Archive of Our Own ^beta

You first meet Portgas D. Ace when he watches you spit in another pirate’s eye.

He laughs himself right off of his stool as the man leaps back with a shouted curse. You are momentarily arrested by the sight of him; all smooth, freckled flesh and shiny black hair and gleaming white teeth as he cackles uncontrollably on the floor. There is no lack of pirates to be found in the world around you, but you have never seen anyone like him before.

As the pirate you spit on reaches forward to grab your arm, you are caught between your body’s instinctive avoidance and the idle curiosity of whether or not that cute shirtless guy gets cold.

Distracted, your reflexes aren’t quite up to the task of avoiding your aggressor. When your heart leaps into your throat at the brush of his fingers against your arm, the sensation stops just as abruptly as it had begun.

“Hey, now—” says your freckled saviour, wiping tears from his eyes, “—I think we can all agree you deserved that one. Let it go.”

Your opponent, predictably, does not back down. Unfortunately for him, he is promptly taught a lesson in the form of Ace’s flaming fist in his face.

“Well, I’ve had about enough of that.” Ace dusts off his shorts and turns to smirk at you, flames still licking at his forearm. The smartass expression is irritatingly well-suited to his face and he seems to know it. “Let’s go.”

“I’m not with you, either,” you say. Perhaps you’re not opposed to the idea, but his confidence makes you want to defy him.

The smirk playing on his mouth only widens. You get the impression that Ace isn’t accustomed to giving up. “Maybe not yet. We’ll see about that.”

“Will we?”

He raises a few fingers and wiggles them at you. “Three days. Spend the next three days with me, and I guarantee you’ll change your mind.”

You have no real reason to refuse. Your Log Pose won’t change until then, anyway. Besides, it’s a little bit impossible to dislike the man in front of you, eyes burning bright at the challenge you’ve offered him.

As soon as your chin dips in an affirmative, Ace’s hand closes around your wrist. His skin is curiously hot against yours but just shy of uncomfortable, and you like it. You like him, maybe.

You stumble a little as he pulls you; the action forces your gaze down towards your joined arms, and as you see his timer, your heart loses its footing in your rib cage too. The countdown on his wrist is proudly bared to the world like most of the rest of him.

It says 12 years, plus a handful of months. That’s awfully short, you think, for someone so young—assuming his soulmate is roughly the same age. A little unfortunate, though perhaps not unusual considering the times. Hopefully enough for a happy life, if not a full one.

Ultimately, though, it’s really none of your business, and your thoughts are diverted back to Ace’s chatter as he suggests places to eat and sightseeing spots.

☆☆☆

As it turns out, your own timer appears that day. It's impossible to tell who it is in a place like Mock Town, where travelers are constantly arriving and departing, or when it appeared—you had been wearing the Log Pose all day, and besides you aren't one to sit and stare at your own hands—but your soulmate is probably still nearby.

It might not mean anything. It doesn’t really mean anything.

You don't feel any different, considering you've theoretically met the love of your life, and isn't it a kind of silly concept? That someone out there is destined for you. That you won't be as happy unless you're with them.

Honestly, you're plenty happy now. It doesn't really matter who it is or where they are, or if you ever see them again. It would be nice, almost definitely, but a luxury comparable to an expensive bag or a new coat of paint on your boat.

Especially since you would hardly get to know them at all. Your timer shows less than two years; a sliver of your time on this earth, if you’re lucky. It would just be painful to get attached.

It could be Ace, you think to yourself, with his sun-kissed skin and warm hands. For some reason, the thought keeps you awake a little longer than usual.

☆☆☆

He asks you about it the next day; the 1Y peeks out ominously under the wristband of your Log Pose.

"Didn't know you met your soulmate already," he says in a conversational tone. Neither of you bring up how tragically short the timer is.

"Ah, yeah. Me neither, actually, until last night."

Ace’s eyebrow raises and he smiles devilishly at you. “Think it’s me?”

“Why, did you want it to be?” you reply slyly.

“Nah. I’m too pretty to die that young.” You both laugh. The atmosphere is light, sweet words and warm glances. It feels like it’s been a while since you wanted to flirt like this. “I’m not that interested in the whole soulmate thing. It’s just funny since mine appeared yesterday too, but we’ve both been travelling. It could even be your fiancé from yesterday.”

There's something just a touch stiff about his mouth as he grins at you, and you wonder for a moment if he cares more than he's letting on. But it's not your business, and you don't know him well enough to pry, so instead you just roll your eyes and scoff.

“Ugh, don’t even joke!”

☆☆☆

Three days pass, easy and quick. Neither of you are particularly serious with each other, and your sense of humour clicks. Ace is a handful from start to finish, falling asleep in restaurants and picking fights with other pirates when the mood suits him, but it’s always fun. He’s fun.

You’re a little reluctant to part ways with him. It’s not like he won his little bet, but neither would you be opposed to spending more time with him, and he looks torn between smug and embarrassed when you say so.

The redness of his cheeks is a good look, you think.

Unfortunately, you’re still on a commission, and he’s still got—some pirate things to do, you suppose. You’re headed in different directions.

“Look,” he says, “I really liked spending time with you, you know? I mean, it’s not a big deal or anything, but I’d like to see you again.”

“Oh, well, if it’s not a big deal then forget about it,” you tease, and Ace rolls his eyes playfully as he presses a scrap of paper in your hand.

“It’s my Vivre Card. I have to go, but let’s meet again.”

“Sure,” you say easily. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“One more thing, sweetheart.”

He leans in close, closer, until you’re flustered by his proximity. His eyelids droop to half-mast as his gaze wanders down your face and settles on your lips.

“So,” he drawls, “you never told me how much I changed your mind about me.”

“You’re still kind of an ass,” you reply. You can feel him grinning when you kiss him goodbye.

You end up meeting again a few weeks later. You’re in the vicinity of Sabaody Archipelago, checking out some of the tourist groves to report on business opportunities and other boring things for your client; it’s not really a glamorous job but it allows you to travel frequently, and the flexibility is worth spending a few days talking to store owners and scoping out clientele.

Ace calls you while you’re compiling notes on restaurant menus and asks if you’re free; you end up making a date out of it. He knows the place better than you’d expect, and puffs up with a humorous level of self-confidence when you comment on that fact as he swings your joined hands back and forth.

“I’ve been here a few times before,” he says, and you watch nostalgia paint his face. “Got into some real fights here.”

“Seems like you do that a lot.”

“I am a pirate.”

“Trust me,” you say, “it’s hard to forget.”

That’s not strictly true; he fits in surprisingly well with your normal life, but you just know that he would hate to be restricted by anything close to a normal job.

“Seems it runs in the family,” you add, because lately his ‘little brother Luffy’ has been in some paper or another almost daily. 

It was an innocuous comment, but mentioning Luffy makes him swell with pride. Ace comes alive with some kind of energy you’ve never seen before, delighted to continue the topic. He talks about Luffy as if the boy’s accomplishments are his own, sweet and fond and protective all at once.

“He’s really doing well for himself, isn’t he?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “You seem proud of him.”

“I am. Always. He’s gonna make it big, believe me.”

You do. You think he could probably tell you all sorts of things and you’d believe him; he’s just that sort of person. 

An idle few months pass in that fashion. You’re still young, and weren’t looking for a relationship; the pace suits you just fine. It’s amusing how often you end up in the same place, and pretty soon you’re barely even planning meeting spots; the connection becomes something of a guessing game between you. You gravitate towards each other, each caught in the other’s orbit, sharing thought processes to the point of separately booking rooms in the same inn on the same night.

Exclusivity ends up following just as naturally. You probably wouldn’t have the time to date someone else, and anyway it’s gotten hard to think of anybody else you’d be interested in besides Ace. It could be love, but the words seem too large to even get stuck in your throat. They roll around in your chest like an unbroken egg, warmed by every brush of his skin against yours. That’s a thought for much later; for now, you’re just going to enjoy what you’ve got.

You’re eating parfaits on the deck of your boat when your den den mushi rings.

Ace gestures for you to answer it. He’s preoccupied with quietly but determinedly fishing a strawberry out of the bottom of his glass as you get up, so you don’t bother moving inside the cabin and settle the snail on the table instead.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Can you hear me? ”

“Oh, grandpa!” you exclaim. It’s been a while since you’ve made a call; work has been crazy, and it slipped your mind for a couple of weeks. It’s not all that uncommon, considering how much you travel, but you feel a bit guilty for having stayed silent that long.

“Got it,” Ace says triumphantly, before his brain catches up and he grimaces in apology.

“Who’s that? Are you with someone? ”

“Oh, yeah. I’m with, um…” It’s not like you’re ashamed of Ace, but you don’t want your grandfather to make a big deal out of it, and you’re kiiiiind of dating a famous pirate, so, like—

“Boyfriend? ”

“Yessir,” Ace leans over and says before you can come up with a suitable excuse. He smirks at you, the little shit. “Your granddaughter is a treasure.”

“You treating her like one? ”

“Grandpa!”

“Of course.”

“Ace!”

“Ace? ” a different, feminine voice asks.

“Mira, hey. Thanks for checking up on grandpa. Ace is...my boyfriend.”

“That’s funny, I just saw an Ace in the paper last week,” she says.

“That would be me,” Ace says unrepentantly. You shoot a glare at him that only makes him shrug. “It’s probably better if they know that before we meet.”

“You don’t have any reason to—”

“That’s a good idea,” your grandfather says. You try not to scream. “You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before. I want to meet him.”

“Never?” Ace eyes you with renewed interest. There’s obvious satisfaction in his eyes at being the first boyfriend worth mentioning to your family. Not that you did so by choice. 

You groan and wipe a hand over your face, trying to regain control of the situation. “Listen, grandpa, Ace is a very busy pir—” maybe you don’t want to reinforce his criminal aspects, “—man. He’s a busy man, so he probably won’t have time to just—”

“Two weeks,” Ace interjects with an even more obnoxious smirk. He catches your angry fist with one hand and holds you away from the receiver. “I’ve gotta settle some stuff with my division if I’m going to be away, but I would love to visit. Thank you for inviting me, sir.”

“It’s settled, then,” your grandfather says. He sounds pleased, which drains some of the fight out of you. “I expect both of you to come. It’s been too long since I’ve seen your face.”

“Of course, grandpa. I’ll see you soon.” Like hell you’d let Ace have free reign to just say anything to your friends and family. You hang up the call, having suffered a complete and utter defeat.

“Isn’t this great,” Ace says without a trace of sarcasm, “they’re going to love me. Trust me. Everything will be fine.”

You can only hope so.

You meet him in Pancake Cove two weeks later. Ace still isn't even wearing a shirt, and you pray that your grandfather won't judge the apparent douchebag surfer you've chosen to date. 

"Seriously," you say without very much seriousness at all, "if grandpa doesn't like you then it's over."

"Just like that? Damn, old man's got some power." Ace feigns fear for a moment and then smiles. "Don't worry, babe . I got this. Parents and kids love me."

You take his hand and begin walking towards your house. "You're a pirate."

"It's not as important as you think."

☆☆☆

The house you share with your grandfather is modest but beloved. He's meticulous about gardening and cleaning, in the way of people who have an excess of free time and a lack of outings. You lead Ace over the clean white stones marking the way to the front door, past trees that have grown up with you and flowerbeds riotous with varieties of tulips. 

"Grandpa is a nature enthusiast," you say fondly when Ace casts an appreciative eye over the garden. 

"Looks nice. You ever climb those trees?"

"Yup. Dislocated my shoulder trying to get down once. Grandpa was not happy."

"A girl after my own heart," Ace declares. "I used to climb trees almost every day with my brothers too."

"You have another?"

His expression darkens with something nostalgic and sad. "Had another."

"Sorry."

"'S fine." He shakes his head, arranging his face back into a more neutral countenance, and gestures at the door. "Ladies first."

You twist the knob and enter; it's quiet inside, more so than you’d expect.

“Grandpa?” you call out, and receive no response. “Mira?”

“Maybe nobody’s home.”

“No, we arranged this meeting time. It would be weird if they went out.”

You walk through a silent kitchen and living room, then dash up the stairs with a growing sense of worry. Every room is empty. Could something have—

“Found him,” Ace calls out from downstairs. You hurry in the direction of his voice and find Ace crouched in the yard in front of your grandfather, who is asleep in a lawn chair beside the cosmos.

“Thank god,” you breathe. You cross the garden and check for yourself that he looks fine, he’s just asleep. “He isn’t supposed to be out by himself.”

“He looks pretty healthy.”

“He’s old,” you say. “He has trouble remembering where he is sometimes and his limbs are weak. He could have an accident and hurt himself.”

“I don’t remember raising you to be such a rude child,” your grandfather says, opening his eyes and squinting at you. Ace laughs, earning a slap on his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” you reply, “I think I take after a certain grumpy old man. It’s been a while, grandpa. How have things been?”

“The same as usual,” he sighs, sounding disappointed. “Mira comes to visit most days after work. I water the plants. I take a nap.”

“Sounds like a nice, peaceful life,” you say.

“Sounds boring,” Ace says.

“It is boring,” your grandfather complains. “You must be Ace. I’m glad to see my granddaughter has brought someone who knows the value of adventure.”

“Grandpa, do you want me to become a pirate or something?”

“Well…”

“That could be arranged,” Ace says, his eyes curving up into crescents of amusement.

“I’m not becoming a pirate.”

“No, I suppose I don’t want you to be in that much danger either,” your grandfather says. He makes a motion as if to get up out of his lawn chair; Ace is at his side before you can even move, helping him effortlessly. “Take a vacation, though. Live a little! You’re too young to be so focused on making money.”

“Grandpa, I make money so you can live in comfort, you know?”

“This old man has had enough of a comfortable life. I can die happy now.”

“You’re not gonna die,” you say, smiling at him. “You’ve been saying that for years and it’s never happened. I’m sure you’ve still got—”

“Look, child.” Your grandfather offers you his hand, arm trembling in that way only the elderly do, like he might just shake apart if you touch him too forcefully. You grasp your grandfather’s hand and gently turn it over.

His wrist says 00.00. You expected this, of course; your grandmother has been dead for several years now.

“I saw my own timer on your grandmother’s wrist and worked it out when she passed,” he says. “I have about two months now. It’s time I joined her.”

You feel lightheaded for a moment and then remember to breathe.

“Oh.”

“It’s okay, dear,” he says; he turns his hand again in your grasp and holds your arm, squeezing with surprising strength. The sudden burst of vigor is oddly comforting, but you still feel tears threatening to well up from some place deep inside you that normally stays closed and quiet. “I’ve had a nice, long life. We all die someday.”

“It’s just—soon. It’s sooner than I expected.” You take a shaky breath. Ace is silent beside your grandfather, eyes darting up to check on you and then away towards the flowers, giving you a little privacy. “Okay. I’m going to stay home as much as I can, then. Until you… Until it happens.”

“Thank you,” your grandfather says, “that would make me very happy.”

☆☆☆

You learn a few things over the next couple of weeks.

Portgas D. Ace is an immaculate house guest.

You put him up in the guest room ("Woah, did your grandma decorate this? It's so…girly." "Mira stays here if she needs to spend the night. You're gonna sleep in that pastel pink bed and you're gonna like it." ) and quickly fall back into your daily routine. The pirate is fairly quiet and clean; he makes his bed, although he claims it’s only because he’s a guest. He’s great at yard work. He likes to play cards with your grandfather.

“If I had known you were this useful,” you say as he lights the stove with a flick of his finger, “I would’ve wifed you up ages ago.”

Ace lets out a surprised guffaw of laughter. “Wouldn’t I be the one wifeing you up?”

“Unimportant.”

“Besides, I thought you were with me for my incredible good looks, not my skills.”

“Hmm,” you pretend to think about it while he shoves you playfully. “Yeah, the skills are just a bonus.”

He helps you mix batter for a cake, purposefully getting in the way and swiping fingerfuls until you elbow him hard enough to make the breath leave his lungs.

“This is assault,” Ace wheezes.

“Yeah, an assault on Grandpa's birthday cake.”

“How old is the old man today anyway?"

“He's turning eighty-nine," you reply. It's hard to say if he would have been happy to reach ninety; for some, birthdays gradually transition from exciting to dreadful, like Christmas presents from a relative who can't begin to guess at your interests. Eventually you have to pretend to be happy about a bunch of crap you can’t even enjoy.

"Damn, hope I never get that old.”

“He’s in good health for his age,” you say as you pour the batter into a pan and stick it in the oven, “it might not be so bad. Maybe a pretty young lady will come to check in on you.”

“Don’t need that,” Ace says, “I mean, ‘less you’re the one checking in on me. Then I might consider it.”

“I’d be just as old as you, dummy.” The thought makes you smile, though; Ace’s arms slide around you for a brief hug as you allow yourself to imagine.

Your timer says you won’t make it that far (and you wonder if maybe, just maybe it’s someone else—maybe you’ll have that future—). But it’s a very nice dream.

☆☆☆

“Mira, hurry and take it in. I’ll distract Ace with the cake trimmings.”

“What is he, a dog?” Mira hefts the cake and rolls her eyes, smiling at Ace.

“Woof woof,” Ace says with a grin. He points at the confection and lights every candle at once. “Don’t worry. I’m not that bad. I’m a nice pirate.”

Your grandfather cries as you sing the birthday song, crumpling a tissue in one quivering hand; he can’t reach all of the candles, so you and Mira blow out the rest of them together; and then you switch out his tissue for the cake knife, guiding him slowly and carefully to complete the first cut.

“Did you wish for something good?”

“This year’s wish is for you,” he says with a loud sniff. “My troublesome, wonderful granddaughter. I want for nothing else on my last birthday.”

His eyes connect with Ace’s. “Take good care of her. I’ll haunt you in the afterlife if you don’t.”

“Grandpa!” For a second, you think that you might start crying too, but Ace’s hand rubs gentle circles on your back and you force the tears away.

“I will, sir,” Ace says. Your grandfather nods.

“That’s enough, then.”

The mortality reminders are a bit much, if you’re being honest with yourself, so you decide not to be. “Okay! Alright. Let’s enjoy the cake. I made red velvet, your favourite.”

“And I’m not going to nag you about how much you eat of it,” Mira adds.

“What a life I lead,” your grandfather sighs, “that it has to be a special occasion for an old man to eat as much cake as he wants.”

“The elderly are truly oppressed. Now show me how much to cut?”

Ace gets a call towards the end of his stay that brings him back to you with bright eyes and the sheen of anticipation on his face.

“I’ve got some business to take care of,” he says, “but—just if you want to, no big deal—I thought you might want to meet the crew. Just overnight or something, I know you have to be back, but the fleet isn’t that far right now.”

“I don’t know,” you say, just to watch him squirm a little. “Maybe I want it to be a big deal.”

“You wanna enter through a ring of fire? That could be arranged. We could do some explosions.” Flames lick at his fingertips for good measure, the heat warming your skin as he mimes a big hoop and some sparkles.

“...Nope, I changed my mind. Casual entrance is fine.”

“Suit yourself.” 

Ace is a little more tense than usual when you board the Moby Dick. He licks his lips and reaches for your hand, squeezing it tightly as he pulls you along.

“Time to meet Pops,” he says unnecessarily loudly, and you realize that he’s nervous.

“Aw, Ace. Don’t worry, I’m not going to embarrass you or anything! It’ll be fine.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” he mutters.

He escorts you in front of a man seemingly as tall as a mountain, sprawled in a throne with a gaggle of nurses and other pirates surrounding him.

“My son,” Whitebeard says by way of greeting. He lifts a hand to greet Ace, who returns the gesture with a fond smile. “And a girl! Lads, Ace brought a girl home!”

Ace endures an impressive amount of jeering and whistles before tugging you close and scowling at the gathering crowd. “Alright, enough! You fools’re gonna scare her away!”

“Look at him, getting all protective.” One of the pirates wipes away a fake tear. “Our little Ace is all grown up!”

“Don’t make me come over there, Arthur!”

Whitebeard looks you over. The gaze is impressively intimidating, even with your hand warm in Ace’s grip, even though you’re confident that you haven’t done anything wrong.

“My son is in your care,” Whitebeard says solemnly, an echo of your grandfather from just a few days prior. “Be good to him.”

“I will.”

“Even though he’s a handful.”

“Hey!”

☆☆☆

They hold a banquet to celebrate your visit. Ace claims that the crew will throw banquets for just about anything and that it really isn’t such big news that he could be dating someone; you don’t doubt it, but it’s fun to watch his nose turn red with embarrassment.

The fire burns late into the night. It seems like pirates never get tired of making merry; despite you and Ace being the guests of honour, the crew is happy to dance and sing and revel around you while you rest peacefully at the edges of the merriment.

Ace holds you firmly in his lap with one hand at your waist, the other holding a tankard of ale that's being perpetually refilled. His interest in the surrounding banter had faded with the sunlight, and under the cover of darkness he seems much more interested in mouthing at your neck than celebrating anything. His lips are warm and pleasant, gentle as they trail over every inch of available skin.

“Tired?” you ask, feeling him hum against your shoulder in response.

“Sitting here for so long is making me sleepy. Rather spend time with you. I can drink with these guys any time.”

“That’s not very nice,” says a drowsy-looking man reclining beside you. He shoots you a conspiratorial wink that goes unnoticed by your partner. “You should be nice around such a pretty girlfriend. Who taught you manners?”

“I’m plenty nice,” Ace replies. “Just ask her how nice I can be.”

Your face flushes. “You’re such an animal sometimes,” you complain, earning good-natured laughter from the surrounding men.

“Oops, she's mad. Since I’ve upset my pretty girlfriend,” Ace says, “I think it’s time I went and made it up to her.” He sets down the mug and stands up, lifting you in his arms. You squeak as your arms automatically encircle his neck, holding on for dear life, although it’s not like he would ever drop you. This is, in fact, probably the safest you’ve ever been.

The crew heckles him a bit as he carries you towards his quarters. Ace doesn’t pay it any mind so you decide not to either.

“Now who’s embarrassing who,” you demand once you’re out of earshot. The inside of the ship is much quieter than the deck, as if you’re not even on the same ship. Ace grins cockily at you and doesn’t say a word.

He kicks the door open with one heavy boot and throws you at the bed. “Dropping anchor!” he proclaims. You shriek indignantly, flailing as you bounce before dissolving into a fit of laughter that makes him snicker along with you—but his eyes are dark and intent as he shucks his hat and shoes, clambering over the mattress towards you.

You only just manage to fling your own shoes off before Ace is kissing a path up your leg, lips warm and wet, working at leaving little bruises. He smiles lazily as you shift beneath him, hands sliding through thick, soft waves of hair and pulling gently to bring him within range of your mouth. He smells like sweat and alcohol and woodsmoke, a comforting blend you've gotten used to.

“What did you think of today?” he asks, playfully biting at your lower lip. Ace’s body is an inferno against yours, warmth radiating like he’s a space heater. “Pops is cool, yeah?”

“They were nice,” you answer between kisses. Your hands are still in his hair, and he rumbles with satisfaction as you scratch your nails against his scalp. “They seem like good people. Whitebeard isn’t as scary as I expected.”

“Look at us, meeting each others’ families,” he says. There’s a giddy smile creeping across his face. “We’re so cute.”

“The cutest.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds before both of you laugh at each other. The atmosphere thickens, Ace’s lips brushing over your nose and cheek affectionately as he rolls his hips slowly, firmly against yours; you arch against him in response, and this time when he moves down your body, you don’t stop him.

☆☆☆

You lay awake long after you've cooled down, staring at Ace’s broad back. Whitebeard’s jolly roger stretches across the expanse of his skin, rippling over muscles as Ace shifts sleepily. You feel strange, in this unfamiliar room filled with Ace’s scent and belongings, lying beside a man whom you’ve grown way more attached to than you ever anticipated.

Alone with your thoughts, you can consider the idea that you’re in love with Ace. It’s a scary thing to admit, even just to yourself. It’s easy to say that you like him, you’re interested in him, you want him—but love is big. Love is you opening your arms and saying you can hurt me. Love is enduring, even if things get hard. Love is please be kind and I think of you often and your smile makes me happy and I’m committed to this. Love is the heat of your blood and the twinge in your stomach and admitting that it’s Ace, it’s because of Ace and for Ace and you hope that he feels the same way, but even if he doesn’t you won’t take it back. Love is handing him your heart and trusting that he won’t try to break it.

Love is pursuing this even though your wrist says it might only last a few more months; even though you might be burned. The thought makes you shiver behind him, and Ace stirs in response.

“Wha,” he grumbles, starting to roll over. You press a palm against his shoulder and hold him in place, shimmying closer to press your forehead against the nape of his neck.

I love you. In the darkness of his cabin, you slowly trace the lines of the words against the heated skin of his back and feel a frisson creep over him in response.

He takes a few seconds to work through the shapes, half asleep, before his breath hitches. “I,” he croaks, and then can’t seem to find any more words.

“You don’t have to say it back,” you whisper, because the words are so big already that they've taken up most of the room. You slide your arm over his waist and feel relieved when he takes hold of it, pulling it up to press against his chest. His heart is hammering wildly against his ribcage. “I don’t expect anything. I just wanted to say it. In case…”

In case there’s not enough time later. In case you don’t get another chance. In case you’re wasting time by not saying it when you know, in the marrow of your bones, that it’s true.

Ace is silent, but it’s a gentle silence, and that’s enough.

Your grandfather passes away on a cold afternoon in late December, just before Christmas. This feels unfair, somehow, but life often is; so you suck it up and arrange a quiet funeral.

The entire town comes out to pay their respects in fits and starts, like the disorganized march of ants, and they might as well be ants for how well you can see them through your tears. You were prepared for this moment, and yet each hug and condolence sets off a fresh wave of grief, until you’re trembling under the weight of so many peoples’ sympathies that you worry it might simply crush you.

Mira stays by your side, pale-faced but composed. Ace does too.

The service is well-attended and simple. You say words that you can barely remember later, ramblings on the funny things he used to say and his more poignant lessons, soundtracked by an audience of scattered laughs and sighs, and then they carry him out to the graveyard and lower the coffin into the ground, and then you are alone with an oddly unfamiliar patch of dirt and a gravestone, considering what lies just beneath it.

Mira doesn’t ask if you’re okay, because there’s no way you could be. She tells you that she’ll handle the reception if you want, and you leave it to her with only a faint, detached sense of guilt.

Ace lets you walk home by yourself; down the familiar streets, empty and quiet with everyone still at the reception; paths you’ve walked with your grandfather a hundred times. Without him, too, but today they just feel a little bit different. 

He follows you, at a respectful distance, into the house that will stand empty and quiet unless you inhabit it; and isn’t it a tragedy, that there might be nobody to water the flowers that have been tended so carefully for decades now? For some reason, that’s the thought that breaks your last wavering layer of calmness.

Ace lets you cry, and then he comes to keep you company.

He follows you out into the garden and sits down without a word on the swinging bench (because from here you can look out at the yard and not the empty rocking chair on the porch, not the house with a hundred and one memories you have to work through), still dressed in that oddly too-formal suit; his tie hangs limp and undone across his shoulders, the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone, but it’s still a strange look on him.

You take a deep, shuddering breath. The bracing cold of winter air in your lungs helps to steady them. “Thanks for coming.”

“Couldn’t miss it. The old man was a good guy. He’ll be missed.”

“Yeah, he will be.” You lean against him. “Sorry for making you sit out in the cold with me.”

Ace, as always, is warm. He wraps an arm around you and gets impossibly warmer, until you can feel it in your bones, until you wonder if he might just burst into flame again and fry you to a crisp. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Made of fire, remember?”

The thing about fire is how transient it is; the flicker and the scorch and the fade. But you don’t tell him that.

☆☆☆

He’s quiet when you finish packing up the house a few days later. The furniture is covered, all of the little photos and trinkets and clothes you couldn’t bear to give away neatly packed into boxes. It’s not a house you have the time or the courage to live in just yet; but maybe someday, in the distant future.

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Ace grins weakly at you. “Just thinking.”

“What a rarity.” You dodge the half-hearted swipe he takes and catch his hand instead, linking your fingers. He slides your joined hands into his pocket. “C’mon, let’s take a walk. Tell me what you’re thinking so hard about.”

Ace walks with you behind the house, down well-loved dirt paths and up to a view point at the top of a hill. He sits with you on the frozen bench, and for a minute you just listen to the sound of the wind and the rustle of what small, fragile animals have been forced to endure the winter.

“I was just thinking that it would be nice,” Ace says eventually, “to matter that much to someone.”

He looks up at the sky, leaning back on his hands; like he’s seeing some scene play out that you’re not privy to, etched into the clouds.

“You do matter. To me, to Whitebeard. To your brother. Probably to a lot of other people I don’t know.”

“Yeah.” He’s silent for another beat. “Thanks, it was stupid.”

“No, tell me what this is about.”

“It’s not—”

“Ace.”

He hangs his head then, eyes closing; his brow furrows briefly and a reluctant little smile plays guiltily on his lips. “You ever just wonder if it was even a good thing that you were born?”

His profile is tense, withdrawn. As if he’s expecting a follow up question that he isn’t going to like. As if he’s expecting a derisive remark or a scathing retort, as if he’s been through this before and didn’t like the answer.

“Is anyone qualified to answer that?”

He startles a little when your hand comes down over his; his fingers pressing so hard against the stone that you can trace his veins and tendons. Ace's hands are rough, calloused and scarred and freckled, and they're beautiful. 

“We can’t even be sure of our soulmates until they die; how are we supposed to know the whole point of our lives before they end?” You meet his gaze when Ace turns to look at you. You can see your own reflection in the onyx of his eyes, unblinking and dilated. “If I were to say, it’s all just a roundabout cosmic way of saying that others have to choose these answers for us. It’s about your impact on the world, when everything is said and done. We were never told why we’re put on this earth, after all, so don’t you think it’s hard to say if we’ve contributed the right way until we’re finished?”

Your lips quirk upwards as he just stares back, eyes wide; and something about how he becomes unguarded makes him look years younger, a spring flower uncurling its petals. “If nothing else, you’ve made me happy, and personally? I think that counts for a hell of a lot.”

“What if,” Ace says, “people say you shouldn’t have existed in the first place? You think anyone really wants a soulmate like me? I'm a wanted criminal. I'm… My father was a pretty hated guy, you know, and I inherited that blood."

"That timer on your wrist means that you're here to make someone happy in a way nobody else can, you know? Isn't that what a soulmate is?"

"I hope you're right," he murmurs. You scoot forward to pull him into a hug; Ace clings to you in return, burying his face against your shoulder and staying there while you speak softly into his ear. 

“It’s not like anyone’s ever told us for sure," you say, "but I think we were put on this earth to love. I think in the act of giving love, we become worthy of receiving it. I think it's lovely to watch you care for others; I think you're worthy of love every time you smile, when you're being nice to my family, when you're talking about your brother. I think you deserve love because I can see how much you love your crew and family. And Ace, maybe you don't feel this way, but I'm so happy that you're here for me to love. Thank you for existing as yourself."

Ace disappears for a few months. 

Not in an I'm-running-away-from-you kind of way, but just in the way that you both have separate lives and it's always been like this, but now it's a little bit more. He calls you once, after six weeks of silence, voice cutting in and out as he explains that he's going to be stuck in the New World somewhere and won't be able to talk. 

"How long, do you think? It's been a while already."

"I know. I miss you. This can't wait, though. I've gotta help—"

The rest of the sentence gets lost in garbled nonsense as the den den mushi strains to maintain your connection. 

"Okay, I'll see you… later, then. I'll be waiting."

For a while, you throw yourself into work, and that's fine; but then the work slows down and eventually you take an extended leave. You return home after another month of silence because it starts to become hard to bear, watching the timer on your wrist tick down day by day, counting exactly how long it's been since you've seen him. 

His Vivre Card remains mostly whole, at least, and that's a small comfort. 

You move into the empty house, because someone should tend the flowers. They are fragile and need love to bloom, as your grandfather used to say, and it would be a shame for those beautiful colours to remain hidden away. 

"Is… that him?" Mira gestures tentatively at your wrist. She sits down on the couch, patting the space beside her in an invitation that you accept. 

"I think so," you reply. "There were so many people there but. It just has to be Ace. It would make sense, right?"

Mira looks at you with something akin to pity. "What are you gonna do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she hesitates, "you could just end it now. Just… not see the end, I guess. He hasn't contacted you in—what—months now anyway, right?"

The thought had honestly never occurred to you. You feel a brief surge of jealousy over her unmarked wrists, certain that if she had met her soulmate she would never—

"I can't," you say quietly. "I couldn't bear to. A couple of years is so much better than nothing."

"You really love him that much?"

"More, I think." You rest your head against her shoulder and Mira comforts you, as she always does, and this remaining thing helps more than anything else. "Whatever you're thinking, it's probably more."

☆☆☆

You’re getting angrily drunk in a bar when Ace slides into the seat next to you and orders a beer.

“Hey,” he says like nothing happened, like he wasn’t gone for two months in complete silence, like you weren’t scared the timer might just run out before he came back.

“Have we met before?" you say sharply, too loud, just to be petty. "It feels like we might know each other, but people I know keep in tou—"

"I'm sorry, babe," he says, leaning over to brush his shoulder against yours. The contact sparks a wave of tenderness and longing across your skin that makes it hard to hold on to your anger. It feels silly to waste even more time being upset. 

"I missed you," he says, looking at you with pleading eyes.

"Okay, I know maybe you were out of range or—or busy, I don't know. But not even on the way home? Ace, you were gone for—"

"Three months, I know." He takes your hand, rubbing his thumb gently over the skin, and brings it to his mouth. "I got shipwrecked. Things were a bit of a mess after that."

"You were shipwrecked?"

"I'm fine, as you can see. Don't worry, I'm practically immortal." He smiles against your skin. "Don't be mad. I didn't have a den den mushi for a while, and then I thought I'd surprise you."

You stay silent for a few seconds, just to make Ace's grip tighten on your hand for a minute, to watch his face fall as he worries; and then, when you've had enough of punishing him, you throw your arms around his shoulders and pull him close. Close enough that you can feel the beating of his heart through your clothes, his breath against your skin as he hugs you back equally tightly. 

"I was worried," you say. "I missed you too, idiot. Three months is too long. I thought you might not come back."

"I'll come back," Ace says, "every time. No matter where you are. I'll come back."

☆☆☆

Ace stays in your house for a little while; the silence is so much less with another person, and having your own personal heater helps with the damp chill of spring. He shares your bed, because the guest room is for guests and he might as well be a member of this household whenever he's here, and it's nice. It's still a bit like playing house, but it's nice. 

Ace chases you up the stairs after a heated fight over the last muffin, shouting playful threats at you as you cram the last of it into your mouth, and when you scramble onto the bed to escape he crawls over you and kisses the crumbs off your face. 

"This is what you get for not sharing!"

"It was rightfully mine!"

"Rightful means nothing to me!"

The two of you wrestle playfully for a bit, until you're pinned beneath him and breathless with laughter. His fingers slide up from your wrists to weave between your own as he smiles, bright and happy and Ace.

"You're such an ass," you gasp as you push against him halfheartedly.

"I love you," he says, and you almost miss it while you giggle beneath him.

Almost.

You look up to see his face freeze in an awkward grin, uncertainty and fear creeping at the edges like he didn't quite mean for you to hear him; like he's considering whether he could swallow the words back up.

"Ace," you say, and his eyes slowly slide back to you. In a moment of distraction, you wonder if he might accidentally set fire to the bed.

"Ace," you say again, and squeeze your interlocked hands. His palms burn painfully hot against your own. "It's okay."

It's okay to be scared, is what you mean. It's okay to be scared, and vulnerable, and in love. All of it. Everything, in that moment, is okay. 

Thankfully, he doesn't retreat from you, and the tension eases from his shoulders and face as you hold his gaze; all hot coals and a hearth. After a few moments, he squeezes your hands back, warm and safe.

"I mean it."

"I know. I love you, too."

"I know," he parrots, and snickers as you roll your eyes. His expression melts into something more sincere as he adds, "Thank you."

Instead of replying, you lean up and press your lips against his, heart filled to the brim with just that handful of words. 

"I think you're probably my soulmate."

You look up from the newspaper to see Ace watching you, eyes soft and dark. 

"What brought this on?"

He shrugs. "Just kinda felt it. Now, a few times before now. Dunno how, but I just know."

"Are you sure it's not that bartender from Mock Town?"

"She was smokin' hot," he says with faux thoughtfulness, and snickers when you hit him. "But no. It's gotta be you, babe. It could only ever have been you."

"Well then maybe she's my—"

Ace groans loudly enough to drown out your laughter. "I was trying to have a moment."

"Sorry. I couldn't resist." He's grinning along, though. Ace rests his head against his arm and waits for you to compose yourself.

"I'm scared," you admit, when the joy has run its course and left room for the rest of your thoughts. The sentiment has been building for long enough that it comes out evenly, and your—soulmate? lover, other half, must be soulmate—doesn't look surprised. Ace reaches for your arm and gently brushes his fingers over the timer on your wrist. 

Less than a year, now.

"I want to think it isn't you," you say. "It's too short."

"I am a pirate. Live fast, die young, all of that."

"That's not funny." You swallow harshly against the sudden lump in your throat. "It's too short."

"I don't intend to die," Ace says, soft and steady. His thumb keeps rubbing soothingly over your skin, like he can smudge the numbers and add a few more years. "Hey, it could not be me. Better that bartender kicks the bucket than I do. But if it is me, then I'll be glad I was yours."

"You're mine regardless, dumbass. And—And if this is all the time we've got, we should make the most of it. I don't want to have any regrets when it comes to you."

His eyes sparkle when you say that. "You got it, sweetheart."

☆☆☆

He takes you out to dinner when your wrist counts down to 8 months.

"Happy one year anniversary, babe," he says.

“I think you’re off by a little.”

"No way," he protests, "from the day we met—"

"Oho, bold of you to think you had me that early—"

"—hey, I did—"

"—day three at best—"

"—so you admit that my plan worked," Ace prompts with a fox grin. 

"No," you reply haughtily, "as I recall it was you begging to see me again."

"I can't win against you," he laughs, and you can't help but join him.

Dinner is a pleasant affair, until Ace winks at you and slides out of his seat, pulling you with him towards the door as inconspicuously as he can. 

"Ace," you hiss.

"You wanted to live it up, right? C'mon, just see what it's like. Just once."

… Just once. He must see it in your eyes, because a flash of satisfaction crosses his face as you creep out the door and into the crowd. 

"Do you always do this?"

"Sometimes. When it's fun or they deserve it."

"How do you know if they deserve it?"

"Same as anyone," Ace says with a shrug. He throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you against him, body temperature running almost uncomfortably hot, but you can't complain. "When they're being assholes."

He swipes an apple from a nearby stand and smirks as he bites into it, daring you to argue with a cocked eyebrow and a pointed glance at the stall owner scamming a tourist. Before you can respond, you're interrupted by a shout. 

"Hey! I know you!"

"Oops," Ace says innocently, as if he isn't a wanted criminal casually committing more crimes in broad daylight. He leans in close, lips brushing your temple in an imitation of a kiss as he whispers, "I did try for a normal date, so don't hold this against me."

The marine's eyes turn to you. "Who is this? An accomplice?"

"No way." Ace's grin turns sharp and predatory. His grip on your shoulder briefly tightens. "You can say she's a hostage?"

"I'm a wh—"

"The beautiful maiden kidnapped by the horrible pirate. Yeah, that sounds good."

"If this is some weird roleplay scenario you want to try," you start, and Ace lets out a loud bark of laughter, pushing you away. Then he bursts into flame. 

"Can you just run already!?" he shouts, nothing but a shadow of a body and a too-wide grin within a towering inferno. "We can talk about this later."

"Oh, we will. "

"Uh—" says the marine.

"Eyes over here." Ace's voice says over the crackle of fire. "Don't even look at her. I don't think you're really in a position to be paying attention to anything besides me right now, anyway."

☆☆☆

You visit the beach in early May, when the wind is still cool but the sun is warm, and the birds are only just returning. Ace stomps through the sand in his clunky boots beside you, telling an animated story about a village he stopped in on last week, and he looks more excited than you've seen in a while.

"It turns out he wasn't there," he says, "but I'll get him next time, that traitor. It's just a matter of time."

Time. An increasingly sore subject. The lack of it prods at you like a toothache, like the precipice before a freefall into Anxiety Canyon. Ace doesn't seem to be worried about it, but it's rare that he worries about anything, like he thinks himself invincible.

You would like to think he is, too, but maybe you're a pessimist.

You spread out a picnic blanket on the beach, unpack a wicker basket full of goodies; Ace isn't picky about liquor but he knows a good wine when he sees one.

"What's the occasion?"

"Do we need one?"

"I like the way you think."

You dig your toes in the sand and breathe in the scent of salt, looking out at the waves. 

"At first, I didn't really think I wanted this," you say to the ocean. "The whole relationship thing. A soulmate. I didn't want it. I have a whole life, you know? A career and a house and—and I was doing fine."

Ace looks at you and doesn't say anything, so you swallow a mouthful of wine and keep talking. 

"I still don't think I need that stuff, in general. Mira hasn't met her soulmate and she's doing fine. Grand—Grandpa spent a decade on his own, after grandma passed. And he was fine, too. But I don't think I'd be fine without you, Ace."

"I don't intend to leave you," he says. 

"Yeah. But you will. It's only a couple of months now. How am I supposed to—" your voice just stops, throat closing on the sentence. 

"Hey," says Ace. His hand gently holds your chin and turns you towards him. "I thought we agreed not to worry about it."

"It's easy for you to say, when you won't be the one left be—"

"I don't want to die," he says; not loud, but firm, cutting you off. His thumb runs affectionately at your jaw. "But if, just if, I have to. I want to die happy. I want to know that it was enough. And I don't want you to look back on all of this as a tragedy. We're not a tragedy, are we?"

"No," you say, a little too choked for anything fancy. 

"We're a miracle, yeah?"

"We're a fucking comedy," you mutter, and he laughs. 

"Damn right we are."

Sand-encrusted, gilded in the sunset, he looks more precious than any treasure you've ever seen. You crawl over him and settle yourself in his lap, pressing your lips to his own and then moving to his jaw, his ear, his neck.

Ace shudders and arches as you taste the salt of his skin, his shoulders flexing as he presses himself against you.

"Please," he says breathlessly, and then groans as you redouble your efforts. His lashes tremble, casting spidery shadows in the space above his cheekbones.

"Well, since you asked so nicely. Let's make another happy memory, hm?"

☆☆☆

You've become familiar with Ace before he leaves you now, a routine as oft-repeated as the moon cycle. You know the way he clings to you the day before, the steady packing of all his little belongings as they disappear one by one from your bathroom and night stand and the front closet. 

He tells you that this time might be long again. That he's finally found his prey and has to end things. That he's going to close this chapter. 

He's a bit different tonight, this Ace, as he asks you to wait for him; even though you both know that you always will.

He looks up at you, vulnerable and soft and bathed in moonlight, and you watch his lips twitch with some internal thought you can't quite figure out. You press a hand against the side of his face and brush your thumbs over his freckles, memorizing the shape of him against your palm, and Ace turns his head to press a kiss against your finger.

"Mm." His lips curve into a familiar smile against your thumb and you feel your own mouth mirror the expression.

His hand captures yours, loose enough for you to break free, and his lips travel the span of your hand and down to your wrist, where he bites lightly and lingers.

Ace doesn't tell you he's scared, because he isn't. You know he isn't because he's Ace.

But you don't have much time left before the timer reaches zero, and somehow it seems too fast.

"I've decided. I'll kill Blackbeard," he says into the silence of the cabin, "and then you'll marry me."

What, you think as your mind races, we never discussed marriage. You're always making up your mind without asking first. When did I say I would marry you, or anyone? Do we even have time left for this?

What comes out of your mouth is— 

"Promise?"

In the blink of an eye he's reversed your positions; your back hits the bed with a woosh that knocks the breath out of your frozen lungs, and Ace's weight settling against your thighs only just keeps you down after the force of the maneuver.

One of his arms supports his weight as he leans over you, muscles tensing and shifting. The other cradles your head and carefully rests it against the flattened pillow underneath.

"Promise," he breathes. His eyes gleam in the moonlight. The smile on his face is overwhelming, so bright you can feel your eyes squinting slightly as you try to take him in.

Before you can quite get your fill (but honestly, when have you ever?) Ace's last thread of patience snaps and he's kissing you, hard and joyful. He kisses you like he's won a war and you are the spoils of victory. He kisses you thoroughly and enthusiastically, his smile growing with every touch of your hands against his feverish skin and every gasp and sigh that comes out of your mouth, until he's smiling too much to properly kiss you anymore.

As you struggle to fill your lungs with air and calm your racing, overflowing heart, Ace buries his smile against your neck and quivers with laughter.

"What's so funny," you ask. You try for miffed but it comes out breathless and impossibly fond.

"Nothing," Ace replies, still trembling against you. "I'm just happy. I'm so, so, so happy."

And really, that's all that matters in the end.

"Me too," you say, even though you both know it. In the ensuing silence, your fingers trace affection against his skin again.

This time he doesn't pull away, and instead holds you closer.

The thing about fire is that, no matter how bright and hot it burns, eventually it dies.

The days that Ace spends in Impel Down are some of the longest of your entire life. You hadn't heard from him for a few weeks, but it happens—despite his best efforts, it's not always possible to stay in touch, and despite the uneasiness in your heart, you could only have faith in him. 

This… is something different. This anxiety goes deeper, into the cold and dark parts of you that normally stay buried. It drives you out of the house, off the island, to Sabaody Archipelago on the scheduled day of his execution. 

Crowds throng the groves, spectating and gossiping about the up-and-coming pirate wreaking havoc on the execution grounds to save Fire Fist Ace. You watch (3 hours, on your wrist, and it burns) as Luffy shoots across the ground towards the platform atop which kneels the love of your life; you watch Whitebeard arrive standing tall and proud, like he's never met a nurse in his life. You watch (2 hours, every second of it felt like little needles) as the admirals stride into battle. 

You watch that distant screen with the ocean roaring in your ears, louder than the crowd around you.

And you can't help but keep watching as Luffy frees him; as the shackles fall to the earth with a clang that makes your heart shudder, relief and hope and nerves, as the sky lights up with flames that burn bright, brighter, blinding.

Ace bursts through the smoke, impossibly alive, perhaps the most alive you’ve ever seen him. This is him too, after all, blood and ash and heat and the painful parts of living. He is a pirate through and through.

The crowd erupts, both on screen and off; you watch, still and silent, barely breathing. The timer on your wrist is still ticking down. There are minutes left.

It could not be him. For once, you wish only that it isn’t him.

Your heart drums a painful beat in your throat, counting each second the timer ticks down, as you watch him confront the marine admiral; as his opponent aims past him for the younger brother he spoke of with stars in his eyes.

As Ace is suddenly there, burning, with a fist through his chest.

For a moment the numbers on your wrist seem to tremble.

So many have died-are dying-will die in this battle and it could still not be him—

His Vivre Card crumbles to ash in your own fist, squeezed so tight that your nails draw blood.

It’s cold. It’s colder than you could have imagined, surrounded by all these people, watching your lover die. You watch, an iceberg, a frozen object untethered in the void of space without your sun.

You watch as Ace slumps in Luffy’s arms and your timer hits zero. 

Ah. He must have been your soulmate after all, because you're sure nobody else could make you hurt this much.

☆☆☆

The pain doesn't kill you, even though you expect it to.

One of the hardest lessons in life is to keep going; and yet, we often have little say in the matter. Despite everything, despite the mocking little loops on your wrist and your cool bedsheets and the awful, empty silences of relearning how to live alone; you go on. 

You're far from the only person to lose someone that day, anyway, and even farther from the only one to have ever lost a soulmate. 

But what do you do, when the person who made you think of the world with all the beautiful words you know, when the person who held your heart so gently, is gone?

As it turns out, much like with any other loss, you hold a funeral. 

Monkey D. Luffy doesn't attend; you weren't sure if you expected him to, having heard that he was near death when he fled Marineford, and you wonder distantly if maybe you'll never meet him. The thought feels odd, considering how close he and Ace—were . The Whitebeard pirates show up in droves to mourn their captain and division commander, until the hill is packed with bodies silent and still, grieving a loss as deep or deeper than your own.

A part of you is relieved that someone else handled the funeral arrangements this time, because you're not sure that you could bear to. 

"Sorry," Marco says softly as he passes, when the flowers are laid and the attendees begin returning to their ships; his eyes are red and swollen but his back is straight, his gaze compassionate in a way that makes you want to sob and scream. 

"It's not your fault."

"Still."

"Then, me too." 

For a moment he lingers, both of you frozen under the weight of your loss, but then he nods and walks away. You do too, because you don't know what else you're supposed to do.

You go home, and Mira holds you again, and you cry. You go to work and make money. You learn, slowly, to live with the emptiness.

You water the flowers and light your stove.

You return to Mock Town in transit a year later, when the pain has settled enough to let nostalgia float to the surface and blur your sharp edges. This place, at least, has not changed. 

"You look down," the bartender says. He's new, or at least not the one who worked here last time you came. You wonder idly what happened to her. 

"I am."

"A drink might help." He pushes a gin and tonic towards you. 

"Thanks," you say as you slide beri across the counter, "but I doubt it. This kind of sad only goes away with time."

"I could try and help you speed it up," he says with a smile edged in flirtation. "After work? Let me try and change your mind?"

"My mind was changed once before, by a stranger in this same bar. No offense, but it was really a once in a lifetime kind of thing."

"Oh yeah? What made that stranger so special?"

"Some people," you say, "are like fire. You know? But this one was the sun itself."