is. He takes a bite like he’s been doing this for years, settling into his newfound place in your social circle like it was his all along.
And just like that, your world spirals further out of control.
You are losing control of your life.
You are beginning to wonder what exactly it would take to reassert control over your life, but a creeping suspicion settles in your stomach. If Admiral Kuzan hovered over you in the dark of night, you’d probably just pretend to care. You can’t be the type to just… give in to your basest physical instincts, right?
A woman like you doesn’t fall prey to that.
You made a plan. A real one. With bullet points. The “I am a rational adult, and not in a flirtationship with an iceberg in uniform” kind of plan.
Step one: Do not react to Kuzan.
Step two: Avoid any isolated locations.
Step three: Be assertive. You are a professional. You own your dignity.
Step four: If he shows up again, you would calmly, politely, and clearly say, “This is inappropriate.”
Perfect.
You felt powerful. You felt in control.
That lasted exactly one morning.
Because, of course, he showed up again.
In the mess hall.
Casually leaning on the counter like he didn’t outrank everyone in the room and wasn’t here for any reason except you.
You grabbed your tray, took a deep breath, and marched over. Assertive. Respectful. Dignified.
“Admiral Aokiji,” you said, trying not to sound like you wanted to strangle him with your salad tongs.
He glanced over, a smile already forming. “Yo.”
You put your tray down. “We need to talk.”
“Sure,” he said, sipping from his mug. “You first.”
You sat across from him, hands steady. “I need you to stop. Following me. Watching me. Correcting my form. Lurking around corners like a sexy frost specter. I’m trying to do my job without my nervous system short-circuiting every time you lean too close.”
He blinked slowly.
Then said, “You think I’m sexy?”
You hiss.
“That’s not the point—”
“It kinda is.”
You gawked. This man was insufferable.
Kuzan took another sip, calm as the sea. “You said I’m sexy. Frost Specter’s a new one. Not bad. Bit dramatic.”
You smacked your palm to your forehead. “I’m being serious!”
“So am I,” he said with that lazy, unreadable grin. “I’m not gonna stop liking you just because you’re bad at processing attention.”
You opened your mouth to argue.
Nothing came out.
Your brain was buffering.
He stood, tray in hand, and said, “Lemme know when you’re ready to lose the war. I’ve got time.”
And then, of course, he winked.
The audacity.
Later that same week, you were halfway through filing requisitions when an enormous, somber shadow fell across your desk.
You looked up slowly.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku was standing there. Grim. Hands behind his back. His eyebrows are doing things that should be registered as warfare offenses.
Your soul left your body faster than a roadrunner escaping a coyote.
“Walk with me,” he said.
You obeyed. Because Fleet Admiral.
The two of you moved down the corridor in tense silence until you reached an empty stairwell. Classic military confrontation zone. Echoes. No escape. Emotional damage is imminent.
Sengoku exhaled deeply. “So. About Kuzan.”
You froze. “Sir?”
He gave you a look that could curdle milk. “Don’t play innocent. You’re not in trouble.”
You blinked. “I’m not?”
“No. I just need to know if I have to start redirecting every single Marine under the age of forty away from you before they accidentally piss him off.”
You stared.
“Because right now,” Sengoku continued flatly, “Kuzan is one flirtation away from ‘accidentally’ freezing someone’s boots to the floor. He’s subtle about it. But not subtle enough.”
You opened your mouth.
Sengoku held up a hand. “Listen. I’ve seen this before. The man is calm, yes. Laid back? Sure. But he likes you. And when he likes something? He’s like a damn glacier. You can’t stop him. You can only pray it’s heading away from your fleet.”
“I—I didn’t mean for—”
“Kid,” Sengoku said, sighing again. “I don’t care. Just don’t break his heart. It’s hard enough getting him to show up on time.”
You gawked.
Then, quietly: “…Is this actually happening?”
He turned to go. “Oh, it’s happening. Just hope Akainu doesn’t see it.”
You whimpered. “Why?”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Because then I have to hear about it.”
Marines are weird by nature. But lately, the ones you work with have been even stranger than usual. At first, it seemed like just an odd coincidence. You’d go to ask a junior officer something, and they’d nod politely, avoid eye contact, then either respond with awkward silence or give you a stiff salute before quickly retreating in the opposite direction.
Then it spread.
No one below Vice Admiral rank would speak to you directly. Not ensigns, not captains, not even that overly confident commander who used to flirt with you like you were a prize to win in a card game.
It became a pattern.
You asked someone if you could borrow a training manual. They handed it to your friend and ran.
You dropped a pen during drills, and an entire group of rookies stared at it, refusing to move, until a Vice Admiral walked by and picked it up for you, looking distinctly confused.
Even the Marines who used to flirt with you now avoided you like you were a live wire wrapped in paperwork and consequences.
And then you heard it.
Whispers in the hallway.
“She’s… his.”
“I saw her eating lunch with him again.”
“He adjusted her hair in public. He touches her back.”
“He’s in her friend group. She doesn’t have to speak. She commands with her eyes.”
“I think he leaves her notes.”
“I heard he froze a captain’s chair for sitting too close to her.”
You were spiraling.
Your thoughts were a chaotic mess, and the only thing that could make it worse was the inevitable encounter. You stormed into the mess hall with purpose, your mind already halfway to confrontation mode, like an unstoppable force.
And then, of course, he did it.
You were pulling your hair up, the struggle of your ponytail becoming more intense as you stretched your arm high, your wrist fighting against the stubborn hold of the hair tie. Eyes squinted in concentration, you were already on the edge of frustration.
Kuzan slid in behind you.
Smooth, effortless. Like he was the world’s most shameless romantic saboteur. He stepped close, too close, and before you could blink, he plucked the tie from your fingers. Gently. Like it was his to take, as if you’d handed it to him yourself.
You froze, turning, stunned. “What—”
He met your eyes with that same calm, unreadable gaze.
And then, he snapped it onto his wrist. Just like that. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged to him.
You gawked, heart pounding, voice stumbling out of you. “Give that back.”
“Nope.”
He rolled up his sleeve just enough to make the black elastic visible, wrapped snugly around his wrist. The soft fabric. Your hair tie.
“I need that,” you insisted, voice strained with irritation.
He raised a brow. “You have more.”
You pointed at him, frustrated. “No, don’t—That’s not what I meant.”
He smiled, a lazy, confident smirk. “It is now.”
And from that moment, it only got worse.
You were in a meeting, talking to someone. You smiled, said hi, expecting the usual friendly response. But this time, they didn’t answer right away. No, they glanced at Kuzan first. Waited for his subtle nod before responding to you. As if you were a secondary concern.
The heat in your cheeks flared as the frustration mounted.
The next day, you couldn’t take it anymore. You dragged him into an empty hallway, seething with anger.
“You’re marking me!” you snapped, face flushed.
He tilted his head, completely unfazed. “Technically, you marked me first.”
“It’s a stolen hair tie, not a marriage contract!” You were close to losing it entirely now.
He leaned in, smirking as he lowered his voice to a teasing rumble. “It’s on my wrist. Right side. Traditionally, that means I’m taken.”
You sputtered in disbelief. “You are NOT—”
He cut you off with a soft, teasing hum. “Mm.” Then, leaning closer still, he whispered, “Why are you so cute when you’re mad about me claiming you?”
You nearly combusted right there, heat flaring through your chest as your brain short-circuited.
And when you stormed off, furious beyond words?
He stayed behind, unbothered. Hand still in his pocket, that black elastic band peeking out from under his sleeve.
Smug. Quiet. Claiming.
Your trouble with men in power didn’t end with Kuzan and Sengoku. Oh no, it seemed that the whole universe had conspired to make your life even more complicated. And seemingly, Kuzan’s adopted mentor, Garp, had caught wind of things.
Not because he cared, of course not. He was far too busy eating mountains of rice crackers and terrorizing rookies. But even he couldn’t ignore the growing phenomenon that was:
“Kuzan’s Girl.”
It was impossible to avoid the whispers now. People were afraid to look at you too long. You hadn’t carried your own tray in a week. The West Wing had started calling you “Lady Ice.”
And today, as luck would have it, Garp cornered Kuzan in a hallway.
Not with fists (yet), but with a squint. The kind of squint that only a seasoned grandpa who’d personally buried both friends and enemies under mountains of rubble could master.
“Oi,” Garp grunted, folding his arms. “You dating?”
Kuzan, who was halfway through eating a popsicle in winter like the walking contradiction he was, blinked slowly over his sunglasses.
“…What gave it away?”
Garp’s eyes narrowed, steely and suspicious. “The base has gone soft. I’ve seen men survive war zones with more confidence than they show around her.”
Kuzan nodded sagely. “Yeah. She’s kinda scary when she wants to be.”
“That’s not a no,” Garp muttered, his tone darker.
Kuzan took another bite of his popsicle. “It’s not.”
Garp bristled. “So? You dating or not?”
Kuzan paused for a moment. Then softly, casually, with the exact amount of laziness that made it somehow worse, he said, “I’m almost engaged.”
Garp froze, his mouth slightly agape, as the words sank in.
Kuzan didn’t elaborate. He just smiled faintly, licked his popsicle, and, most infuriatingly, did not blink.
“WHAT.” Garp’s voice cracked.
Kuzan shrugged nonchalantly. “She hasn’t said yes yet. But she hasn’t said no. And she gave me a hair tie.” He tapped the elastic band on his wrist, like it was the final piece of evidence that settled the matter.
Garp stared at the elastic, his face slowly shifting between disbelief and a dawning horror. “A HAIR TIE?!”
Kuzan nodded solemnly. “Very symbolic.”
Garp clutched his head like he was trying to stave off a migraine. “You’re not even dating!”
“We are, in the spiritual sense.”
Garp threw his hands in the air. “You’re delusional!”
“Maybe. But I’m winning.”
Garp pointed a massive hand at him, face twisting with frustration. “If you get her pregnant, I will personally punch your frozen balls into the next era.”
Kuzan grinned, his calm demeanor never faltering. “You think I’d survive long enough to get her that flustered? She nearly threw a chair at me last week for licking her dessert spoon.”
Garp looked like he had aged twenty years in real time, his face contorting in sheer disbelief. “Why are you like this?”
“I’m in love, old man.”
“You’re a menace.”
“Yep.”
Garp stormed off, muttering something about paperwork, vasectomies, and potentially needing a drink strong enough to undo what just transpired.
Kuzan finished his popsicle and, with his usual lazy stride, wandered back toward your department, wondering if you’d let him borrow another hair tie. You know, for balance.
And since Kuzan had more or less learned how to be a menace from Garp, the old man was now fully invested.
You were having a typical day.
You’d successfully dodged Kuzan all morning. No bra strap crimes. No hair twirling. No glacial flirting with the intensity of a man who’d already picked out baby names.
Just peace. Calm. Paperwork.
BANG.
The door to your office exploded inward like it owed someone money.
You yelped and nearly fell out of your chair. “WHAT—”
Standing in the doorway, fuming like a steam-powered gorilla, was Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp.
“YOU,” he thundered.
You blinked. “Me?”
He pointed dramatically. “HAIR TIE GIRL.”
“…I’m sorry?”
“Did you or did you not give Kuzan a hair tie?!”
You froze. “I mean… technically—?”
“HE THINKS YOU’RE ENGAGED.”
You knocked over your entire cup of tea.
“WHAT?”
Garp stormed into the room, muttering to himself like a man barely clinging to sanity. “He said he’s almost engaged. Said you didn’t say no. Said the hair tie was a ‘symbolic promise of trust and long-term monogamy.’”
You were choking on air. “IT WAS AN ELASTIC BAND.”
Garp slammed his hand on your desk with such force that the papers threatened to fly off. “You need to clarify immediately. He’s naming your children in his sleep.”
You made a strangled noise. “WHAT?!”
“He told Akainu you two were ‘spiritually married with soft domestic boundaries.’”
You screamed into a folder, your face buried in the mess.
“I am not engaged. And I am not registered to a government-sanctioned ice husband!”
Garp glared, his eyes narrowing like lasers. “Tell that to Kuzan. He’s walking around with that hair tie like it’s a damn engagement bracelet.”
“Oh my god.” You hissed.
“He called it the ‘bracelet of fate,’” Garp growled, “Said it snapped onto his wrist on its own, like destiny.”
You collapsed onto your desk, your face buried in your arms. “I’m going to kill him.”
“You’ll have to get in line behind me,” Garp muttered before storming out. He was already muttering about shipping Kuzan to the Moon.
You sat there, stunned. The air in the room felt thicker, like everything had just shifted into some uncharted territory you couldn’t even begin to process.
Then your comm snail buzzed lazily on your desk.
“Yo. You okay? Garp looked mad. You didn’t tell him about our honeymoon plans yet, did you?”
You hurled the snail across the room, sending it crashing into the wall.
Oh, it’s over for you.
You are officially spoken for.
Not with words.
Not with policy.
But with one quiet, unmistakable act of nefarious, possessive Admiral-coded romance in the form of… your goddamn ponytail holder.