"And so, in Genesis of the Judeo-Christian tradition, we see another kind of similar story—'God placed cherubim and a flaming sword at the east of the Garden of Eden to guard the way to the tree of life. The cherubim are angelic beings, and the sword emphasizes that Adam and Eve were expelled from the garden.'"

Zoro stood at the front of the lecture hall, exuding an effortless dominance that commanded attention without a single word.

Broad shoulders draped in a dark charcoal blazer. Beneath the blazer, he wore a striped button-up, slightly unbuttoned at the top, teasing just enough of his collarbone to be distracting—but never careless.

His hair, still a wild shade of green, remained slightly unkempt despite the professional setting—a subtle warning that no matter how refined he appeared, something untamed was still buried beneath the surface.

His jawline was sharp, his expression unreadable, the epitome of stoic intensity. He wore thin-framed glasses, an unexpected yet devastatingly attractive contrast to the otherwise rugged, sharp-edged presence he carried. Behind the lenses, his gray eyes pierced through students with quiet precision—calculating, weighing, never missing a single detail.

His voice was deep, smooth but firm, laced with an edge of impatience, as if he expected students to keep up or be left behind. There was no wasted motion with him—every step was calculated, every gesture efficient.

When he leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching the class struggle with his lesson, his lips quirked—just barely. Not quite a smirk, but enough to suggest amusement at their frustration.

His reputation preceded him—the brutally intelligent, no-nonsense professor with a body built for teasing and a mind sharper than steel. No student dared slack off in his class—not when one piercing glance over the rim of his glasses could make them feel like they'd just failed the most challenging test of their lives.

Zoro closed the book with a slam as he lifted himself off the edge of his desk.

"Now—who can tell me how myths, legends, and creation narratives weave together across cultures?"

The lights flickered.

A student chuckled.

"Professor Roronoa, was that on purpose?"

He scoffed. "As if I have the budget to entertain you all." He rolled his shoulders. "But seriously, midterms are next week. I expect you all to have done your reading."

A warm breeze drifted in through the open window, carrying a scent he hadn't smelled in years—mikan.

He turned toward the board, pausing—thinking he saw a flash of orange by the door.

He shook his head. Not now. She only haunted him in dreams.

"Now, remember—I want a 500-word essay—"

Suddenly, the door slammed open. The scent hit him—harder this time, like a punch to the ribs.

He spun, wondering if Dean Luffy was bursting into his classroom for games again—but his heart stopped.

She had rushed in—breathless, red-faced, and wide-eyed— looking both flustered and determined as if she had run across the entire campus to make it here.

The door slammed shut behind her, the echo ricocheting off the walls. But Zoro barely registered it.

She was dressed in a fitted pink blouse, its fabric hugging her frame, accentuated by delicate vertical stitching that trailed down the bodice. The wide, white collar framed the elegant slope of her neck, edged with tiny scalloped lace, giving an air of sophistication despite the hurried way she carried herself.

Small black cross-like clasps ran diagonally along the front of her blouse, holding it snugly against her form. Their placement teased at the curve of her waist before disappearing beneath the short, dark, ruffled skirt that swayed with each step she took.

Her legs were long—bare except for the subtle sheen of sweat from her rush, toned from years of movement and battle. But here, in this setting, they looked… more vulnerable than he remembered. More real.

Her copper hair, once wild and sun-bleached from the sea, had been neatly trimmed—the strands framing her face slightly tousled from the wind outside.

Big brown eyes, impossibly familiar, darted at him. Flickering with something unreadable—uncertainty? Recognition?

Her lips, slightly parted, curled as if forming words she couldn't quite say.

Zoro forgot how to breathe.

"N-Nami?"

His voice came out rough, strained—like a sound dug up from a grave that shouldn't have been touched.

The air between them tensed, thick with something neither of them dared name. The chalk slipped from his fingers, rolling across the floor.

Nami stooped down, delicate fingers wrapping around the tiny cylinder. She rose again, hesitating only a second too long.

She stepped closer. She extended the chalk back to him, her grip firm, but her expression? Shy. Curious.

She didn't recognize him. Not yet.

The classroom was dead silent.

She cleared her throat. "Ah… um, yes." A nervous smile. "I'm the new transfer student. Dean Luffy told me to come here. Sorry, I'm late. I… got lost?"

The class watched as their stoic, unreadable professor looked… dumbfounded. Her gaze flickered to her classmates, then back to Zoro. She tried to ease the tension.

"I… um, Professor Zoro… shall I sit anywhere?"

A girl from the back chimed in. "He prefers Professor Roronoa, actually."

But Nami's gaze never left his face. A slight smirk appeared as she leaned in just a little closer, setting the chalk back on the board.

"Then I shall take my seat, Professor Roronoa."

She said it with perfect precision. And for the first time in years, Zoro nearly lost himself. But as he watched her take a seat in the very front row, he realized—

His entire class was staring at him. As if by saving grace, the bell rang. Students rushed out, whispering and throwing glances back at him. But Nami remained, watching him.

"You…" he started, his throat so dry.

She tilted her head. "Graduate student. This is just a helpful elective for my thesis."

Nami had barely risen from her seat before a cluster of students descended upon her. A group of girls—eager, curious, and overly sweet—stepped forward, smiling in a way that wasn't quite welcoming. It was more of a performance, a careful display of politeness—directed at her but meant for someone else.

"Oh, we can give it to her, Professor Roronoa," one of them offered, clutching a spare syllabus like a lifeline, eyes locked onto Zoro.

Behind them, a few boys hovered, their postures loose and confident but transparent in their interest.

One of them—tall, athletic, a little too cocky for his good—grinned as he extended a hand. "Hey, you can join our study group."

The others chimed in—offering help, notes, schedules. But Nami barely acknowledged them. Her eyes had never left him. And that's when it happened.

"No!"

The word ripped from Zoro's throat before he could stop it. The students froze. The girls stiffened. The boys exchanged wide-eyed glances. A few of them even took a half-step back as if they had just narrowly avoided an oncoming storm.

But Nami? She didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head, a slow, almost knowing smile creeping onto her lips. Zoro felt his pulse hammer in his skull.

He cleared his throat, forcing his voice into something steadier, more composed.

"No, I mean…" His jaw clenched, and he exhaled sharply. "It's a lot of material. I should walk her through things."

The room shifted again. The girls exchanged glances, the air around them turning sharper and more charged—a few pouted, visibly deflating. The boys hesitated, shoulders tensing, before they slowly nodded in understanding.

One of them muttered under his breath, "Damn, man… never seen him this quick to offer help before."

Another, less subtle, laughed. "Yeah, that wasn't the precedent he wanted to set."

Zoro shot him a look. Within seconds, the students were filing out— some whispering, others sneaking glances between him and Nami. A few tried to act normal, stretching, gathering their things—but the atmosphere had changed. And then, finally—

The door shut. And they were alone.

Zoro exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. When he looked back up, Nami was still standing there and watching him. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes said everything. And for the first time in a very long time—

He had no idea what to do. "Oh…"

He swallowed, gaze flickering to his left hand. His ring finger—scarred but covered by a simple gold band. Her voice cut through his thoughts.

"You're married… Professor."

He searched her face. She was the same—perhaps leaner, more refined. But… it had to be her.

"Ah, no—no. I wear it to… deter—"

"Deter?" She mocked, tilting her head. "You getting hit on left and right, then?"

His eyes dropped to her hands. Rings. Dainty, delicate, too many to count.

"I… well…"

She smiled—knowing, cruel.

"Shall I get that syllabus?"

Zoro fumbled through his papers, thrusting one into her hand.

"Yes."

"Great. Don't worry. I'm a quick reader." She turned toward the door. "Besides, there seem to be plenty of study groups to join."

"No!"

She paused.

"No?"

He cleared his throat. "I have office hours."

She skimmed the syllabus. "Oh, unfortunately, those all land during my class time—"

"I'll make an exception."

Zoro knew the moment he had spoken, he had lost. It wasn't the words themselves but the way they left him—too quick, too desperate. The shift in Nami's expression was immediate.

A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corner of her lips, her sharp gaze flickering with something just shy of amusement. Something dangerous.

"But that would set a strange precedent, wouldn't it, Professor?" she murmured, voice velvet-smooth, laced with wicked amusement. She took a small, deliberate step closer, her weight shifting just slightly onto one hip. Teasing. Testing.

Zoro's fingers curled into fists at his sides.

"What would the other students think?" she continued, tilting her head just slightly as if pondering some grand moral dilemma. "You… making exceptions… for me?"

She let the last words drag, almost purring. Zoro swallowed. Hard. She knew exactly what she was doing. She always had.

"I wouldn't want to put you in a difficult position…" she went on, tapping a single, delicate finger against her lips in mock contemplation. "…with all the others."

She was toying with him and pushing him, and he let her because she was here.

And after years of dreaming about her, he couldn't bring himself to push her away. He should have been better at this. He should have been able to communicate his feelings clearly and not act as if her presence didn't unravel him like a loose thread on a frayed blade grip.

But when she moved—when she turned to leave- the words tore from him before he could stop them.

"There is no one else."

The room went silent. The confession hung between them, heavy and unshakable.

Zoro saw it. The way her fingers twitched at her sides. The way her lips parted, just slightly, like she had been caught off guard. But just as quickly—it was gone.

She bit her lower lip, not in hesitation, but in something cruel. Something merciless. She wouldn't let him have that moment. Not yet.

Her voice was light, breezy. Dismissive.

"Well, Professor Zoro," she mused, stepping toward the door. "Since I'm coming in so late, I should focus on my studies."

Another pause. Another fleeting glance over her shoulder.

"…Until I'm ready. No?"

Zoro felt his throat go dry again. He knew what she was doing. And he hated how much he wanted to chase her anyway.

"Ri-right—" The word caught in his throat.

But before he could gather himself—before he could reach out before he could even breathe—

She was gone. The door clicked shut behind her.

And Zoro was left standing there—

Fist clenched. Jaw tight.

Drowning in the scent of mikan. Zoro's heart pounded.

From the top of the classroom, a voice cackled—

"Damn. That was rough, buddy."

Luffy.

Zoro collapsed into his chair.

Luffy grinned as he walked down the steps from the top exit. "You ready for a whole new adventure?"

Zoro wasn't sure. But the pounding in his chest said yes.