Tangled lives

by Ellai

Summary:

Trafalgar Law was a good roommate. He was organized, clean, paid rent on time, and minded his space. The only thing was—he was hot. Stupidly hot and annoyingly intelligent. But the closer you got to him, the more he seemed to pull away. As you became entangled in the shadows of his past, one question remained: would it draw you closer together or push you further apart?

Notes:

It started as a longer one-shot, but I got carried away (nothing unusual for me) and had so many ideas for it that I decided to give it a go and turn it into a proper fic.
I have the whole story figured out, and some of it is already written, so I’m hoping to post at least biweekly (no promises though)🤞

Chapter 1

Trafalgar Law was a good roommate. He was organized, clean, paid rent on time, and minded his space. The only thing was—he was hot. Stupidly hot, annoyingly intelligent and completely withdrawn.

You still remember the day you met him. Your best friend had moved out to live with her girlfriend, and you didn’t want to change apartments, especially since you loved how close it was to your job. So, you decided to find another roommate. In hindsight, it looked like it would be simple, but it turned out to be anything but.

You interviewed countless people, each one more unsuitable than the last. There was the creepy guy who immediately started making moves on you, the girl who stole from you, the one who kept talking about all the wild parties you'd supposedly have, and the couple who were always groping each other, looking like they were about to have sex on your kitchen counter every single day.

You were ready to admit defeat. But there was one more candidate to see that day. The moment you heard the doorbell, you headed to the door, silently praying this one wouldn’t be another disaster.

Standing outside was a really tall man with disheveled black hair peeking out from under a beanie. His sharp eyes seemed to size you up instantly, and his whole aura screamed danger. The tattoos on his hands didn’t help. Your gaze was drawn to the letters inked across his knuckles.

D-E-A-T-H.

Your internal alarms went off immediately. Oh great, another sketchy guy.

Still, you’d promised yourself you’d at least interview everyone who applied, so you stepped back and forced a smile. “You must be… Law?”

He nodded curtly, his voice deep and smooth. “Trafalgar Law.”

You gestured him inside, your hesitance obvious. He moved with an easy confidence, his black and yellow hoodie and dark spotted jeans doing little to dispel the impression that he belonged on a wanted poster rather than in your spare bedroom.

You led him to the small living room, where you’d set up for the interviews. A cup of cold coffee sat forgotten on the table, surrounded by the chaos of your notes on other candidates.

“Want coffee?” you asked. You motioned for him to sit, your gaze lingering on the tattoos adorning his hands.

He wavered for a moment, as if the offer itself was an oddity, then nodded, his eyes never leaving you. “Sure, I'll take some. Black. No sugar.”

You nearly snorted. Of course, that would be how he would take it. You quickly stood and moved to the kitchen, reminding yourself to keep an open mind. You grabbed the coffee pot, noting how your hands trembled slightly as you poured the dark liquid into his mug.

When you returned, you handed it to him, avoiding his gaze as you sat down across from him.

He took the coffee with a quiet “thanks” and stared at the cup, his fingers wrapping around it in a way that seemed way too controlled.

“So,” you started, pulling out your clipboard. “Tell me about yourself. Why do you need a place?”

His sharp gaze softened just slightly. “I'm starting my residency at the hospital downtown. It's a long commute from where I am now, and I figured it was time to move closer.”

You blinked. “Residency? You're a doctor?”

He smirked, as if your surprise was amusing.“Surgeon, actually.”

You glanced at the tattoos again, trying to reconcile the word “surgeon” with “death” on his fingers.

You leaned back in your chair, still processing that information. 

“That’s… impressive,” you said slowly, your mind still grappling with the contrast between his professional credentials and the image he'd projected when he walked in. “What about references? Do you have any from previous landlords?”

He pulled a folded letter from his pocket and slid it across the table. You unfolded it, your eyebrows raising as you read glowing praise from what appeared to be a very reliable source. “You're organized,” you admitted reluctantly. “That’s… rare.” 

Law leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “I'm meticulous about what matters.”

The next twenty minutes passed with surprising ease. He answered your questions with a calm assurance, his responses thoughtful and measured, each word carefully chosen. He didn’t share much about himself, but what he did offer painted the picture of someone responsible, intelligent, and driven.

Finally, the questions ran out. You shifted in your seat, biting your lip. “Well,” you said, forcing a smile. “I’ll be in touch. I still have a few more people to interview.”

He nodded, standing without hesitation. “I understand. Call me if you decide. I'd prefer to move in soon.”

And with that, he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You exhaled, the frustration bubbling up. Great. The sketchy guy’s the best option you’ve got. At least he is a handsome one. You might just die to a nice view.

You couldn't help the thought, though it only made you more uneasy. Sure, Law had a striking presence, but there was something unsettling about the way he carried himself. It was hard to ignore the stark contrast between his calm demeanor and the dangerous aura that seemed to hang around him. The tattoos, his confidence, the way he made every word sound like it held a secret—it was all too much for your nerves, but you couldn’t deny that he was impressive in his own way.

You thought of the other applicants—the creepy guy who was unable to stop flirting, the girl who’d stolen from you, the party-obsessed one who was clearly more interested in socializing than living responsibly. None of them had come close to being as solid as Law.

The next few days dragged by in a blur. Each applicant was worse than the last, or maybe you were just comparing them all to Law. You caught yourself glancing at your phone multiple times, wondering if he’d text or call. But he hadn’t, and honestly, that unnerved you more than it should’ve. It was almost like he was too calm about the whole situation. No follow-up texts, no insistence, no pressure—just a simple, confident statement that he’d prefer to move in soon.

Once again, you sat at your kitchen table, mindlessly scrolling through the list of other candidates. But no matter how much you tried to focus, your thoughts kept drifting back to him. His deep, measured voice. The way his eyes studied you, like he was constantly assessing you. The tattoos. Those damn tattoos.

You hadn’t even asked about them during the interview, but you couldn’t stop thinking about the word inked across his knuckles. Death. You still didn’t know what to make of that. It unsettled you, but there was a part of you, a curious part, that wanted to know more.

You glanced at your phone. A text from your best friend and former roommate.

Any luck with the roommate search?

You sighed. You had been avoiding telling her about Law, about his presence and the strange attraction that seemed to intensify every time you thought about him.

I have one last interview tomorrow. But honestly, I’m leaning towards one guy. He seemed quite peculiar but somehow the most reliable

You bit your lip as you hit send. Maybe you should’ve been more careful with your words, but it was the truth. And the truth was, even with all the red flags, Law was the only person who felt like he could actually fit.

Your phone vibrated in your hand almost immediately.

Ooh, is he hot??? 

Of course, she would ask that. You rolled your eyes, staring at the screen. Law was undeniably attractive—at least to you—but that wasn’t why you were choosing him. He was simply the best option, the most logical choice. You didn’t want to lie, but you also didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. And you certainly didn’t want to endure her teasing.

It doesn't matter. I'm looking for a roommate, not a boyfriend 

Yeah, that should do. The message had barely sent before she responded.

So he is hot  

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. How could you ever think you could fool her? She knew you too well.

 You texted her back quickly. 

It doesn't matter 

Another immediate reply.

Sure sure. Keep telling yourself that. Just don't fall for him, or it might get messy

You scoffed. There was no way in hell you were falling for some random, sketchy guy you had to live with. All you needed was a roommate to help pay the rent, and the surgeon could do just that.

The next afternoon, you made your way to your apartment’s door with a sense of purpose. Your decision was made. You’d offer him the room. Law had checked all the boxes for a roommate—except one: easy personality.

But you weren’t sure anymore if that mattered. At least not as much as the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

So you called him.

“You need something?” Law’s voice was quiet, as if he didn’t care about you calling at all.

“Uh…” You cleared your throat, trying to appear confident despite the sudden rush of nervous energy. “I… I’ve decided.”

He didn’t say anything, just waited for you to continue.

You exhaled sharply, feeling your nerves heighten with every passing second. “I’d like to offer you the room.”

“You’re sure?” His voice dropped lower, like he was silently assessing whether you really meant it.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Yeah. I’m sure. It’s yours if you want it.”

A long pause.

Finally, he responded. “I’ll take it.”

Chapter 2

The first few days after Law moved in felt strange. He wasn’t disruptive. If anything, he was the opposite—quiet, composed, and eerily calm. He came and went without bothering you, leaving the place tidier than you had ever managed and stocking shared commodities without even being asked.

You’d catch glimpses of him in the hallway, or his boots thudding softly against the hardwood floors as he came and went. His movements were so deliberate, like he was always on a mission. You tried not to think about how good he looked doing even the most mundane things. The way his sleeves would ride up when he reached for something on the top shelf, exposing the intricate tattoos that ran across his forearms, his fingers—the ones that made your mind wander in ways you knew you shouldn’t let it.

At the beginning, you tried to keep things professional. You kept to your routine, gave him space, and stuck to the surface-level small talk when you crossed paths. “How’s the coffee?” “How’s work?” It wasn’t long before you realized, though, that Law was just as evasive with conversation as he was with his presence. He’d answer, but the conversations never went past the bare minimum.

There was something about his silence that made you feel like you were always in the dark. You couldn’t figure out if he was purposely keeping his distance or if that was just how he was. And honestly, that ambiguity was starting to mess with your head.

You stood in the kitchen one night, making yourself dinner, when you heard the soft click of his door opening. Your heart skipped a beat. You hadn’t seen him all day.

You tried to focus on your cooking, but you could feel the pull of his presence in the next room. He’d been gone all afternoon—usually at the hospital, you assumed, though he never talked much about his work. When he did, it was vague—always professional, never personal.

“You cooking dinner?” he asked, walking into the kitchen. It was the first time he’d spoken to you like that—casual, almost like you were friends.

“Uh, yeah.” You were suddenly self-conscious, wiping your hands on a towel. “Want some?”

He looked at the pot, then back at you. “Sure. If you’ve got enough.”

That was surprising, yet you couldn't let this opportunity pass away. As soon as you finished making the meal, you quickly grabbed a plate and served him a portion. He took it with a quiet thanks and disappeared back down the hallway to his room. You watched him go, trying to ignore the strange twinge of disappointment that settled in your chest. 

What had you expected? That he’d stay? That he’d appreciate the effort? That, for once, this apartment might feel a little less like two strangers coexisting under the same roof?

You shook your head. It was only a roommate arrangement, after all. He wasn’t here to form friendships or have deep talks about life. He was here to live and help you out with the rent. You had no right to expect anything else.

But as the days passed, that feeling of wanting something more didn’t go away. It lingered, like a slow burn at the back of your mind, every time you saw him sitting at the kitchen table, every time you heard his footsteps outside your door.

And yet, you didn’t mind it that much. Living with a stranger. You had expected chaos, or at the very least some discomfort, but living with him was quite pleasant and comfortable. You had expected not to enjoy his company, besides maybe admiring his look, but instead, you found yourself almost… liking him.

Almost.

He didn’t impose, didn’t force conversations, didn’t overstep in any way. And yet, there was something about him that you couldn’t shake. It wasn’t his tattoos or his confidence. No, it was the way his gaze would settle on you when you least expected it, like he was peering right through you, understanding you before you even had a chance to put thoughts into words.

And then there were the moments when he would look at you—just for a second longer than necessary—and that flicker of something in his eyes would send a chill down your spine. It wasn’t an obvious look. No, it wasn’t like he was trying to intimidate you. But there was an intensity there, something behind those eyes, that made you feel like there was more to him than he let on. More than he was willing to share.

It was on one of those rare nights when he stayed late at the hospital that you noticed the shift.

The TV series played in the background as you sat in the living room, barely paying attention, when the front door clicked open. Law stepped inside, and immediately, you noticed it. The usual exhaustion was there, but there was something more as well. It was in his posture, the way his shoulders sagged as if the weight of something invisible pressed down on him. And then there was his face. He wasn’t smiling, not that he often did, but the lines around his eyes were deeper, his gaze distant. Something had changed in him. Something that seemed far beyond the physical fatigue of a long shift.

You didn’t say anything at first. It wasn’t like you had to. He moved toward his bedroom without a word, leaving you to wonder what exactly had happened in those late hours at the hospital. You couldn't help but feel a pang of curiosity.

It was strange, the way you knew so little about the man living in your apartment. Sure, he was smart, neat, even considerate in his quiet way. But there were layers to him that you hadn’t even begun to scratch.

It was that night that you finally acknowledged the truth: you didn’t just live with Law. You coexisted with a man who kept himself locked behind walls that you were never meant to climb. And you didn’t know if you ever would. Yet, you felt an undeniable urge to try.

“Wanna join me?” you asked just before he reached his bedroom.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then, to your surprise, he answered, “Sure, just let me take a shower.” 

He hesitated for a moment before disappearing into his bedroom. You heard the faint creak of a door, followed by muffled shuffling. Moments later, the sound of running water from the bathroom drifted through the apartment.

When he reemerged, he was dressed in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, his hair slightly damp. As he settled onto the couch beside you, a faint yawn escaped his lips, and his shoulders slouched, as if finally surrendering to the exhaustion. Looking at him now, cozy and tired, it was almost impossible to reconcile this man with the one who had once made you feel so on edge. But here he was now unguarded in a way that made him seem… approachable. And for the first time, you felt like maybe the walls he kept himself behind weren’t entirely impenetrable.

The two of you sat there in silence, the hum of the TV filling the space between you. The program on the screen—a medical drama—played on, but you couldn’t focus. Not really.

You were too busy fighting with yourself, torn between the desire to say something and the uncertainty of what to say. Should you ask if he was okay? Bring up something neutral? A question, a comment, anything to break the quiet. But before you could even string together the right words, you heard him scoff.

“What?” you asked, turning to him with a raised brow.

His expression twisted into one of incredulity as he gestured toward the screen. “This… this is ridiculous. Look at that. No one preps for surgery like that. And who the hell uses a scalpel like that? You’d puncture an artery. They didn’t even bother to look up basic medical procedures.”

And then it was like a dam broke.

He launched into a detailed, rapid-fire critique of the scene unfolding on the TV, pointing out inaccuracies in everything from the sterile setup to the dialogue. He dissected every action with such fervor that you couldn’t help but stare at him, slightly wide-eyed, as he went on.

His frustration was oddly captivating, his expertise slipping through with every comment. This wasn’t the quiet, closed-off man you were used to—it was someone animated, passionate, and you really wanted to know that person more.

“You’re telling me they have a world-class surgeon, and he’s holding the forceps like that?” he said, pointing at the screen with a mix of disbelief and disdain. “Do they even consult anyone before filming this garbage?”

You couldn’t hold back a laugh anymore, and when it slipped out, his words faltered. He turned to you immediately.

“What?” he asked, his tone defensive but not harsh.

“Nothing,” you said, trying to stifle the grin spreading across your face. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you like this before. So… passionate.”

He blinked, then scoffed again, though this time it sounded more amused than annoyed. “Passionate? About how stupid this show is? Great.”

“No, I mean—” you paused, suddenly aware of how warm your cheeks felt. “It’s nice. You're um… being yourself, I guess.”

“I'm always myself” he answered, but the words lacked assurance, as if even he knew that it's not exactly the whole truth. 

You didn’t respond right away, just studied him, your gaze searching for something beneath the surface. You wondered if you should question the way he spoke those words, if you can get him to open up to you even just a little, but you decided it’s better not to press. Not yet. So, instead, you decided to make a lighthearted comment as you leaned back on the couch.

“Good. Then you should definitely embrace the fact that you’re the type of person who gives a TED Talk on scalpel technique while watching a trashy drama.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you worried you’d gone too far. But then you heard it—a soft laugh, low and quiet. You turned to look at him again, and for the first time, you saw the corners of his mouth tug up into a real, full smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make your chest feel warm. And at that moment, you decided two things.

First, it suited him.

Second, you wanted to see it happen more often.

“Why are you even watching this crap?” he asked, breaking the silence again.

You shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve. “I don’t know. Background noise, I guess. Just something to fill the quiet.”

“Background noise,” he repeated, like the concept baffled him. “You have access to literally thousands of things to watch, and you choose something you don’t even care about?”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, what would you suggest, then? Some documentary about advanced surgical techniques?”

“Depends. Is it accurate?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Figures.”

He didn’t respond right away, and you thought the conversation had ended. But then he spoke again, quieter this time.

“It’s not bad,” he said, gesturing toward the screen. “I mean, it’s garbage, sure. But… I get it.”

That was not what you expected to hear. You tilted your head, studying him. “You get it?”

He shrugged, avoiding your gaze. “Sometimes you need something mindless. Something that doesn’t… demand too much.”

The way he said it, so casual but laced with an undercurrent of something deeper, made your chest tighten. And maybe it was nothing—or maybe it was everything—but when your shoulder brushed against his as you shifted slightly closer, he didn’t move away.

Chapter 3

Notes:

A slightly longer one this time, with a brief mention of Shachi and Penguin being together. I don’t really ship them, but it fit well in this story—especially since I initially hadn’t planned on including Bepo. For a moment, I even considered making him Law’s big-ass dog, lol. In the end, though, I included a bit of their friendship, so having them all together felt important to me. Anyway, things are about to get a bit fluffy before the angst arrives.

You got yourself a date. After getting ready, you stepped out of your room to find Law in the living room, engrossed as usual in a medical book. At the sound of your footsteps, he looked up, his piercing gaze scanned your outfit. As always, his face gave nothing away, leaving you unsure whether to feel flattered or offended.

“Um, I got a date,” you blurted out, immediately regretting it. Why did you even tell him? You swore you saw him scoff for a split second before his expression returned to its usual neutral mask. Great. Now you were certain you should be offended. Sure, you weren’t the hottest person in the world, but the idea of someone finding you date-worthy couldn’t be that perplexing.

“Have fun,” he said, flipping a page. And just like that, you lost his attention.

“Thanks.” You yanked your bag over your shoulder and strode toward the door, leaving the apartment.

The date turned out to be horrendous. 

The guy took you to a bar—a place you never would’ve chosen—and the evening only went downhill from there. He was loud, misogynistic, and overly confident that he’d be spending the night with you. As he rambled on, you were desperately searching for a way to escape, ideally alone and as quickly as possible.

While racking your brain for an excuse, you spotted a familiar face. You blinked, not quite sure if you were seeing things correctly. There, of all places, was your roommate. You definitely hadn’t intended to run into him here. For a moment, you wondered if he was stalking you, but no, that was ridiculous. He wasn’t alone, either; he was with three other guys, laughing and chatting as they entered. Law seemed as surprised to see you, and honestly, you couldn’t blame him. This bar was the last place anyone would expect for a date.

You finally concocted an excuse to flee, but the guy insisted on driving you home. Anxiety tightened your chest. You didn’t want him knowing where you lived, and the thought of being trapped in a car with him made you uneasy. As you both stood to leave—him looking thrilled that the date was moving forward—you made a hasty decision.

You darted over to Law and his friends. Without giving him a chance to react, you leaned in and whispered, “Please help me get rid of that guy.”

If you startled him, he didn't show it. His sharp eyes darted past you to the man lingering by the door, clearly waiting.

“Sure,” he replied, his tone effortlessly indifferent, as he gestured for you to join his group.

You could’ve hugged him. Quickly, you turned and called back to your so-called date, “Actually, I ran into a friend. I’ll just stay here for a while, and he will drive me home. Thanks, though!” You didn’t give him time to argue, sliding into the seat next to Law.

Unfortunately, he didn’t let go, weaving through the crowd toward your table. He was furious, his cheeks flushed—not just from anger, but likely from all the drinks he’d downed earlier.

“Hey!” he yelled, standing a little too close for comfort. “What the hell was that? You think you can just ditch me?” he yelled at you.

You froze, your breath catching. The sudden confrontation had your stomach twisting. Before you could even respond, Law slowly stood up, his chair scraping the floor.

The guy’s bravado faltered as Law loomed over him.

“You’ve got about five seconds to walk away,” Law said. If you thought him to be cold before, it was nothing compared to how icy he sounded now. “Or we’re going to have a very different kind of conversation.” 

The man bristled, puffing out his chest like a cornered animal trying to seem bigger. “What, you think you can just threaten me?” He jabbed a finger toward you. “She’s my date. She should be leaving with me instead of being a fucking bit—”

Before he could finish, Law’s hand shot out, grabbing the guy’s wrist in an iron grip. He didn’t squeeze, but the implied strength made the man wince.

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Law warned, his tone so calm it was terrifying. His gaze never wavered, pinning the man in place like a predator toying with prey. “Let me make this crystal clear: she’s not yours. And if you don’t leave her alone, you’ll regret it.”

The guy’s face paled. He yanked his arm free, stumbling back a step. “Fine!” he spat, glaring at you one last time. “She’s not worth it anyway.”

As he stormed off, one of Law's friends let out a low whistle. “Man, you’ve still got it, Law. Scary as hell.”

Law sat back down as if nothing had happened, brushing his hands off casually. “Idiot,” he muttered, reaching for his drink.

You exhaled, the tension in your shoulders releasing. “Thanks,” you said quietly, feeling a little shaky.

He didn’t even look at you.  Instead, he stared at his drink, his fingers gripping the glass. “Next time, pick a better date.”

“I—” Your voice wavered slightly. You knew deep down it wasn’t your fault that the guy turned out to be a complete jerk, yet Law’s comment irked you. For a moment, you felt the impulse to snap back at him, to lash out in frustration, but you suppressed it. He wasn’t the one you were furious with, and he had basically saved your ass. Still, you felt the need to explain yourself.   “He didn’t seem that bad when I met him… but he got worse with alcohol.”

Law finally glanced at you. There was something in his gaze—was it concern?—but it was gone before you could be sure. He didn't speak right away, taking his time to finish his drink, as if contemplating something before speaking.

“It’s not your fault, just be careful in the future.”

His words were simple, but there was a softness to them, an unexpected gentleness that caught your attention. His friends, who had been silent until now, instantly backed him up, calling the guy a jackass and assuring you that you were better off without such people in your life. While their words did offer some comfort, your mind couldn’t help but linger on what Law had said. Or, more accurately, how he’d said it. There was a sincerity to his tone, a calmness that felt different from the usual detached way he carried himself. It was almost as if he meant it, not just as a passing remark, but as a reminder, something deeper, like he truly wanted you to be okay. 

You nodded, feeling the last of your nerves start to fade as you settled into the chair. “I think I’ll wait for a moment to make sure he’s really gone… then I’ll leave you all alone.” 

“You don’t have to leave. Stay.” Law leaned back, his arms crossing over his chest, as if he was completely unfazed by the situation. “You’ve already made yourself comfortable.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. “Wait… what?”

“I said stay. I’m not going to throw you out just because you think you’re interrupting something.” He paused, then gave a small nod toward his friends. “Actually… you should meet them.”

A little confused, but intrigued, you looked around the table. The one who whistled before was the first to react, leaning in with a grin that seemed to stretch from ear to ear.

“I’m Shachi!” he announced loudly, raising his glass in a mock toast. He winked, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his infectious energy.

Bepo, sitting next to Shachi, smiled warmly at you. “Bepo,” he said kindly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Penguin,” the last one said, his voice low but friendly. “Nice to meet you, too.”

You nodded in greeting, feeling a little more at ease. Law’s friends seemed… surprisingly normal. 

“These idiots are my friends,” Law offered with a slight smirk, rolling his eyes as if they were more trouble than they were worth. “They’re not so bad once you get to know them.”

Shachi laughed. “Speak for yourself, Law! I’m a joy to be around.”

Bepo chuckled, while Penguin shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I guess I’ll stick around, then,” you said, giving Law a grateful look. “It’s… nice to meet you all. Thanks for letting me crash your night.” You looked around at Law’s friends, who seemed so natural together, and curiosity got the better of you.

“So, how long have you guys known each other?” you asked, genuinely interested.

“Forever,” Shachi declared, his arms stretching out dramatically. “Since we were kids. We’ve been through thick and thin together.”

You thought for a moment. “What started it all, then? How’d you all meet?”

Shachi and Penguin exchanged a quick glance before they both burst out laughing.

“Well, you know,” Shachi said, “it all started with me and Penguin giving Bepo a hard time.” His grin was mischievous, and you could see a teasing glint in his eyes. “We were just kids, picking on him for fun. But honestly, Bepo was an easy target back then.”

Bepo scratched the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed. “I wasn’t exactly capable of standing up for myself back then. I was too shy… and kind of clumsy,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

Penguin chimed in. “To be fair, Bepo’s still kind of clumsy,” he teased with a smirk. “But that’s why we love him.”

Bepo rolled his eyes but didn’t look offended.

“So what? You guys were bullies?”

Penguin leaned forward. “Kind of, yeah. We weren’t exactly… kind to him. I mean, we didn’t know any better. But that all changed when Law stepped in.”

You did not expect that kind of backstory, and it only deepened your curiosity about your peculiar roommate. He had remained quiet throughout the conversation, yet his silence spoke volumes, leaving you eager to uncover more about him.

Shachi grinned, obviously remembering the moment. “Oh, it was glorious. We were giving Bepo a hard time, and then out of nowhere, Law showed up and beat us up so easily.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “He didn’t even hesitate.”

You didn't think Law was capable of such fierce protectiveness, especially given how distant he usually seemed.  Although, with how he protected you today without any hesitation, you shouldn't be so surprised.

“Yeah, that was impressive,” Penguin laughed. “After that, we couldn’t really mess with Bepo anymore. And honestly, after a while, we all just… stuck together.”

“That’s… kind of sweet, in a way,” you said, a smile tugging at your lips. “I guess I was wrong about you, Law. I didn’t expect you to have such a soft spot for people.”

Law raised an eyebrow, his expression not changing much, but there was something hiding in his eyes. “I’m not soft,” he muttered, though you could tell he was trying not to smile at the teasing.

Shachi leaned back in his chair, his smile growing. “Sure, Law. You’re as tough as they come.”

Bepo quickly added, his tone so sincere that you could tell right away how much he respected Law. “You’ve always been there for us, even when we didn’t deserve it. That’s just how you are.”

Penguin nodded. “And we’re all the better for it.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” Shachi said with a glance toward Law. “He may act all cold and calculating, but he’s the first one to jump in when we need him.”

“Okay, okay,” Law interjected. “Enough with the compliments.”

As the night went on, you found yourself truly enjoying their company. It was clear that there was genuine affection and respect among them all. You felt a little out of place, but also… strangely comfortable. This group had a way of making you feel like you belonged, even if you were still trying to figure out where you fit in.

More than anything, you couldn’t help but notice how much more at ease Law seemed with his friends. You had learned more about him than you ever expected, and you knew that there was still so much more to figure out. If only he would let you do just that. For now, you shifted your focus to his friends, hoping they might offer a glimpse into the enigma that was Law. You didn’t have to wait long.

“Hey, Captain,” Bepo said casually, tossing a half-smile Law’s way. “Want another drink?”

Well, that caught your attention. You looked over at Law, who stiffened, his eyes narrowing. You expected him to snap at Bepo, but instead, there was an almost imperceptible flush on his cheeks as he muttered, “I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t call me that when others are around.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “Captain?”

The way Bepo and the others laughed confirmed that there was a story behind this. Shachi, unable to contain his grin, leaned toward you. “Oh, yeah. It’s a thing, all right. It goes way back.”

Penguin nodded with a smile. “When we were kids, we used to pretend to be pirates. And guess who was the captain?” He winked at Law, who was trying to hide his growing discomfort.

Law let out a groan and buried his face in his hands, clearly embarrassed. “I was young, okay?” he mumbled. “It was stupid.”

But his friends weren’t having any of it. Shachi grinned widely, clearly relishing the moment. “It wasn’t stupid! You were born to be the captain. You’d give orders like a real pirate—steering our ‘ship,’ commanding the crew. You were tough, no nonsense, all that.”

“And he would take it way too seriously,” Penguin added, laughing. “We’d get in trouble for doing stupid things. Law would go all ‘We’re pirates! Pirates don’t do that!’ It was ridiculous.”

The image they painted was delightful. From how cool and collected Law presented himself to you, it seemed almost impossible to picture him as a small child, playing pretend games with his friends. The contrast was so stark that it left you fascinated, and you found yourself wanting to hear more about his childhood. Yet, from everything you had gathered about Law so far, you reminded yourself that it was best not to pry too much, too soon.

With that thought in mind, you decided to ease into the conversation. “I can’t believe you guys still call him that,” you said, your eyes twinkling with amusement as you glanced at Law, who was now glaring at them. 

Shachi shrugged. “It stuck, didn’t it? We all grew up, but we’ve been calling him Captain ever since. Besides, we’re all still his crew.”

Penguin grinned. “The Captain’s crew never abandons ship, right, Captain?”

Law’s expression softened for just a moment, and you caught a glimpse of something warmer in his eyes, before he cleared his throat and pushed the moment aside. “Enough of this,” he said, his tone commanding but not harsh. There was no real bite to his words, no anger behind them—an attempt to regain control of the conversation, to push the brief vulnerability back into the recesses where he felt most comfortable.

You smiled to yourself, realizing exactly how much these little moments revealed about Law. He might act cold and distant to most people, but to his friends, he was their captain, their protector—whether he liked it or not. And you had a feeling that he did. You could only hope one day he might regard you as one as well.

“I think it suits you,” you teased, nudging him lightly. “Captain.”

“You really think so, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said with a grin. “You’ve got that ‘I’m in charge’ vibe going on.”

You might have been teasing, but there was an undeniable truth in your words. Law had a presence about him, an unspoken authority that seemed to radiate from every part of him. It wasn’t something he had to assert loudly or forcefully; it was simply there, a quiet confidence that drew people’s attention and commanded respect.

Shachi let out a loud laugh. “See? Even she gets it. You’re stuck with it, Captain.”

Law leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Great. I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

The way he said it was half-amused, half-defeated, but it only made him appear more endearing. You wouldn't dare to call him that out loud. Not yet, at least.

“Nope,” Bepo said. “You’re our Captain for life.” 

The words were delivered with a kind of light-hearted finality, as if there were no debate in the matter, as if Law’s role wasn’t just a title—it was a bond between all of them.

“In alternate universes too,” Shachi added.

The mention of alternate realities sent the group into a lively debate about the multiverse, alternate versions of themselves, and the strange possibilities that could exist in parallel worlds. 

Law got as passionate about it as he did when dissing medical dramas on TV, and you were once again reminded how much you liked that side of him. The fact that he was apparently a nerd only sparked your interest in him even more, and you couldn’t believe there was ever a time when he had scared you off.

As the conversation shifted again, you couldn’t help but feel that the day had completely turned around. What started as an uncomfortable date had blossomed into an unexpected, light-hearted evening with new friends. And through all the teasing and laughter, you saw a side of Law that you hadn’t expected: a guy who cared deeply, maybe more than he let on, and who was just trying to navigate the world the best way he knew how.

You noticed the occasional glance he’d throw your way when he thought you weren’t looking. It was as if he was silently checking on you, making sure you were okay. It felt… nice. You couldn’t deny that a small part of you appreciated the subtle attention.

You were starting to see him in a new light, one that made him way more approachable. 

Eventually, the night started to wind down. The lively chatter began to quieten, and the group started getting ready to leave. You stood up, stretching as you gathered your things, knowing that it was time to head back to the apartment.

“It was fun having you around,” Shachi said, flashing a cheeky grin. “Maybe next time, we can share more embarrassing stories about our dear Captain.”

Penguin chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t let him scare you off.”

Bepo gave you a kind smile. “Take care, and thanks for keeping him company,” he said quietly. “He needs that more than he’ll admit.”

You were about to ask more about what Bepo meant, but before you could get the words out, Law appeared beside you, cutting off the moment.

“Ready to go?” he asked

You nodded, giving the group a last smile and following Law out of the bar.

As you stepped out into the cool air, you pulled out your phone. “I’ll call us a ride,” you said, glancing up at him. “It’s the least I can do after… everything. I mean, you saved my ass back there, let me hang out with you all, and you paid for my drinks—even though I insisted on doing it myself.”

Law raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical, as if the idea didn’t quite sit right with him. “You don’t need to do that.”

“I know I don’t need to,” you replied, giving him a pointed look. “But I want to. You’ve already done enough tonight, and I feel like I should repay you somehow.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” you countered, your tone firm. “You didn’t have to help me, but you did.”

For a moment, you thought he might argue further. But instead, he shrugged. “Fine. If it makes you feel better.”

You smiled, grateful he wasn’t going to fight you on it anymore. As you requested the ride, you noticed him watching you. It wasn’t an intimidating gaze, but rather something quieter—almost like he was sizing you up in a new way.

When you finished, you turned back to him. “It’ll be here soon.” 

The sound of the car pulling up broke the silence, and you gestured toward it. “Come on. Let’s get you home, Captain,” you teased, smirking as the nickname rolled off your tongue.

The ride was quiet at first, the low hum of the car engine filling the space between you. You peeked at Law, noticing how he leaned back in his seat, his sharp features relaxed but still carrying that faint edge of intensity.

“You okay?” you asked, keeping your voice low.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone was even, but something in the way his fingers curled against his sleeve told a different story.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s not every day you play hero, save someone from a bad date, and let your friends roast you in front of them.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—barely—but you caught it. “They have a habit of oversharing.”

You chuckled. “I didn’t mind. Actually, I think it was kind of nice seeing that side of you. You’re usually so serious… it was refreshing.”

Law let out a quiet huff, turning his gaze back to the window. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

As you stepped into your shared apartment, the familiar quiet greeted you. Law moved followed you inside with his usual composed efficiency, heading straight for his bedroom.

But the question that had been hanging in your mind refused to stay silent. Before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out.

“Why don’t you live with them anymore?”

Law paused his movement. There was a brief moment where his expression tightened, like he was weighing how to respond.

You pressed on, suddenly needing to understand. “I mean, from what I’ve learned tonight, you used to live with them, right? So, why were you looking for a place when we ended up as roommates?”

“Shachi and Penguin got together,” he answered, his voice calm but laced with a subtle undercurrent of emotion. “They’ve been a thing for a while now. They didn’t say anything, but… it felt like they needed their own space, you know?”

You nodded slowly, understanding what he meant.

“And Bepo…” Law continued, “He wanted to live with his girlfriend. He offered me a room, and so did Shachi and Penguin, but… He trailed off, glancing at you briefly before looking away.

“But you didn’t want to intrude,” you guessed. “I get it, you know. My former roommate and best friend moved out to live with her girlfriend, so I understand.”

“Exactly,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “They didn’t mind, but… I did. They’re all starting their own lives, and it just didn’t feel right. Plus,” he added, leaning forward, “I needed to be closer to the hospital for my residency anyway. It made sense to find my own place.”

You absorbed his words, feeling a newfound understanding for him. “That’s… really considerate of you.”

He gave a small shrug, brushing off the compliment. “It’s just practical.”

“Still,” you replied, stepping closer, “it says a lot about you. You care about them enough to step back and let them have what they need.”

Law’s lips twitched, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a bit. “It’s what you do for people who matter.”

You smiled at that, finding his quiet loyalty unexpectedly admirable. “Well,” you said lightly, trying to shift the mood, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad you ended up here. Even if I’m probably not as entertaining as them.”

 “You’re entertaining in your own way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For the first time since you’d known him, the apartment didn’t feel so quiet anymore. A soft smile curled on your lips. “Thanks again. Really. I’m glad you were there.”

His eyes pierced into yours, and he gave you a smirk. “Next time, call me sooner. I’ll take care of it.” with that, he pushed himself off the wall and moved to his bedroom. The sound of his footsteps seemed to echo in the room, and in that silence, you realized something—you fully believed that he would.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Uff, it took longer than I expected, but I’m really trying to work on my writing, so I rewrite, edit, and refine everything a lot. I hope I’m not overdoing it, though! Anyway, hope you enjoy <3

After that night, something between you and Law shifted—subtly, almost imperceptibly, but it was there. Your relationship didn't quite tip into the realm of friendship, but everything was more natural than it used to. Conversations that felt stiff or forced now flowed with ease, as if a new rhythm had been established. You found yourselves exchanging words more freely, and those brief, awkward silences began to feel less uncomfortable. 

Days passed in this newfound bliss, and soon, Friday evening arrived. You were getting ready to go out with your best friend. You weren’t planning on staying out too late, but after everything that had been weighing on you, a night of distraction felt like exactly what you needed.

When you stepped out of your room, you noticed Law in the living room. Lounging on the couch, one leg bent over the other, book in hand. The soft glow of the lamp beside him cast shadows on his features, accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw and the focused set of his eyes as they darted across the pages.

He broke the silence first. “Another date?”

His tone was smooth, face completely unbothered, but you could sense that it was his way of teasing you. You tilted your head slightly, feeling a flutter of something in your chest, but you brushed it off. No point in overthinking it. Law was Law—always enigmatic, always a little challenging to read.

“No, just meeting with a friend,” you replied with a light shrug. “I'm kinda over dating for now.”

That made him look up. Law seemed to study you for a moment before he responded with a small nod.  Assessing. It was fleeting, barely noticeable, but it was there—that quiet, searching look he gave when something caught his interest. But then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. He didn’t press further. 

 “Alright,” he murmured, turning the page. “Have fun.”

The words were straightforward, casual—exactly what he had said before your last disastrous date. But this time, his voice was different. Less rigid. Almost as though he was genuinely wishing you well, though it was hard to tell with him. 

You stood there for a bit longer than necessary, your hand tightening around the strap of your bag as if hoping for something else. But nothing happened. So you mumbled a thanks, turned on your heel and headed for the door, convincing yourself you imagined the way his gaze followed you as you left.

By the time you arrived at your favorite restaurant—a cozy spot that had long been your go-to for catching up—the persisting thoughts had begun to fade. And there, waiting at your usual booth, was your best friend and former roommate, Ikkaku, grinning as she tapped impatient fingers against the tabletop.

As soon as you slid into the seat across from her and exchanged greetings, she wasted no time.

“So,” she began, leaning across the table with a playful smirk, “how’s living with Law treating you?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smile, but Ikkaku wasn’t one to let go easily. She had always been the kind of friend who asked all the uncomfortable questions. But despite her persistence, you couldn’t deny that you missed her antics. She was like a whirlwind of energy that you needed in your life.

She was loud, cheeky, and remarkably unapologetic, crashing into your life like a storm, bringing noise, laughter, and an endless supply of ridiculous inside jokes. Before you knew it, she was dragging you to late-night food runs, roping you into impulsive adventures, and making herself impossible to ignore. Somewhere along the way—without you even realizing it—she had become one of the most important people in your life.

“Seriously, how’s it going?” she pressed. 

You let out a frustrated sigh, doing your best to stay composed, but Ikkaku wasn’t about to let you off the hook. She was relentless. Taking a slow sip from your drink, you tried to collect your thoughts, the liquid doing little to calm the heat creeping into your cheeks. After a moment’s pause, you finally spoke, your voice intentionally casual. 

“It’s… fine,” you said, hoping it sounded more convincing than it felt. But the warmth on your face betrayed you, and you could practically hear Ikkaku’s knowing smirk already forming.

Ikkaku's eyes narrowed in that familiar way, the one she constantly used when she sensed you were holding something back. “That’s the most noncommittal answer I’ve ever heard,” she teased, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. “Come on, spill! Is there some tension I should know about? Or maybe some… chemistry?”

You nearly choked on your drink at the word. “What? No, nothing like that!”

“I can tell when you're trying to hide something. You’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, and now you're acting all… twitchy? There's got to be more to this,” she said, waving a forkful of cake in the air like she was delivering some kind of verdict. She really knew you all too well. It was both annoying and… a little impressive.

“I’m not twitchy,” you muttered, attempting to brush off her relentless probing.

“I’ve known you too long to fall for that. The way you’re avoiding eye contact with me right now says everything.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly hyper-aware of how tight your chest had become. You tried to steady your breathing, but your mind kept flashing back to that moment with Law, his words lingering in the air—‘Another date?’  Another date? That tone, that subtle but undeniable hint of something more… It had thrown you off balance. And now, with Ikkaku zeroing in like a shark scenting blood, you felt all kinds of confused.

“Stop,” you mumbled, picking at your cake with unnecessary focus.

“Stop?” she repeated, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence. “If there’s anything going on with your new roommate, you know I’m gonna want the details.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, loving the fact that she was getting under your skin.

You opened your mouth to protest, but the truth of the situation settled in. “I don’t know,” you admitted, exhaling a little too heavily. Vulnerability crept in. “Maybe it’s just… complicated? Maybe I’m overthinking it, but he’s so freaking unpredictable. One minute he’s being sarcastic and distant, and the next, he says something that makes me wonder if he’s—” You cut yourself off shaking your head. 

You weren’t sure how far you wanted to take this conversation, but the way Ikkaku leaned in, her eyes gleaming with an almost mischievous curiosity, made it clear she wasn’t going to let it slide. She had that look—the one that always meant she’d dig until she uncovered every last detail, no matter how much you tried to sidestep her questions.

“Makes you wonder if he’s what?” she prodded, her grin wide as ever.

“Nothing!” you blurted. “Nothing. I don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s just… I can’t tell if I’m imagining things or if there’s more going on beneath the surface.”

“More as in?”

If only you knew. You sighed, pushing the last piece of cake around your plate, deliberately avoiding Ikkaku’s gaze. The truth was, you had been asking yourself the same question over and over again. Was there something there, or were you just reading too much into it? Law wasn’t exactly the easiest person to read, and yet, there were moments, when he felt… closer.

The way he didn’t brush you off as quickly anymore. The way your conversations had shifted from necessity to something bordering on familiarity. The way his voice softened, ever so slightly, when he spoke to you. 

You hated feeling unsure of yourself, and, here you were, spiraling over something as simple as a shift in tone, a glance held a little longer than needed, an unspoken understanding that hadn’t existed before.

“Sounds like you’re overthinking it, huh?”

“I don’t—” You stopped mid-sentence, the instinct to deny it kicking in before you could think better of it. But what was the point? You were overthinking it. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’m just… reaching.”

“Ahhh,” she nodded, a knowing look crossing her face. “The classic dilemma. But here’s the thing—you’ll never know if you don’t push through it.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “You always know exactly what you want.”

Ikkaku shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe. Or maybe I simply choose to go for it, no matter how messy it gets. You should try it sometime. Take a chance. If it blows up in your face, at least you’ll know for sure, right?”

You groaned, sinking back in your seat. It was hard to ignore the fact that Ikkaku was right, but that didn’t make it any easier. The truth seemed like a tangled knot in your chest, and you weren’t sure you had the strength—or the courage—to untangle it.

First, he was your roommate. And second, he was… well, him. 

Yet lately something was different with Law, and you couldn’t deny the subtle shifts you’d noticed between you two. But whether it was something worth pursuing or merely another passing phase was a whole different question you weren’t sure you were ready to answer.

You glanced up at Ikkaku, who was watching you with an infuriating smirk, as if she already knew what was running through your mind. 

“Why do you always do this?”

“Do what?” she asked, far too innocently.

“Make me question everything I thought I had figured out.”

She grinned. “Because someone has to.”

And, like that, she finally let it go.

After changing the subject and spending a lovely time with Ikkaku, you returned to your apartment feeling a sense of clarity, or at least, you tried to convince yourself you did. The night had been a much-needed distraction, and with each laugh you shared with Ikkaku, it felt like the complicated mess of your thoughts had unraveled a little bit. 

By the time you got back to your place, you had made a decision. A firm one. Law may be attractive, maybe even intriguing in his own peculiar manner, but that’s all it would ever be. You were fine with the way things were. You had made peace with the distance, the occasional banter, and the fact he could turn everything upside down with just one look.

It was simple. No need to overthink. No need to complicate things.

But that resolution didn’t last long.

As you entered the apartment, kicking off your shoes, you noticed that the living room lights were still on. There, sprawled across the couch in an unusually vulnerable position, was Law.

You stood there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. It was strange seeing him like this. He looked… different. The tough exterior, the sarcastic remarks, the walls he always put up—it all seemed to melt away in the silence of the room. 

His long frame stretched out on the too-small couch, limbs draped carelessly over the cushions, as if sleep had stolen him away mid-thought. His messy hair fell lazily across his forehead, the rise, and fall of his chest slow and steady, and his lips parted slightly in a peaceful, unguarded slumber. It was a side of him you’d never seen. He looked adorable—a word you never thought you’d associate with him.

A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. It was such a rare sight, this version of Law—unguarded, vulnerable in a way he never allowed himself to be. And maybe that was why you felt this unfamiliar pull in your chest, an unexpected twinge of something you would rather not name. But you shoved it down before it could settle.

You were fine; you reminded yourself. This didn’t change anything.

After a moment of watching him, you shook your head, realizing that letting him stay there wasn’t a good idea. With a sigh, you stepped closer, knowing you had to wake him. As much as you might have enjoyed seeing him like this, he didn’t deserve to be cramped up on the couch after what was probably an exhausting day.

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, careful not to startle him.

“Hey,” you murmured, barely above a whisper, unsure of what kind of reaction you’d get.

His eyelids fluttered open, revealing a hazy, bleary gaze that slowly focused on you. The confusion on his face was almost comical. He blinked a few times, struggling to come back to reality, before his gaze finally sharpened.

“What…?” His words came out rough with drowsiness, quieter than usual, stripped of their typical edge.

You bit back a smile, keeping your tone light despite the strange tenderness of the moment. “You should probably move to your room. Get some proper rest.”

Law stared at you for a moment, as if processing what you said. For a second, you thought he might protest or make some sarcastic remark, but instead, he let out a tired sigh, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“Guess I fell asleep,” he muttered as he stretched his arms above his head. The hem of his shirt lifted just enough to reveal the muscular lines of his stomach, the faint shadow of a V-shape disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

You knew you shouldn’t look. You really, really shouldn’t.

And yet, for a fraction of a second, your gaze betrayed you, drawn to the glimpse of bare skin before you forced yourself to look away, heart stumbling over itself. You concentrated hard on something—anything—else, as if pretending you hadn’t noticed would erase the fact that you had.

If he caught it, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he dropped his arms with another sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He stood up, yawning with a tired grunt, and mumbled, “Thanks,” still a bit dazed as he started to shuffle toward his bedroom. There was something oddly endearing about the way he moved—unfocused, relaxed, like a completely different person than the man who usually walked around with that distant air.

“Wait,” you called after him without thinking, bending down to pick something up from the floor.

As you glanced down, you realized what it was: a comic book. It wasn’t just any comic, either—it was one of those series you used to read growing up, the kind with over-the-top battles and unexpected plot twists. And yet, here it was. The last thing you expected from Law was that he’d be into something like Sora .

“You good?” Law asked, moving closer.

“Uh, yeah. Just…” You held up the comic, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you were into this kind of thing.”

For the first time since you met him, Law actually hesitated. He shifted on his feet, taken off guard by your comment. His posture stiffened slightly, and there was the slightest trace of something in his eyes—something dangerously close to embarrassment. But in true Law fashion, he recovered in an instant. 

His usual cocky smirk reappeared, albeit a little more tired than usual. “What? Can’t a guy have hobbies?”

“No, of course you can. Now I’m just wondering what other surprises you’ve been keeping from me.” You tapped the cover of the comic. “So, you’re really into Sora, huh?”

“Yeah, what about it?” 

“I used to love this comic,” you admitted, feeling a nostalgic warmth spread through you. “I grew up reading it, but I kind of stopped when I got older. Lost track of where the story went, you know? Life gets in the way, I guess.”

Law raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “And you haven’t caught up since?”

You shook your head, letting out a small laugh. “Not really. I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I never actually sat down to read the rest of it.”

You hadn’t realized how much you missed it—how much you missed that part of yourself, the person you were when you first got hooked on the series. The part of you that didn’t worry about life’s messy complications, who got lost in the pages of comics instead of constantly trying to deal with the complexities of reality. 

For a moment, there was silence between you two. Then Law’s voice broke through. “Well… I’ve got the whole series. Every volume. All of it.”

“Wait, seriously?” you asked, genuinely taken aback. “You have every issue?”

“Yep.” He nodded with that familiar, self-assured ease, but there was something about him now—less guarded, more human—that made the moment feel different. “I’ve been collecting them for years. Can’t really put it down, you know? It’s… kind of guilty pleasure.”

A guilty pleasure? Law, of all people, admitting something like that felt strangely intimate. In a way, it was like he’d peeled back a layer of his own carefully constructed walls, showing you a side you did not expect to see.

You blinked, processing this unexpected revelation. Then a slow grin appeared on your face. “I did not see that coming. You, of all people, with a collection of comics.”

Law relaxed, a rare, sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “What can I say? It’s not exactly a secret, but not everyone gets to see it.”

You were still processing this new information when he added, “If you want, I can lend you the rest of the series. Catch up. No pressure.”

You hesitated, glancing down at the worn cover in your hands. It was funny—only a moment ago, you’d been so sure of your boundaries with him. You’d kept things light, casual, nothing too personal. But now, with this unexpected offer, a part of you dared to hope for more. 

“You’d really let me borrow them?” you asked, almost as if testing the waters.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “Might as well, right? And who knows? Maybe you’ll get hooked again.”

You smiled, feeling a strange excitement bubbling up inside you. The idea of diving back into a familiar world suddenly feeling like a comforting escape. “Alright. I’d love to catch up.”

“I’ll grab them tomorrow.” He paused for a moment, as if he was about to say something else, and then added, almost offhandedly, “Oh, by the way. I also collect commemorative coins. Goodnight.” With that, he turned and disappeared into his room.

Wait, what?

The mention of commemorative coins was so random, so Law, and despite that, it felt like another layer of him you had never anticipated. It was a trivial thing, barely worth noting, but the fact that he shared it with you somehow felt important.

At that moment, you realized you had uncovered something new about Law—something small yet oddly significant. But more than that, you had realized something about yourself when it came to him.

Something you definitely didn’t want to confront.

Chapter 5

True to his word, Law did lend you his comic books, and you dove into the series with a childlike enthusiasm. Deciding to start from the beginning, you found yourself reading late into the night, immersed in the world of Sora once more. You weren’t the only one getting caught up in it, either. Apparently, Law believed this was the perfect opportunity to revisit the series himself, so he would sit next to you, flipping through the pages and discussing each issue as if you were both discovering it for the first time.

It wasn’t just the comics, though. Slowly, the two of you started to share more of yourselves, little by little. You even convinced him to show you his coin collection, which was far more extensive and fascinating than you had imagined.

You had begun to consider him more than just a roommate or someone you had a casual acquaintance with. Somehow, you found yourselves becoming actual friends. And that certainly didn’t help to contain the strange, persistent feeling in your chest whenever he was nearby—the one you refused to name, the one that crept up on you unexpectantly and lingered long after he was gone.

“You know, you could make yourself useful and get the mugs,” Law said, his voice dry yet familiar, not even bothering to look at you.

It was strange how natural this felt now—standing side by side in the kitchen, preparing for yet another late-night reading session.

You smirk, leaning lazily against the fridge. “I could, but then you wouldn't get the satisfaction of bossing me around.”

Law let out a quiet huff, shaking his head as he busied himself with the coffee machine. The same one he had insisted on getting after mercilessly berating your so-called “atrocious” way of drinking coffee. You could still remember his entire lecture on the importance of proper brewing methods. A few days later, the machine had appeared in the kitchen, along with a bag of expensive coffee beans and a pointed remark about how he refused to live with someone who “willingly drank that garbage.”

“You say that like I enjoy it,” he responded, but there was an unmistakable ease in his tone.

“You do,” you countered, crossing your arms with a knowing look.

He didn’t argue, which was as good as admitting you were right. Instead, he gestured toward the cabinet with a tilt of his chin. “Mugs.”

“Yes, Captain,” you shot back, throwing him a mock salute as you used the nickname his friends often did. The corner of his eye twitched—whether in amusement or mild exasperation, you weren’t sure, but you counted it as a win.

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed two mugs from the shelf and set them on the counter beside him with an exaggerated flourish. “Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” he deadpanned, but you recognized that small, reluctant smile of his. The one you felt privileged to see more and more lately.

This had become routine between the two of you—shared moments over coffee, snarky exchanges over medical dramas you watched that Law claimed to despite and yet watched with you almost every night now, and deep conversations that made him even more interesting. He was smart, insightful, and surprisingly easy to talk to when he let his guard down. It was a more than welcomed change to your dynamic.

“Want a salad?” you asked, pulling a container from the fridge.

“Sure.”

“Want some bread?” This time, your voice carried a teasing lilt, fully aware of his inexplicable distaste for it. A quirk that, despite all the time you’d spent together, still made little sense to you. 

Law scoffed, his gaze never leaving the coffee machine as he muttered, “As if.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Seriously, what is up with that? I would understand if you were allergic, but straight-up hating on bread is ridic—AHH! Fuck!”

A sharp sting shot through your finger as the knife slipped, and before you could even process the pain, Law was already beside you.

“Let me see.” His voice was direct, all teasing forgotten as he grabbed your wrist gently.

“It’s fine,” you reassured him, but the wince that escaped you told a different story. A thin line of crimson welled up on your finger, the sting settling in now that the shock had worn off.

Law clicked his tongue, already pulling you toward the sink. “You’re terrible at handling knives,” he blurted out, switching on the tap and guiding your hand under the cool water.

“You don’t even know that,” you shot back. “Maybe I was just distracted by your bread slander.”

“Right. Blame me for your lack of basic kitchen safety.”

You grinned despite yourself. “It makes me feel better.”

And you meant it. There was something about this—talking with him, the back-and-forth—that grounded you.  You found yourself wondering if you should tell him about that one day. Tell him how his presence had come to mean so much more than he probably realized. 

How would he take it? Would it change everything between you? Or would he brush it off, not fully grasping the weight behind it? You weren’t sure if you were ready to risk that.

Law let out a deep sigh, as he took out the first aid kit from the shelf. With practiced ease, he dried your finger, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his usual bluntness. The touch of his fingertips lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, and for a heartbeat, you forgot about the pain entirely. You caught yourself holding your breath as his fingers moved with purpose, unwrapping a bandage.

“You’re lucky it’s not deep,” he muttered, pressing the bandage into place. “Try not to be an idiot next time.”

You pouted dramatically, doing your best to mask the feelings stilling deep inside you. “Wow. Such kindness. I feel so taken care of.”

Law rolled his eyes but didn’t let go of your hand right away. There was something tranquil in the way his thumb lightly ghosted over the bandage, as if making sure it was secure.

You blinked, glancing down at where his hand still held yours. It wasn’t like Law to be overly touchy—hell, it wasn’t like him to make a habit of close contact at all, and yet… he didn’t pull away. His fingers curled slightly, a warmth settling between them familiar to the one you were currently experiencing in your traitorous heart. 

For a moment, you found yourself holding your breath, acutely aware of the sensation of his skin against yours, the soft brush of his thumb where it had unconsciously traced the bandage. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been so aware of someone else’s proximity

“Thanks,” you murmured, as if the simple act of him taking care of you had somehow unraveled the guarded part of you.

Law’s gaze locked onto yours, holding it for just a beat longer than usual.  You could see the uncertainty in his posture, as though he was calculating whether to say something or maybe just whether to pull away. But then, as if making up his mind, he slowly released your hand, his fingers slipping away. You immediately missed it more than you felt comfortable admitting. Even to yourself.

Without a word, he returned to his task, finishing making coffee as if nothing had happened. But you caught it—the way his fingers brushed over his own palm absentmindedly, as if still feeling the weight of yours.

You glanced down at your bandaged finger, feeling the faint sting beneath the gauze. Your eyes shifted back to him, and a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

The two of you settled on the couch, mugs in hand, as you flipped open another issue of the comic series. The pages were worn but well-loved, the artwork vivid under the warm glow of the living room lamp.

You stole a glance at Law, who was absorbed in the comic, his brow furrowed slightly in concentration. His usual aloofness was there, but it was softer somehow, less guarded. You wondered what made him this way. Why he chose to share something like his collection with you, or why he took the time to patch up a small cut. It was little things, moments that felt too intimate to be casually brushed aside.

He seemed less like the person who occupied the distant, isolated corner of the apartment and more like someone you could count on, even if you didn’t always know what that meant.

The thought came unbidden, creeping up on you like a quiet realization—Law had become part of your daily life. And not just the casual part. The part where you didn’t mind the silence, the shared moments that didn’t require explanation or effort. You were both comfortable, without even trying.

You leaned back, folding your legs beneath you, as you tried to ignore the way your heart felt a little too light. Maybe you were overthinking it, trying to make something out of typical roommate routine. But there was a tug in your chest, a curiosity you hadn’t expected.

Your thoughts wandered as you looked down at the comic in your lap, not fully reading the words but instead replaying the quiet moments with Law—the way he had stayed beside you, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tended to your finger. You hadn’t expected it, hadn’t expected him to care so much. You hadn’t expected him to feel… like this. Whatever this was.

Law didn’t give much away, and that was something you understood about him. But in his own way, he was giving you pieces. Just not all at once. It was as if he was testing the waters, unsure of how much he could trust you, but doing it nonetheless. You couldn’t blame him. Trust wasn’t an easy thing to build.

You snuck another peek at him. His eyes were focused on the comic in his hands, but there was something more now in the way his jaw clenched, the way his lips twitched when he turned a page. It was as if his mind was somewhere else, lost in thoughts you couldn’t quite reach.

You considered asking him about it. About what was on his mind. But you paused, unsure if he’d let you in. Law had always been the type to keep his personal life hidden, a shield you weren’t sure how to breach completely yet.

You let out a breath, a small smile appearing on your lips again. Whatever this was—whatever was happening between you—it was more than you had imagined when he first moved in. And even if you didn’t have all the answers, that was okay for now.

“You ever think about how Sora just keeps getting back up no matter what?” you mused. “Like, no matter how many times he gets knocked down, he always pushes forward.”

Law’s gaze was fixed on the panel in front of him, his tattooed fingers idly tracing the edge as if lost in thought. For a moment, it seemed like he might not answer, but then he did. “It’s not about being the strongest. It’s about refusing to stay down.”

There was something in his tone, something almost thoughtful. You turned your head just slightly, watching him more closely now, trying to read the subtle changes in his expression.

“Sounds like you relate to that,” you said, your voice quieter now, careful.

His lips quirked upward, but he didn’t deny it. “Maybe.”

You didn’t push. If there was one thing you’d learned, it was that Law only shared things in his time. Instead, you bumped your shoulder lightly against his before returning to the comic.

For now, this was enough.

Chapter 6

Notes:

Comfort my beloved (let's enjoy it while it lasts...)

The nightmare clung to you like a second skin, its shadows still whispering at the edges of your mind as you sat up in bed, gasping for breath. It was dark, save for the eerie reflection of streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting thin golden lines across the floor. Your pulse thudded heavily in your chest, a remnant of the terror that had gripped you moments ago.

You rubbed a shaky hand over your face, trying to will yourself back into reality. It wasn’t real. You told yourself this, but it didn’t help. The nightmare persisted, its claws digging into your thoughts. The silence of the apartment felt like a pressing weight, almost too heavy, as if the quiet was too much to bear.

You knew you wouldn’t sleep again tonight. Not like this.

With a sigh, you threw the covers off your legs and swung them over the side of the bed. Your feet touched the cool floor, the chill grounding you a little, though not enough to shake the tight knot of anxiety that twisted in your stomach. Maybe a glass of water would help. Something simple. Something that reminded you were here, in the present, and not trapped in whatever the hell your mind had concocted.

You stepped toward the door of your room. The apartment was still. The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the darkness, and the air felt thicker than it should have been. It wasn’t the first time you’d been up like this, but tonight was different. You could feel the heavy pull of the nightmare, persisting in the shadows of the apartment.

As you reached the kitchen, you froze in the doorway.

Law.

You hadn’t expected to find him there—certainly not this late at night. He was leaning against the counter, his hand resting on the table as he stared off into space. He didn’t seem startled by your entrance, though you had a feeling neither of you had anticipated this late-night meeting.

The soft glow of the kitchen lights cast long shadows, highlighting the exhaustion on his face. You had noticed long ago that he often seemed to have dark circles under his eyes, but at this ungodly hour, they looked even more pronounced.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just stood there, caught in a moment that felt strangely intimate.

Then, finally, his voice broke the quiet—lower than usual, almost hesitant.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You nodded, your throat tight. You didn’t want to explain what had woken you up—how it had felt too real, too suffocating, how you couldn’t shake the feelings that still clung to you. So, you just kept it simple.

“Yeah,” you murmured, turning toward the sink to fill a glass with water. It was the most mundane thing you could think of, but it felt like the safest choice right now.

But just as you reached for the glass, Law set down his mug and quietly nudged it toward you. A fresh cup of tea, still steaming gently in the cool air of the room.

Your eyes darted to the cup, then back to him. “For me?” you asked, trying to comprehend what he was doing.

He shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah. Didn’t know you were coming out, but might as well take it. I haven't drunk from it yet.” 

You stared at the cup, your fingers itching to take it, but your pride tugged at you. “I don’t want to take your tea.” 

“It’s fine. The water should still be hot. I’m gonna make myself another mug. Drink. You look like you need it.”

You took the cup carefully, fingers brushing against his in the exchange. The contact was brief but warm, and it made something inside you shift like it was the first thing you’d felt since waking up.

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying to ignore how awful you must look for him to say something like that. Or how his tender gesture made you feel.

The steam from the tea swirled upwards, drifting into the cool air. You hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected him to be awake, hadn’t expected him to be the one offering you comfort in such a small, quiet, and yet meaningful way. 

He moved to make himself another cup of tea.

You took a slow sip from the mug, the warmth of the tea spreading through you in sharp contrast to the chill that prevailed in your chest.

“You’re up late, too,” you spoke, needing to fill the silence.

He hummed in agreement, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the window, his eyes distant, like he was contemplating something far beyond the kitchen. “I don’t sleep much. Never really have,” he said, almost too casually.

“That’s not good, but probably a good thing for a doctor to have. I mean to be able to stay up when needed,” you mumbled, not even knowing if you were making any sense.

If you weren't, Law decided not to comment, focusing rather on drinking his tea.

“Nightmares?” he asked after a moment, hesitant, like he wasn’t quite sure if he should ask.

You hadn’t prepared to talk about this. You hadn’t planned to talk about anything. You just wanted to be left alone to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. But at that moment, with him standing there, calm and silent, you couldn’t ignore the small pull to say something.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “It was… it was bad. Felt real, you know?”

“Yeah,” Law replied quietly, almost like he understood more than he let on. There was something in his voice that made you look up at him again, searching for the usual smirk or sarcasm, but it wasn’t there.

You swallowed, uncertain whether you should continue or just let the moment pass. But the concern in his eyes caught you off guard, and something about it made you feel safe, in a way you weren’t used to. It wasn’t like his usual cool demeanor, the one that had a protective wall around it. This was different—tender, almost.

You shifted your weight, setting the mug down on the counter, as you avoided looking directly at him. You hadn’t been expecting this. You weren’t sure you wanted it. But here he was, offering this strange sense of understanding without any words needing to be said.

“Do you get them often?” you asked quietly, your voice almost swallowed by the silence.

Law didn’t answer immediately. His eyes drifted down to the countertop, his thumb rubbing absent-mindedly against the ceramic of his mug. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

“Sometimes,” he finally said. There was no bravado, no attempt to brush it off. It was raw. Vulnerable. “But I don’t talk about them.”

You didn’t push him for details. You didn’t have to. The way he said it made it clear that whatever nightmares haunted him, he preferred to keep them locked away. You wondered briefly if that was why he stayed up so late, as though keeping himself busy was easier than confronting whatever demons lurked in his mind.

“Yeah, well… I don’t usually talk about mine either,” you admitted, feeling a strange sense of solidarity between you, something deeper than the casual roommate or friend interactions you were both used to.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice, though quiet, was sincere. There was no pushing, no pressure. Just an open question.

For a second, you wavered. The instinct was there to just shake your head, withdraw into your own space, and leave it all behind. But something about the way he stood there, so steady, so collected, made you rethink it. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t demanding anything from you.

Instead, you found yourself exhaling a long breath, and the words came, unbidden. “I don’t know. It was just… it felt like I was suffocating. Like I couldn’t get away. Everything was so real—too real. I could feel it. I was trapped, and I… I couldn’t get out.”

Your voice cracked at the end, and you immediately felt a flush of embarrassment, a burning feeling creeping up your neck. But instead of retreating, you held his gaze. He was looking at you with something that wasn’t pity but understanding.

“You don’t have to explain it if you don’t want to,” he said after a long beat. There was no judgment in his tone, just that same warmth from before. It was almost like he was giving you permission to feel whatever it was you had been holding back.

You wanted to laugh—bitterly, maybe. The idea that you needed permission to have a nightmare felt absurd, but the truth was that the feeling of being understood was something you didn’t get to experience often.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. It’s dumb.”

Law shook his head, his expression softening even more. “It’s not dumb.”

Was he saying… he was listening? Actually listening? The thought felt foreign, even though you’d spent months under the same roof. You hadn’t realized how much you craved someone just being there, not pushing you or pretending that everything was fine. Just, being.

Before you could respond, he gave a half-smile—small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. “I’m not exactly a professional at these things. But if it helps, I’ll sit here while you drink your tea. No need to pretend you’re fine.”

His offer was simple, but it was enough. You were surprised at how much it meant.

“Thanks,” you said again, your voice quieter than before, unsure how to handle the sudden shift.

The silence stretched on for a while, comfortable in its own way. You didn’t feel the need to rush through it, didn’t feel the need to fill it with words that might shatter the fragile calm you had somehow found. Law stayed where he was, not prying, just there.

And for the first time that night, the rawness of your thoughts didn’t feel so unbearable. The nightmare no longer seemed so oppressive. For once, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter. It was probably the tea, or maybe the fact that you weren’t alone at this moment. Whatever it was, you found the courage to ask.

“Can you distract me?”

He definitely did not expect such a question. “Distract you? How?”

“Just talk about something… like your tattoos,” you suggested.

He seemed a little taken aback. “You want to talk about my tattoos?”

“Well, yeah. I’m curious,” you admitted. His tattoos intrigued you from the start, and with the revelation that there was more than you’d expected at the beginning, you found yourself frequently fighting the urge to ask. Maybe, in this strange little bubble you’d established, in the stillness of the night, your curiosity would finally be satisfied.

He seemed to waver for a moment, before agreeing. 

“Fine… the one on my fingers,” he said, lifting his hands to show you. His tattoos spelled out D-E-A-T-H, each letter etched deep into his skin. “It’s just a reminder. Life is fragile. And as a surgeon, I can save lives, but not always. Death is part of this job as well as part of life…” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, he seemed to get lost in his thoughts, eyes distant as though reflecting on something long buried. After a brief pause, he shook his head slightly, as if snapping himself out of it. “Also, I might have been young and edgy when I got them”

“Aren’t you still edgy?” you teased.

He shot you a sideways glance, deadpan. “Says the person who willingly hangs out with me.”

You smiled, shrugging nonchalantly. “Touché.”

“Anyway… the hearts” he continued, his gaze shifting away. “They’re because of someone I was close to,” he added, his words vague but heavy, and you could sense he would rather not say more. You respected that.

Instead, you shifted the topic gently. “What about the one on your back?” you asked, prodding him for more information.

To your surprise, he blushed a little. “It’s not important,” he muttered.

Now you were even more curious. “Oh, come on, tell me!” you insisted, nudging him lightly. “I won’t let it go. Pleeease,” you put on the cutest expression you could master.

He sighed, and finally spoke, albeit reluctantly. “Remember how Bepo called me Captain?”

“Of course,” you replied, a chuckle escaping. That was not something you intended to forget.

He mumbled something under his breath, and despite it being silent in the kitchen, you did not hear a single word.

“What?”

He signed. Deeply. Then repeated himself, looking like he already regretted speaking about that. “It's what we used as a Jolly Roger.”

You were unable to suppress your grin. That was totally unexpected and beyond adorable.

“That’s so cute,” you remarked before you could stop yourself.

“It’s not,” his face flushed with an undeniable blush once more, the color creeping up to his ears. Now that might just be even more precious. The sight of him, flustered and trying to downplay it, only made him seem even more endearing.

“It is! And there’s nothing wrong with that,” you countered, leaning forward a little, cradling your cup of tea in your hands as you watched him.

He paused, his eyes wandering to the window for a moment, staring into the darkness outside. “It just reminds me of my friends, I guess,”

That hit you in a way you didn’t expect—warmth spread in your chest at the vulnerability he was showing. You smiled, the corners of your lips curving without thought. And to think, once upon a time, you had written him off as an incredibly sketchy individual. A mystery wrapped in sharp edges and wary glances.

“Still leaves a few more,” you inquired, eager to know more.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “The rest? Just for fun.”

You laughed, leaning back slightly in your chair as you took a long sip from your tea. “Well, that’s disappointing.”

Then, your eyes met, and everything seemed to pause. For a second, it was like the whole world was holding its breath. You could feel the weight of something unspoken between you, a connection you weren’t sure you wanted to name but couldn’t deny anymore.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, the words slipping out without thought. It felt like a release, something you needed to say.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, though his tone was gentler than usual.

But you already knew. Knew that despite his best efforts, despite the walls he kept around himself, you had made at least a small crack in them. He let you in more than he realized, more than he probably wanted to.

And as you studied him, the way he avoided your gaze just a little too late, the way his fingers tensed a bit before relaxing again, you couldn’t help but wonder—was there a way to break through completely? To reach not just past his defenses, but all the way into his heart?

Chapter 7

Notes:

Things are picking up, I guess. 🤷🏻‍♀️

One Friday night, after another long week, you returned home. Your plan was simple. You wanted to grab a quiet evening, relax, and maybe catch up on the comics. But as soon as you stepped inside, you were met with the sound of laughter and loud voices.

You slipped off your shoes and carefully hung your jacket on the coat rack by the door. With a deep breath, you stepped further into the flat, curious about all the noise.

You froze nearby living room, eyebrows furrowing as you took in the sight before you: Law, sitting on the couch, surrounded by a group of his friends. The living room was littered with empty alcohol bottles, and the air was thick with the smell of beer and the occasional swig of something stronger. His friends, all animated and chatting away, seemed completely at ease, but what really caught your attention was Law himself.

He was drunk.

Not completely wasted, but definitely more relaxed, his usual controlled demeanor slipping away as he leaned back into the couch, a slight flush on his face. He was laughing, something you rarely saw from him—an unfiltered, carefree sound that captivated you straightaway.

“Yo! Come on in, join us!” Shachi noticed you standing in the doorway and waved with a teasing grin, clearly already a few drinks deep himself.

Law turned his head slightly, his expression softening when he saw you. “Oh, you’re home,” he said. 

Like it was nothing.

You tried—really tried—to ignore the way your heart clenched at that single word. Home. It shouldn’t have affected you the way it did, shouldn’t have made warmth bloom in your chest so suddenly, so fiercely. But it did. Because it wasn’t just about the space you shared. It was about the acknowledgment that, in his mind, you were a part of it. A part of home.

He straightened a little, as if trying to regain some composure, though the slight haze in his eyes betrayed him. It was obvious he was still buzzed. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Right, sorry,” you said, stepping fully into the room. You glanced around at the others, finding Bepo lounging on the floor with an empty glass in hand and Penguin singing along to some ridiculous song playing in the background. The scene was chaotic but strangely comforting.

Law gestured vaguely toward the bottles scattered across the table, his long fingers trailing passively through the air as if that explained everything. “Sorry about this,” he muttered, though his tone lacked any real regret.

“It’s fine,” you said with a small shrug, suppressing a smile. “You told me they were coming over. I just expected a lazy hangout, not… well, this.”

Law chuckled quietly. “Yeah… it kinda got out of hand,” he admitted, his lips curving into a sheepish smile that made him look younger, less burdened. More approachable.“Guess they talked me into it.”

“Guess so,” you replied. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

You took in the scene again, the mess, the laughter, and found yourself entertained by it all.

Shachi patted the couch beside him enthusiastically. “C’mon, don’t just stand there! Grab a drink, sit down! We’re celebrating or… something!”

Law shot him a halfhearted glare. “Stop trying to recruit people,” he said dryly, though the effect was ruined by the smirk on his face.

“What are you celebrating?” you asked, curiosity piqued.

Shachi opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Uh…” He exchanged a glance with Penguin, who was already halfway through his drink that he had just poured himself.

Penguin shrugged. “Dunno. Something good probably happened today?”

Shachi nodded rapidly. “Yeah!”

“Yeah,” Bepo echoed, his deep voice slightly slurred before he immediately hiccupped. Then patted his chest as if that would somehow reset his system.

Law leaned back, watching you over the rim of his glass. “You’ll regret letting them drag you into this.”

You chuckled. “Maybe. But that sounds like a problem for future me.”

Shachi whooped, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “That’s the spirit!”

You laughed, finally giving in. Maybe tonight wasn’t what you’d expected, but you weren’t complaining either. It felt genuinely nice to be included, to be welcomed into the group so easily. More than merely a casual gathering, it was a meaningful opportunity to spend time with Law's friends, to get to know the people who mattered to him and learn more about him that way.

The first sip warmed your throat, and soon you loosened up. As the night went on, the upbeat music and laughter filled the room, pulling you further into the lively chaos. It wasn’t long before Penguin managed to drag you into his antics, convincing you to sing along to whatever ridiculous song he was singing.

“You’ve got this!” Penguin cheered, swaying dramatically as he held an imaginary microphone. Emboldened by the buzz from your drink and the sheer absurdity of it all, you joined in, your voice shaky with giggles but growing louder as you went.

When you looked over, Law was watching you. You felt a heat spread across your chest as you met his eyes. His lips were curved in a small, genuine smile. The sharp lines of his face mellowed, his posture less rigid, and the tension that always seemed to cling to him disappeared as he watched you, as if he had momentarily forgotten the world outside the room.

A persisting warmth unfurled in your chest, settling deep and refusing to fade, even as you turned your attention back to the ridiculous performance. 

The night wore on, and eventually, the group began winding down. Shachi stretched with a groan, nearly collapsing on top of Penguin, his words slurring slightly as he announced, “Alright, I’m calling it. I need my bed. Or… maybe just the floor.”

“Floor’s taken,” Bepo said, patting the rug he was sprawled on. He yawned, his eyes drooping. “But yeah, I should head out too.”

Somehow, they all managed to get to their feet, though it looked more like a dance of uncoordinated marionettes. Shachi grabbed his jacket, only to put it on inside-out. You were about to point it out and help him get properly dressed when you heard something crash to the floor.

It turned out to be Bepo, who tried to walk but ended up taking a few unplanned steps in the wrong direction, nearly stumbling into the potted plant.

“I’m fine,” he slurred, grabbing the nearest chair for balance, only to tip it over.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Shachi muttered, his voice muffled as he fumbled with the door handle. There was a clumsy tug, followed by the unmistakable sound of him pulling it in the wrong direction. “Wait… is it locked?”

You heard a dramatic sigh to your left.

“I’ve got them” Penguin, somehow looking the most sober out of all of them, turned to you with an exaggerated apologetic smile. “Hey, uh, sorry for leaving you with the Captain like this. But you’ve got this, right?”

You smiled fondly. There was something deeply touching about how his friends still clung to his childhood nickname.

Your gaze drifted to Law, still seated on the couch, leaning heavily against the armrest. His head rested in his hand, his eyes half-lidded. He looked like he was hovering on the edge of sleep, but the flush on his face and the unguarded smile made it clear he was still drunk.

“Yeah, you’ve got this,” Penguin said, patting your shoulder before turning to follow the others. “Night!”

He yanked the door open, holding Shachi and Bepo by their arms, and practically dragged them out the door. You were left standing there with an amused shake of your head.

As you locked the door behind the trio, a tranquil atmosphere settled over the room, broken only by the music still playing in the background. With a slow, reluctant motion, you reached over and turned it off.

“Looks like it’s just us,” you said, moving closer to Law.

He blinked up at you. “Guess so.” He shifted to sit a little straighter, though it didn’t last long before he leaned back into the cushions with a tired sigh. “Sorry about… all of this,” he murmured, gesturing vaguely at the scattered mess around the room. “They needed it. I guess I did too. Or something.” He squinted, as though trying to piece together his thoughts.

You sat down beside him. “No need to apologize. You looked like you were having fun for once.”

Law huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe a little too much fun,” he admitted. He trailed off, his head tipping back against the couch, as if even sitting upright was too much effort.

“Yeah, I noticed,” you teased lightly, earning a small, self-deprecating chuckle from him. “You should drink some water and go to sleep,” you suggested.

Law pouted—a real, genuine pout, his lips jutting out slightly as he slumped further into the couch. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbled like a stubborn toddler. His head lolled to the side, and his hazy eyes found yours, his expression unusually open and yet, you weren't sure what you should see in it. “Can we stay a little longer like this? Just… sit here?”

You exhaled slowly. The way he asked tugged at your heartstrings. Despite being an incredibly tall man, he seemed so small right now, so needy, so open. You wished he would feel that comfortable around you without the alcohol running in his system. That he would let himself lean into you, just like this, not because of lowered inhibitions, but because he wanted to.

“Alright, but if you end up passed out on the couch, I’m not carrying you to your room.”

“You’re not that strong anyway.”

His usual confidence was still there, but it was tempered by the kind of honesty that only came with being this drunk. You decided to let it slide, shaking your head with a small laugh as you handed him a glass of water.

“Drink this,” you said firmly.

Law took it, though not without a deep groan of protest. “Bossy,” he commented, but he obeyed. He tilted his head back and drank it all in one swift motion, the liquid vanishing quickly.

You took the empty glass from him and set it carefully on the table. You were about to ask him if he needed more water or anything, but his words stopped you. 

“You’re… really something, you know that?”

“Something?”

“Something…good”

Your breath hitched, and you swallowed against the sudden tightness in your throat. “You must be drunker than I thought if you’re saying things like that.” you said, desperately trying to brush it off. To not make it something bigger that it was. 

“M’serious,” he insisted. 

“Sure,” you said, patting his head condeceingly. 

But Law wasn’t letting it go. “No, really,” he murmured.  As your hand started to withdraw from his hair, he caught it, fingers wrapping around yours with a concealed desperation. “I mean it,” he maintained, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your skin. He hesitated for just a second before he found the words.

“You’re…” A pause, a breath, a moment stretched taut between you. His grip tightened slightly. “Important. To me.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected confession, and you couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol talking or if this was something he’d been holding back. It was too late, and you were too tipsy to wonder about that now. Not when his words threatened to unravel something in you. So you did what you always did. You diminished it, turned it into something easier to hold, something safer.

“Okay, you’re definitely drunk.”  

That was it. The reason he was saying all those things. It couldn't mean as much as you were hoping for. 

Law pouted again, the expression somehow both endearing and absurd on him. “I’m not that drunk,” he argued, though the way he was leaning into you, practically draped over your side, said otherwise.

“You’re literally clinging to me right now,” you pointed out, trying to hide your growing smile.

“Because you’re comfy,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He let his head fall to your shoulder, the weight of him startling at first, but you didn’t push him away.

“Law…” you began, but he cut you off with a content hum.

“Just for a little while,” he mumbled, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. “Let me stay like this. Feels nice.”

“Alright,” you replied slowly, relaxing back on the couch.

He chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Thanks.” His fingers brushed against yours once again, and though you told yourself it was just the alcohol making him act this way, the sincerity in his voice and the way he clung to you felt… real. And too nice.

For a moment, you let yourself believe it was okay to melt into it, to enjoy his closeness without questioning what it meant. You allowed yourself to enjoy his presence without dissecting every gesture or searching for some hidden intentions. Just this once, it didn’t have to be complicated.

Then, he stirred, lifting his head slightly to look at you, his gaze dropping to your lips. The room seemed to grow impossibly still, and your heart pounded as you realized what was happening.

“Law, no,” you said gently, pressing a hand to his chest to stop him from moving any closer. 

The words felt like a betrayal because deep down, you did want him to kiss you. Desperately so. But not like this—not when he was drunk and this might be a fleeting, alcohol-fueled mistake he’d regret in the morning.

Law froze at your touch, his movements halting, as if a sudden clarity had pierced through the fog of his inebriation. His eyes widened slightly, and he pulled back sharply, creating a noticeable space between you. You immediately missed the feeling of his fingers on yours.

“Shit,” he muttered, raking a hand through his messy hair. “Fuck. I… I’m sorry.”

You watched him carefully, the tension in your chest easing only slightly. “It’s okay,” you reassured him, though your heart was still beating violently.

“No, it’s not,” he persisted, his voice heavy with self-reproach. His hands clenched into fists, resting on his knees. “I shouldn’t have—damn it. I don’t…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as his head dipped further. “Fuck.”

“It’s fine” you insisted once more and you meant it. You said no and he stopped. Nothing happened. 

“It’s not fucking fine!” His voice cracked, rising in pitch as frustration and guilt bled through every word. His gaze was unfocused, a storm brewing behind his half-lidded eyes.

It was impossible to ignore how badly he was beating himself up.

“Stop apologizing,” Your words were meant to calm, to pull him back from whatever dark place his mind was slipping into. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You were about to gather the courage and tell him that you wanted him to kiss you. Over and over again, until the world disappeared, until there was nothing but his touch and the warmth of his lips. You wanted it, but not out of impulsiveness or intoxication. No, you wanted it when he was ready, when he could decide, with clarity, that he wanted it too.

But as you opened your mouth, Law groaned. “I’ll regret this tomorrow.” 

The words hung in the air, cold and cutting, immediately shutting you up. Then he pushed himself up unsteadily from the couch. He didn’t look at you as he moved toward his room and disappeared without saying anything else.

The door to his room clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed felt deafening.

And that was what scared you. You didn’t want him to regret it. You wanted him to pull you closer, to close the distance he kept so meticulously guarded, to press his lips to yours in a kiss so consuming it left you both breathless. You wanted to feel the heat of his hands on your skin, the certainty in his touch that he wanted this as much as you did.

But not like this. You didn’t want to be a drunken mistake or a lapse in judgment. You wanted him to choose it—to choose you—with a clear mind and open heart. To embrace that moment, fully and without hesitation.

And as you sat there alone, staring at the dim glow beneath his door, you couldn’t help but wonder if he ever would.

Chapter 8

Notes:

A shorter one. Kind of a filler, just to connect things and show the aftermath of the previous chapter.

You believed that after that unexpected closeness, even with that uncomfortable ending of the night, things would improve between you and Law. It felt like a turning point, the kind of moment that would bring you closer, strengthening the fragile bond you shared. It was a rare moment of vulnerability from him, one that made you think maybe, just maybe, he was finally starting to open up, to trust you more. 

The fact that he had wanted to kiss you only fueled the flames of hope, making it impossible to ignore the possibility that there was something more serious between you.

But you couldn’t have been more wrong.

His classic cool demeanor, which frequently appeared to be a wall he had constructed around himself, was now more severe and impenetrable than ever. 

You could feel the shift the moment you woke up. There was no warmth in his eyes when you exchanged your first glance of the day, no trace of the connection from the night before. It was as if nothing had ever happened.

You tried to approach him, offering a casual remark about his drinking, but he barely acknowledged you.

“Don’t read too much into it,” he said, his tone distant as he shuffled papers at the table, his focus on the medical textbook in front of him rather than you.

The words stung more than you cared to admit. You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t—” you started, but he cut you off.

“It was just the alcohol talking and doing,” he stated firmly, his voice betraying no emotion. “Forget about it.”

And that was it. No explanation, no mention of the softness he’d shown. It was as if the vulnerable version of Law you’d seen had been locked away, buried so deeply that even he refused to recognize its existence.

You stood there, processing what had happened. His words were akin to a frigid wind, which pushed you further away and shattered any confidence you had that things would be different between you now. You watched him return to his work, his attention entirely on the textbook, as if you were no longer there.

So, you walked away, your heart heavy with a sense of betrayal, but you didn’t show it. 

You couldn’t. He didn’t want you to.

Your mind kept replaying his words, the ones he said so carelessly the morning after. Don’t read too much into it . Could it really have been nothing more than that? Why did you keep hoping things would change? Was it purely your own wishful thinking that had you stuck here, holding onto a fleeting moment of closeness?

The days that followed were colder. He kept his distance, throwing himself into work with even more intensity than usually. He buried himself in research, notes, and medical journals—anything to avoid you and your judgmental stares. He kept himself so shut off, so unreachable, it was impossible to even find a way in.

When you spoke to him, his answers were clipped. If he caught you looking at him, his eyes would flick away almost immediately, his jaw tightening as if he were physically restraining himself from engaging.

You tried not to take it personally, but it was so frustrating, the way he seemed to act like nothing had happened, erasing the memory of the night as if it were some inconvenient slip of control.

You did everything to bring things back to what they were before that night. To pretend it never happened. The least you could do was salvage whatever was left of what you used to have, whatever thread of connection you could still grasp onto. You searched your brain for any topic he would answer to with more than a few sentences.

Sora . That brought you together in the first place. Picking up one of the strips, you skimmed through the panels, mentally preparing your thoughts. When he walked into the room later, you held it up with a grin.

“Hey, I read this one,” you said, trying to keep your tone casual. “I didn’t expect Sora to get out of that trap so easily. You think it was a—”

Law barely glanced at you as he walked past, his expression flat. “I’m busy.” And just like that, he was in his room.

You stared after him, the comic still in your hand, your chest tightening with frustration. What had happened to the easy, comfortable way you used to talk to each other? What had happened to the person who used to sit with you for hours debating over Sora and everything else? He had been right there, and now he felt so far away.

Still, you didn’t give up. Despite the bitter distance between you and Law, you refused to simply let things be. A part of you, stubborn and desperate, clung to the hope that there was a way back to how things used to be. You needed to find the right way to break through the wall he’d built around himself. 

Once again.

A few days later, you tried again, this time resorting to sheer absurdity. While he was reviewing some notes in the kitchen, you approached him, a determined smile plastered on your face. You thought of something—something absurd, something you knew would grab his attention, even if it was solely to mock you.

“So, I’ve been feeling a bit weird lately…”

You paused dramatically, observing for any sign of interest. His pen moved in steady lines across his paper, but you didn’t give up yet.

“Do you think it’s possible to, like, get a fever from eating too much spicy food?”

There it was. A statement so ridiculous that you were sure it would at least provoke some kind of response. You waited, expecting the characteristic deadpan look, or maybe a sigh and an eye roll. Anything that indicated he was acknowledging your presence.

His pen didn’t stop moving, the scratching sound filling the space between your words. You stared at him, half-expecting him to ignore you completely, to brush you off and leave you standing there looking foolish. But, to your surprise, after what felt like an eternity, Law finally turned his head just enough to peek at you. His brow furrowed slightly, as if struggling to comprehend your words, before he sighed and gave his usual dry response.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he uttered, resuming his task. “You’re fine. Just drink some water and stop eating that stuff.”

You blinked, your mouth opening. That was it? No quip, no sarcastic remark?

After a few seconds of silence, Law gave a tiny, absent nod in your direction. It was so trivial and devoid of any genuine connection that it almost bore the resemblance of a nonresponse. It was the kind of movement you would make if you were too busy to care about the person speaking to you.

And that was it. He shifted his attention back to his work, the conversation over before it even really began.

You stood there feeling like an idiot. You had tried. You had tried so hard, throwing yourself out there in the most laughable way possible, only to be met with this same unfeeling indifference.

You turned to leave the kitchen, your steps slow, heavy, with everything left unsaid. But just before you crossed the threshold, something made you pause. You didn’t look back, but you waited, just long enough to wonder if he might stop you. If he might glance up, catch your eye, and say your name in that softer way he used to. Even a sigh, a shift in his chair, the scrape of a mug—anything would’ve been enough.

Anything to show he still saw you. That you still mattered.  Something to remind you that, despite everything, you hadn’t lost him entirely.

But the longer you waited, the more you realized that you were clinging to something that wasn’t there. He wasn’t going to give you that. Not now. Not anymore.

After one particularly tense day, you couldn’t take it anymore. The silence had stretched on long enough, and you felt a restless ache in your chest that no number of distractions could ease. You had to face him, had to confront him.

You knocked on his door, the sound almost too loud in the quiet apartment, and didn’t wait for an invitation before stepping inside.

“We need to talk,” you stated simply.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and his shoulders stiffened at the sight of you. “If it’s about that night—”

“It is about that night and those days after,” you interrupted, cutting him off before he could retreat. Your voice was sharper than you intended, but you couldn’t hold back. You had to get it all out now, or it would eat you alive. “Why are you acting like it didn’t happen? Like you didn’t mean any of it?”

He flinched slightly at your words, as if he were trying to sort out what you were saying, but his gaze remained fixed on the desk in front of him, refusing to meet yours. 

“Because it didn’t mean anything,” he said, his voice quiet, emotionless. “I was drunk. That’s all it was.”

“You don’t believe that,” you replied, the words barely escaping your lips. Your heart raced, and the need to make him see reason, to make him understand what you were feeling, drove you closer to him. “I know you don’t.”

Finally, he looked up, his eyes meeting yours, but they were hard, almost cold. And yet, behind the hardness, something else slipped through. Something vulnerable. Then it was gone, quickly hidden behind the harsh tone he used. 

“It’s better this way. For both of us.”

You shook your head, the bitterness in your throat threatening to choke you. 

“Better for you, maybe,” you shot back, the frustration boiling over. “But not for me. You don’t get to just open up like that, become my... friend, and then slam the door shut again. I—” You stopped yourself, your voice breaking as a lump formed in your throat. “I deserve better than that.”

His expression wavered. For a moment, something in his gaze changed, like the walls he kept so carefully constructed were starting to give. You thought he might soften, that he might finally let something real break through.

But then he looked away. With a slow shake of his head, he shut it all down. The barrier returned, as if he’d pulled a door closed between you. His face settled into something calm and unreadable, and the version of him you’d almost reached was gone.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he spoke, his words hollow, detached. “I’m sorry. Let’s go back to being roommates.”

The sharpness of his words echoed in your ears, and you couldn’t help but feel that the final barrier between you two had solidified. 

“I don’t expect anything from you. I just—” you trailed off, the words slipping away as you realized there was nothing left to say. He’d already made his feelings clear.

And like that, the distance between you felt greater than ever.

It wasn’t even the words—no, it was more than that. It was the tone, the way he had spoken to you, so cold and distant, so different from the Law you come to know. The one who had leaned on you, who had shared bits of his life with you, who had let down his guard even if it was only for a very short moment.

You stared at him, your throat tight, willing him to say something to show that he hadn’t completely cut you off. 

But there was nothing. 

With a wounded heart, you walked out of the room.

So you gave him what he seemed to want. You pulled back, and moved back to strictly roommate territory.

But beneath the surface, the anger still simmered, tangled with something far more stubborn—care. 

You still cared. In spite of everything.

No matter how hard you tried to reason it away, to shut it down or bury it deep inside of you, you couldn’t stop missing him. And that was the cruelest part—because he was still there. Right in front of you. Sharing the same space, breathing the same air. But not in the way you needed. Not in the way that counted.

You missed his dry humor and the way it would catch you off guard and pull a laugh out of you when you least expected it. You missed his sharp comments that used to spark lighthearted arguments. And you missed those intense, late-night ramblings that could last for hours.

You missed all of it. And even more than that, you missed the way it used to feel. When it still felt like you mattered to him.

And worst of all? You still wanted more.

Chapter 9

Notes:

Thank you all for your support! It's really motivating me to do my best with this story.
(Plz don't hate me too much🙃 The main angst hasn't even arrived yet...)

Despite trying to bury it down, the feelings you had for Law would not go away. It didn't matter how much you tried to dismiss it, dismiss him, and dismiss the possibility that you two would be good together, your mind wouldn’t quiet down.

You wondered what it would feel like to be his. You imagined the warmth of his strong arms wrapped around you, the way his calm, steady eyes would search yours, and the gentle brush of his long, tattooed fingers as they traced your cheek…

You shook yourself out of that pathetic daydream. 

There was no way anything would happen between you two. Not only was he adamant that you were roommates, he was making sure it would stay that way. So you played along, and here you were once again, like it was in the beginning. Living together with the bare minimum of interactions. Still, it was a step up from how things had been right after that night.

The night Law in his inebriated state, leaned in to kiss you. The night you stopped him—despite every fiber of your being screaming to let it happen. And the next day, when he shut you out completely, as if the moment had never happened.

Yet, you couldn’t help but still yearn for more.

“Want a cup of coffee?” you asked, already rising from the couch, more out of habit than hope. You needed the distraction.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he replied without lifting his eyes from the page.

His brow was furrowed in concentration. He was completely immersed, wholly unaware of the storm unraveling inside you. At least he responded, though with how distant he seemed, even that small acknowledgment felt more like reflex than intention. An automatic courtesy, not something meant for you.

The casual dismissal stung more than it should have, and your chest tightened as you turned toward the kitchen.

You busied yourself with the simple task of making coffee, your hands shaking ever so slightly as you fumbled with the cup, trying desperately to ground yourself. The buzzing of the machine and the aroma of the brewing coffee should have been enough to calm you, but it wasn’t. 

Nothing seemed to do that lately.

Your mind kept spiraling back to the same moment. He almost kissed you. He’d said you were important. Sure, his words had been slurred by alcohol, but the intensity in his gaze the way his voice softened when he said it. It felt so real, so promising. And it stuck with you, no matter how hard you tried to forget.

“Stop it,” you whispered to yourself. It wasn’t fair to him or to you. He might have behaved the same way towards anyone else that night. You had no claim to his attention, no place in his world beyond what little civility he offered.

Carrying cups carefully, you returned to the living room and set his down on the table. He muttered, “thank you,” and glanced at you for a split second before going right back to his book.

You sat at the far end of the sofa, your knees drawn close as you cradled your coffee cup, creating some distance—both physical and emotional—from your handsome and unattainable roommate. The silence in the room felt heavy, punctuated only by the rustle of pages turning as he read. It hurt more than you cared to admit, knowing you would never be anything more than a roommate to him.

You tried to steer your thoughts away, but they circled back like an ache you couldn’t ignore. You wondered if there was a path to his heart—or if maybe it wasn’t meant to be yours to find. 

Maybe someone else would get there first.

The idea of him noticing someone else, falling for someone else, and loving someone else, it was unbearable. A part of you knew you had no right to feel this way, yet your heart betrayed you, stabbing you with the painful truth over and over again. 

You wanted to be that person he cared about. You wanted him to stop feeling like a wound you couldn’t heal.

“You okay?” his voice cut through, snapping you out of your spiral. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, forcing a smile that you hoped would convince him.

But you knew it wasn’t convincing—not to him, not even to yourself. The smile was brittle, a poor mask for the overbearing tightness of your chest. You felt rejected, unloved, and unbearably small. But he didn’t know, did he?

He kept his eyes on you, like he could sense the real you beneath your words. Then, with a small nod, he turned back to his book, his expression smoothing into one of calm focus. 

His momentary concern had faded out so quickly. That hurt even more. 

You fixated on your coffee instead of the man across from you—the man who had unknowingly broken your heart. You tried not to let your eyes wander back to him, but they did, just for a second. The sight of him, engrossed in his book, was another reminder of how close he was physically, but how impossibly unreachable he felt emotionally.

You sipped your coffee, hoping to drown the pain in its warmth, but it was futile. The frustration and sadness refused to dissipate. You hated how your heart begged for more, how it stubbornly clung to hope despite knowing better. 

A sigh escaped you, soft but heavy with unspoken longing. Then, to your utter shock, he sighed as well and closed his book with a thud.

“You need to get over this,” he said bluntly.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, as he leaned back and ran a hand through his dark hair. The harshness of it stung, though you weren’t sure what affected you more. The implication that he knew, or the fact that he was pushing you away before you’d even had the chance to admit anything.

“I’m not good enough for you,” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact.

“What?” you blurted.

He couldn’t possibly know… could he? You had been so careful, keeping your feelings tucked away, convincing yourself that you could handle this, that you could live with just his presence.

“I’m not good for you,” he continued, softer this time, though his voice still carried the unfiltered honesty you’d come to expect from him. 

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay composed. “Why would you say that?” you asked, careful to keep your tone even unaffected, pretending that your soul wasn’t shattering with every word.

“You’re a smart girl. Smart enough to know I’m not right for you.”

You weren’t as smart as he thought you were because in your heart, he was exactly what you needed—flawed, distant, and all wrong in the ways that made him feel right. Like the calm in your chaos, the shadow you leaned toward even when you knew it might swallow you whole.

“Why do you say that?” 

His sharp eyes search yours. Then he let out a sigh, as though the explanation weighed on him. The hard lines of his face softened, only a fraction, but it was the sorrow in his gaze that struck you.

He looked away, his jaw tightening as if the words hurt to say. “My life isn’t simple. You deserve better than that. Someone who can give you peace, something easy and simple—none of the… complications I carry.”

Your chest tightened at his words, the ache inside you evolving, becoming more intense, more agonizing. He spoke like he truly believed his unworthiness, like the man you’d come to admire, care for, and… love was incapable of ever deserving the same in return.

“But… what if I want all the complicated and dark parts of you too?” you dared to ask. 

“You don’t,” he said, but there was something in his voice that betrayed him. A subtle desperation threaded through the words, like he needed you to believe them. Like he was clinging to the lie for your sake. Or maybe he was trying to convince himself it was true. “That’s not something you want in your life,” he added, softer this time, as though saying it like that would make it hurt less.

“What if I do?” you pressed, your voice trembling slightly. You had already gathered from the fragments he had let slip that his life hadn’t been easy. That he carried burdens he never spoke of, scars he refused to show. But none of that scared you. You met his gaze head-on, letting him see the conviction in your eyes. You didn’t want to give him up so easily, not when everything in you was reaching for him. “What if I want you. All of you, exactly as you are?”

“No, you don’t,” he said firmly. “My life… my past… it’s not something you want to get tangled up in.”

At first, you felt confusion—why was he shutting you out like this? But then the heat started to rise, creeping up from your chest. Who was he to decide what your life should be? Your hands clenched at your sides, your heart pounding as anger flared. Why did he have to make the whole thing harder than it should be?

“Don’t speak on my behalf,” you snapped. 

“I’m being serious.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes distant—reaching for words he couldn’t quite find. Trying to explain. Trying to push you away with logic, with reason that sounded detached enough to hurt.

“So am I,” you fired back as you leaned in, closing the space between you on the couch. You weren't going to let him hide behind those excuses anymore.  “Look, I don’t know the truth about your past because, well, you don’t talk about it. But it’s not like my life has been all sunshine and rainbows, either.”

That seemed to surprise him. His brows knit together like he was assessing you, as though seeing a side of you he hadn’t expected.

“It’s not pretty. It’s easier for you to find someone else. Not… me.”

Now he was being ridiculous. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for me,” you said, your voice firm and steady despite the storm of emotions inside you. “I decide that for myself.”

He stared at you, stunned into silence. It felt like time froze between the two of you. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the push and pull of his stubborn belief against the possibility of something more.

But whatever crack had momentarily appeared in his defenses was quickly smoothed over, replaced by that same unyielding resolve. “You don’t want someone like me.”

“Stop assuming you know what’s good for me!” you shot back. You couldn’t believe how stubborn he was being, how blind he was to the fact that you knew what you wanted—and that it was him.

“I’m not assuming,” he said. “I know. Trust me—being involved with someone like me is a mistake.”

“I don’t trust your judgment on this.”

His usual composure cracked, slightly, but enough to notice. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing, his posture bracing for an argument. Lips parted, caught on the edge of a retort… but no words came. They seemed to lodge somewhere between his chest and his throat, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to say what he needed to.

You could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

Shaking his head, he let out another exasperated sigh, the sound like an attempt to dismiss you, to brush this off like it was another minor inconvenience.

“Stop fucking sighing!” you snapped, the frustration boiling over.

He froze, his head whipping toward you as if he couldn't believe what he’d just heard. His expression was so hilarious that it would make you laugh if you weren’t so furious at him.

He was ready to lash out, but then, almost against instinct, he drew in a slow, steady breath. “Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculous?” you repeated, crossing your arms as your frustration deepened. “You’re the one being ridiculous!”

 “Look,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m not good for you. That’s the end of it. You need to stop being childish and move on.”

The ache in your chest deepened at his words, sharp and persistent like a thorn lodged in your heart. His conviction, his stubborn refusal to even entertain the idea of being with you, felt like a rejection of everything you’d come to feel for him.

How could he be so sure he was right? How could he be so convinced that you were wrong, that he was wrong for you?

“Do you think pissing me off will push me away?”

“If that’s what it takes for you to stop arguing, then yeah.” His tone was harsh, almost cold, as if he truly believed that hurting you was the best way to protect you from himself.

You could feel your heart beating harder, faster, in your chest as you prepared for the question you were about to ask. “Answer one question for me. Just one. But be completely honest.”

He looked at you, cautious. Irritation flashed across his face like he already regretted agreeing. “What do you want to ask?”

You held his gaze, refusing to back down. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to give up, to let the walls he’d put up between you remain intact. But you held your ground.

“Tell me you don’t care about me like that.” 

Not so long ago, you’d convinced yourself that there was no way he could feel anything for you. Not in the way you wanted. You thought his indifference was enough to prove it. But somewhere, deep in this argument, you’d begun to see things for what they really were. 

If he didn’t care that much, if he didn’t have some deep, messy feeling for you, he wouldn't be willing to argue about it for so long. If he didn’t care, he would have walked away long ago, instead of stubbornly fighting against something that was pulling him in exactly as much as it was pulling you. And with how blunt he was, how honest to a fault—he would’ve told you if he wasn’t interested.

But he hadn’t.

For a moment, he hesitated, the guarded mask he wore slipping just enough to reveal a flash of uncertainty. And in that instant, your heart skipped. 

He cared.

Then, as quickly, he straightened, locking his emotions back down. “I don’t care about you like that. So quit it.”

You knew he was lying. You could see it in the way his eyes darted, the way his fists clenched. The way he did everything to not look at you.

“Liar,” you said simply.

You pushed yourself up from the couch, every motion slow—half-expecting him to stop you, to reach for your arm before you slipped away. But he didn’t. Of course, he didn’t. His silence was louder than any words could have been, and you didn’t need to glance back to know he wasn’t going to stop you.

Yet, you felt compelled to add more. “I’m not going to force anything on you, but you’re a fool for ignoring what we could have.”

You could feel the truth of it, feel how right it was. He didn’t have to admit it, but you knew. He felt it too. He must have.

You stepped into your room, the door closing softly behind you. You paused outside it, pressing your back against the cool wood. You stood there, waiting. But there was nothing. No footsteps echoing behind you, no voice calling your name, no sign that he was coming after you.

You weren’t sure whether to feel relieved, empty, or terrified. Relieved because, finally, everything was out in the open. Empty because, in the ensuing quiet, it became impossible to ignore the heartbreaking fact that, in spite of everything, he had turned you down. And terrified because it felt like something had shattered between you two beyond repair.

Chapter 10

Notes:

Hope you enjoy 😈

The days that followed were unbearable. He was careful to keep his distance, speaking only when necessary and keeping his tone painfully neutral. Every word he spoke was clipped, stripped of the warmth that once made you feel safe. And yet, beneath it all, you swore you could feel something straining at the edges, something he was trying desperately to hold back. 

You tried to match his detachment, to mirror the cool distance he kept so carefully wrapped around himself. But the effort felt like trying to breathe underwater. The harder you forced it, the more it clawed at your chest.

The weight of it settled in the small moments. Like the way his hand twitched, restless and hesitant, as if he wanted to reach for you but pulled back at the last second. Like the way your eyes met across the room, locking for a fraction too long before both of you quickly looked away.

You wondered how long you could keep pretending and still hold on.

It all came to a head one evening.

You passed each other in the hallway, so close that his scent—familiar, strangely comforting despite its cruelty—hung in the air between you, a silent reminder of everything unsaid. He made no move to stop, no recognition in his eyes, as though you were just passing shadow in the dimly lit corridor.

“Are we really going to keep pretending?” The words escaped before you could stop them.

He halted mid-step, his shoulders going rigid. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

“What do you want me to say?”

A hollow laugh bubbled up from your chest, empty and stinging. “Anything. Something real.”

At that, he turned to face you, his expression dark and tightly guarded. “Real?” He exhaled sharply. “What do you want to hear? That I don’t know what to do with this? That I—” He cut himself off, as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

Your heart pounded. “That you what?”

He shook his head slowly, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed the storm raging beneath his calm exterior. “It doesn’t matter.”

And maybe that was the moment something inside you cracked. Maybe that was the moment you realized he had already made his choice.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “It matters to me.”

His eyes found yours—just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough. Something in your words seemed to pierce him. A crack in the armor. And yet, he remained silent. Detached. Unmoved.

That was all the answer you needed.

The ache in your chest spread like wildfire, a searing, insidious pain that burned through every inch of you. But you refused to let it show. You refused to let him see the effect his indifference had on you. Instead, you nodded, a stiff, mechanical motion, and swallowed the lump in your throat that threatened to choke you.

“Forget it,” you murmured, turning away.

But before you could leave, he reached for you—a reflex, a hesitation too late, as if the thought of holding on had only occurred to him when it was already slipping away.

You felt the ghost of his touch before he pulled back, as if burned. His eyes widened with something that almost looked like regret. You wondered if you had imagined it, but no, it was there—a glimpse of something real. It should have meant something.

“I—”

“No.” Your voice trembled, but it did not break. You bit down on the instinct to reach out, to let him explain himself, but you knew it would only hurt more. “I get it. You don’t want this.”

And you meant it. You did get it. But somehow, it didn’t make it easier to swallow. But you couldn't wait for him to say something that would drag this out longer. You couldn't wait for the inevitable disappointment that would only make it all worse.

You turned, almost violently, stepping through the doorway. The soft click of the door closing behind you felt like an irreversible decision. You couldn’t stand the silence that followed, but what could you do? He had already chosen, and you refused to keep pleading for something that was never really there. You were stubborn and above begging for love. Yet, even as you told yourself that, the ache in your chest didn't go away.

After that, you were the one that retreated. You avoided him at all costs, staying mostly in your room and leaving it only when you were sure he was in his or out of an apartment. 

The frustration began to build inside you. He was the one to move in. And he was the one making things more difficult. You felt exhausted from constantly tiptoeing around him, from having to worry about being an inconvenience. So, at last, you decided you were done staying quiet, done shrinking yourself to avoid conflict.

One evening, as you were reading a book in the living room, Law entered, stopping in his tracks when he saw you. He didn’t say anything at first, standing there awkwardly for a few moments. You did your best to ignore him, even though everything in you screamed to address him somehow. How could you possibly concentrate when he was standing there, just standing there, as though waiting for you to do something first?

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, the words almost accusatory.

You blinked, caught off guard. He cannot be for real. His eyes were watching you now, expectantly, like you were supposed to explain yourself. Like you were the one causing problems with your weird behavior.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “What do you want me to say? You wanted me to piss off so that’s what I’m doing.”

He stiffened. “That’s not—”

“Not what?” you snapped, cutting him off. “Not what you wanted? Then what the fuck do you want from me?”

“I want—” He stopped himself, raking a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the strands in frustration. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“For whom?” you shot back. You slammed the book shut, the sound loud in the quiet room. You didn’t even care about annotating the page anymore. The words on the paper felt meaningless compared to the ones he wasn’t saying. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it’s for me.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you pressed, getting up and stepping closer. “Don’t care? Don’t feel anything?”

“Of course I care!” His voice cracked, the control he’d so carefully maintained shattering in an instant. “But caring isn’t enough!”

The room fell silent, his words hanging in the air like a challenge.

“Why?” you asked, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. You weren’t even trying to hide it anymore. “Why isn’t it enough?”

You weren’t sure what you were asking him anymore. Part of you wanted him to explain, to offer some rational reason, some justification that would make sense of everything. But another part of you was just desperate—desperate for him to stop pushing you away, desperate for him to care in the way you needed him to.

He looked at you with so much pain in the eyes, it nearly made you forget why you were so mad. The way he stood there, mulling about whatever was tormenting so much. You believed he would finally tell you what was really stopping him. You could feel your pulse quicken, the tiniest spark of hope igniting within you, a fragile thread you dared not tug at too forcefully. This could be it. This could be the moment where everything shifted. 

But no. Once again, he shook his head and retreated to his usual self. Just like every other time, the moment of vulnerability slipped through your fingers before you could grasp it. His shoulders stiffened, the lines of tension in his body snapping back into place like an old habit he couldn't shake off. Without saying a word, he simply shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible movement that said everything and nothing at the same time.

“Because you deserve better.”

You stared at him, your breath catching in your throat. The sheer weight of his words pressed down on you. You deserve better. That phrase again. It echoed in your mind, repeating like a taunt. What did that even mean? Was he trying to convince himself? Or was it just a simple excuse? 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said. “You can decide that you don’t want to be with me, but not what I deserve.”

His hand dragged down his face, like he was trying to physically scrub away the frustration, the helplessness that was clouding his mind. You could see how torn he was, but it only made the situation worse. Why can’t he say what the problem is?

“This isn’t going anywhere,” he muttered.

“Because you won’t let it,” you shot back.

In the next instant, he crossed the space between you, his movements swift and charged with anger, as if he couldn’t bear the distance for one second longer. Before you could react, his hands were on your arms, gripping you—not forcefully, but enough to make you freeze.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” he said, his voice low and strained. “You think I don’t feel anything? Every time I’m around you, it’s—it’s everything. And I can’t—”

His face was so close now that you could see the tightness in his jaw, the muscle twitching as if it were struggling to contain the storm raging inside him. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, betraying the composure he was frantically trying to maintain. 

“Then stop running.” A quiet plea you wished he would adhere to.

It seemed like he might. His grip on your arms tightened slightly, his eyes locked on yours. But then, as quickly, he let go, stepping back as if he woke up from a dream.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice barely audible. Saying nothing more, he turned and started to walk away, each step putting him farther from you and shattering your fragile emotions even more.

You stood there, frozen, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of everything, trying to understand what had just happened. 

You couldn’t let it go. You wouldn’t let it go—not when it hurt this much, not when you had given him every part of yourself, and he still refused to fight for it. You needed answers. You needed him to stop running.

“Law!,” you called out, your voice cutting through the silence, almost a demand.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch. He kept walking, his back to you, making it clear that he wanted to be left alone. But it didn’t deter you.

“Don’t walk away from me,” you said, this time your voice firmer, more forceful as you followed him. He paused but didn’t turn around. You closed the gap between you two, moving to stand in front of him. There, face-to-face, you could finally make him approach you properly.

“Why are you doing this?” The words spilled out of you in a rush, desperate, raw. The frustration, the confusion, the hurt—it all came pouring out in a single breath. “Why are you pushing me away like this?!” Your voice cracked at the end, but you pressed on. “Do you even care about me? Or is this just some kind of sick game to you?”

He stared at you, his expression a chaotic blend of emotions, his face a study in internal conflict. Then, without warning, his hands shot out, gripping your shoulders tightly. He looked at you like he might say something—something important, something that would make all of this make sense—but then he seemed to hesitate, and for a split second, you thought he might push you away again.

But he didn’t.

His eyes bore into yours—searching, but you couldn't tell what for. Your heart slammed against your ribs, wild and chaotic, as if it already knew what was about to happen. You were sure he was going to kiss you. Every part of you braced for it, waited for it. Needed it.

His hand trembled slightly as it rose, fingers trailing to your cheek. The inked lines on his skin stood in sharp contrast to the gentleness of his touch as his thumb brushed slowly against your face.

“Are you really sure about it?” he asked, like he was still giving you a chance to leave.

“Yes,” you whispered, barely trusting the sound of your voice.

And then his lips crashed against yours. 

Finally.

Everything you had been feeling—all the frustration, confusion, and desire—came rushing forward. You didn’t have time to think, to question. You kissed him back with the same urgency, your hands instinctively finding their place on his chest, pulling him even closer, deeper into the kiss, as if neither of you could hold back anymore.

The kiss grew more frantic, more consuming. The room around you seemed to spin as your bodies pressed together, the heat between you intensifying with every second. Law’s hands slid down to your waist, and you moaned softly, your heart pounding in your ears.

Something snapped. Maybe it was the sharp edge in your voice. Maybe it was the fact that you had been dancing around this moment for so long. Whatever it was, it triggered Law. 

“Tell me you truly want this,” he whispered, almost pleading, as his lips brushed against yours with every word. His words were so soft, so hopeful, so not like him.

His face was so close now, his features tense, rigid with a conflict that seemed to pull at him from every angle. But his eyes—his eyes were raw, stripped bare, filled with a storm of emotions that swirled between need and fear, longing and hesitation.

“I do,” you replied. It was an obvious answer for you. There was nothing else you wanted more lately than for him to embrace the magnetic forces pushing you two together. “So stop holding back.”

And he did. He yanked you toward him, his mouth crashing down on yours in another searing kiss. His hands slid under your shirt, tugging you closer as you responded with equal fervor, your body pressed tightly against his.

When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard, your faces flushed. Like you were not entirely aware of what had just happened, but fully aware that it had changed everything. You could barely think through the haze of your emotions, but one thing was clear.  

This moment—this kiss—was everything.

And for a brief, dizzying moment, it felt like everything that had been building up between you exploded, leaving no room for anything else. No room for thought. No room for doubts. And even though everything between you was still unresolved, even though the future was hanging in the balance, for this moment, it felt like the only thing that mattered was the feeling of his body on yours.

Chapter 11

Notes:

Here we are! Sorry for the delay from my usual two-week schedule. I’ve been super busy and mentally drained, and then I started having doubts about this story. I was contemplating rewriting parts of it because I feel like I'm making Law too much of an ass. But in the end, I decided to stick with what I already have, since the whole story is written. Though it’s just a first draft, so each chapter needs some intense editing which takes time. Also, I’m a bit chaotic and can’t focus on just one thing, or I’d burn out and drop it completely. So this has to share time with my other stories 🫠

That being said, once again, sorry for the delay... and sorry in advance for what you’re about to read 😅

The next morning, you woke up to the muted light filtering through the blinds, the world outside still moving on as if nothing had happened. But everything had changed. As though something inside you had finally unclenched after being wound tight for far too long. 

You hadn’t expected this. Not really. You were hopeful, but it still took you by surprise—a breathtaking, beautiful surprise. Even now, you could still feel the traces of his hands on your skin, his body pressed against yours in a way that had been both desperate and yet so full of… love?

Real and raw and terrifying. He hadn't said it outright, but he didn't need to. His body had spoken in a language more honest than anything he'd ever managed before.

Your mind refused to let go of the night before, replaying every stolen breath, every whispered confession, and every moment when Law stopped running. From you. From the tangled mess of all those feelings.

You remembered how, just before sleep claimed you, he pressed a featherlight kiss to your forehead. You’d smiled, drowsy and content, and when your heavy eyelids lifted for just a second, you caught the way he looked at you—soft, reverent, as if you were precious.

You had him now. Really had him. No more chasing after shadows. No more waiting for him to turn back around. Finally. And for the first time, it felt like everything was going to be okay. You didn’t have to keep fighting, didn’t have to keep waiting.

But when you opened your eyes, reality came rushing back with a sharp sting. Where is he?

For a split second, your heart raced—not in the sweet, fluttering way it had the night before, but in the cold, hollow panic of absence. You reached out instinctively, hand searching for him in the crumpled sheets, eager to feel the curve of his shoulder, the muscular chest, or any part of him for that matter.

You wished he were still there, his arms wrapped around you, his steady breath mingling with yours, the warmth of his skin a comforting presence against yours. But the space beside you was empty.

Maybe he had just stepped out. Maybe he was in the kitchen, pouring coffee into that mug of yours he always said was ridiculous. That had to be it—no need to jump to conclusions.

You pushed yourself to your feet, the movement stiff, as if your body wasn’t quite ready to leave the cocoon of intimacy you had shared. 

The apartment was eerily quiet. Too quiet. Law was nowhere in sight, and you wondered if he had just disappeared. Maybe he changed his mind and is now afraid to face you. Maybe all of it—the kiss, the words, the tenderness you had shared—had been too much for him. Maybe now he was regretting it, retreating into the walls he had built around himself, afraid to face what he had let slip through.

Heart pounding, you moved toward the kitchen, hoping—praying—to find him there, waiting. 

He wasn’t there. 

Instead, an array of ingredients sat on the kitchen counter besides two plates. Your favorite dish—half-prepared. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of confusion crashing over you. Law never left things unfinished. It was not like him. 

A hundred thoughts collided all at once, none of them sticking long enough to calm you. You wondered and came to the conclusion that he must have realized that something was missing and quickly went to the shop to get it. He’d always noticed little things. Maybe he just wanted to surprise you. That would make sense. That would explain his absence.

He must’ve just gone out for a little while. That had to be it.

But then you heard a quiet movement. Your breath caught in your throat as your head snapped toward the sound, every muscle in your body tense with anticipation. Law’s door creaked open. 

It seemed that he was coming back, perhaps everything wasn’t lost, but the seconds stretched on, and when he didn’t appear, a knot of unease tightened in your stomach. Instead, there was only the soft shuffle of footsteps coming from the living room.

 You quickly followed.

As soon as you stepped into the living room, you saw him leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his posture stiff, his face tense. He hadn’t said a word yet, but the look in his eyes was enough to set every nerve in your body on edge. That and the opened bag filled with his things.

Law was the first to break the silence. “We need to talk.”

You nodded slowly, a tight knot forming in your chest. Of course, you did. The last night had been too much to leave unresolved. Too much to ignore. And that damn bag wasn’t helping.

“About last night,” he started, but the words seemed to hang between you both. His jaw tightened, as if he were still wrestling with something inside. He stared intently at the wall. “It shouldn’t have happened”.

Your heart throbbed, a cruel sting slicing through the warmth you had woken up with. Every part of you screamed to stay calm, to tread carefully. But you couldn’t.

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to push me away after everything that’s happened. I’m not something you can just use and discard because you’re too scared to admit what you fucking feel!”

“I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to protect you,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He still wasn’t even looking at you.

You marched forward, your pulse quickening with frustration, your chest heaving. “Stop with that shit. I’m tired of you deciding what I deserve! I’m tired of you pretending this doesn’t matter.”

The air between you shifted, charged, seconds from shattering. Then, in a heartbeat, the tension snapped. He shoved off the doorframe, closing the distance in two quick strides.

“It matters too much, damn it! That’s the fucking problem.”

You instinctively stepped back, thrown by the force of his words, by the fire burning behind them. If it mattered, then why was he running? Why was he doing this?

You barely registered him walking away, the space between you growing colder with each passing second. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, a silent battle raging beneath his skin as he struggled to rein in his emotions. Or maybe—just maybe—you were grasping at hope, desperate to believe there was more to this. That he didn't want to completely break you apart.

“So what now?” you asked, your voice low, heavy with a bitterness that tasted sour on your tongue. “We just keep pretending like nothing happened?”

Law looked at you, and for a second, just a split second, there was a glimpse of something real in his eyes. Perhaps it was guilt. Possibly, it was regret. Maybe it was something way worse. Something darker than you were ready to deal with.

But whatever it was, it was short-lived.

“I’m moving out.”

Your heart sank. “Why?” The question came out softer than you intended, raw with emotion. “Why are you doing this?”

There was a pause. A hesitation. A crack in his resolve.

“You’ll be better off without me,” he finally said, his voice flat detached, as if he were reciting a fact rather than ripping your world apart.

You stared at him, your chest tightening under the weight of his words. And then something inside you snapped. Perhaps it was the quiet devastation in his tone, or more likely it was the anger surging through you like wildfire, refusing to be contained. But whatever it was, it was too much.

Anger flared inside you, hot and unrelenting. “You’re such an idiot!”

This time, you saw it—the slightest change in his expression. A flinch, so brief it was almost imperceptible. But then, just as quickly, his face smoothed back into that unreadable mask, shutting you out all over again.

He moved like a machine, methodical and distant, stuffing his bag as if he could pack away the last remnants of what you were. Books vanished from the coffee table. His hoodie disappeared from the sofa. He shrugged into his jacket with a finality that made your stomach twist.

It wasn’t just his things he was taking—it was everything. Every moment, every whisper of warmth, every trace of a life that had once included you. And you could do nothing but stand there, watching as he dismantled what was left of anything you had built together.

“You think you can just walk away from this? Pretend like last night didn’t change everything?”

Law exhaled sharply, as if steadying himself before he spoke. “I never asked for this… I never wanted for things to get complicated.”

You weren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t that. A part of you had braced for an argument, a fight—anything but this. It was too cold. Too detached. 

“You never asked?” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You kissed me. You fucked me. And now you want to pretend like it was nothing?”

Silence. Only the ghost of a pained expression dancing across his face.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. Hands clenched at your sides, you struggled to keep your voice steady. “What the hell?” The bitterness cracked through, raw and unfiltered.“I’m standing here, trying to make sense of this, and you're just… shutting me out.”

“I should’ve moved out the second this turned into more.” His gaze was heavy, but he took a step back, as if the extra space could make this easier. “I should’ve stopped it before it got here. I should’ve left—before it wasn’t just about sharing space anymore.”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to walk away? Pretend none of this mattered? That it wasn’t real?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, his jaw working as if he was holding back something else—something more, something deeper than he was willing to admit.

And then, at last, he looked up.

There it was. The emotion he'd been fighting so hard to bury. Regret? Desperation? You didn’t know.

But instead of words, all he gave you was silence. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag, his gaze wavering away as he zipped it shut.

And somehow, that hurt more than anything he could have said.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn!” Your voice broke under the weight of your frustration. “You think this is what’s best? Running away?” 

The pain in your chest felt unbearable. How could he do this? How could he throw everything away so easily?

For a second, just a second, his hands faltered as he reached for his bag. But he recovered quickly, shaking his head. “This should have been done a long time ago.”

Tears blurred your vision as his words drove another dagger into your heart. You bit your lip, fighting against the sob building in your throat.

He stiffened.

“You’ll get over me.”

Your stomach twisted. Rage, heartbreak, disbelief—they all tangled together until you couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Just stop running away! Stop being so damn stubborn and say something real for once, you idiot!” 

Your words were sincere, desperate—a plea for him to just stop, to acknowledge what you both felt.

Coldly, he replied, “Say what, exactly?”

 “Say you’re not leaving! Say you love me back!” 

The words burst out of you, your voice cracking as tears streamed freely down your cheeks. You clenched your fists, your teeth, every part of you, as if bracing for the pain of his response. “Say you’ll stop running away from your feelings!”

Silence.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even look at you.

Your voice rose again, breaking under the strain of your emotions, the sobs you couldn’t suppress anymore. “Why are you running away? Why can’t you just tell me you love me, you idiot?! Stop giving excuses about what’s ‘for my own good’! Stop being a stubborn ass and let yourself be loved! Or just fucking tell me what the true problem is!”

Still, he remained silent, his expression locked in that same unreadable mask. But the conflict in his eyes told a different story.

He reached for his bags. The movement was slow, as if each action weighed heavily on him.

“You really have nothing to say?” Your voice was barely a whisper now.

Nothing.

Your chest ached. Your hands trembled.

“You’re such a coward,” you said, the final blow landing between you like a crack of thunder.

His shoulders tensed—a subtle shift, but you noticed it. You always noticed the small things about him—how his jaw clenched when he was lying, how he avoided eye contact when he was hurting. And right now, everything about him screamed that he was set on leaving.

You stood across from him, arms crossed, as a way to hold yourself together. You knew what you should do. You should throw the door wide open, shove him out with all his baggage—emotional too—and every excuse. Keep your pride intact. Your mind understood that. It knew you deserved more than this. Better than him.

But your heart was a fool. A fragile, trembling thing that hadn’t yet learned to stop caring. It was desperate not to feel pain.

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

You hated yourself for begging. For letting him see you unravel. You hated not feeling like you’re able to handle another person leaving. You would much rather have him as a ghost than to lose him completely. 

For a moment, you thought he might change his mind. That your desperation touched him, that he might finally say what he truly felt and what the true issue was.

Instead, his voice came cold—a shield against the war raging inside him. “It’s for the best. You’ll get over me.” He paused, the smallest sign of doubt betraying him. Then, so softly, you almost missed it—

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

A fleeting, pained look.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. And out of your life.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Thanks so much for all your sweet messages! It really means a lot. It’s amazing knowing there are people out there who look forward to something I’ve poured my heart (and metaphorical blood and tears) into. Love you all <3

Just a little filler after that one things should start to pick up slowly.

The apartment felt unusually still, as if the silence itself was heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Law’s absence filled every inch of the space. His presence, once so constant, now nothing more than a lingering echo. You could almost feel the hole he left behind, as if it had expanded into the corners of your world. You wondered how it could be so quiet when everything inside you felt so loud, so aching from the goodbye you hadn't even seen coming.

The text had come earlier, cold and businesslike.

I’ll keep paying rent until you get a new roommate. My friends will pick up the rest of my stuff.

You hadn’t replied. What was there to say? The hurt was too fresh, too sharp, too overwhelming. The words wouldn’t form. Each syllable felt like it would tear at the raw edges of your heart, and still, nothing felt right enough to say. Besides, you doubted he would appreciate a text from you anyway.

Instead, you left the phone on the counter.

Shachi and Penguin had shown up soon after, the awkwardness apparent in the air from the moment they stepped inside. From the way they hesitated at the door, the way their gazes moved uncertainly, you knew they didn’t have the full story. They had no idea what it had been like between you and Law lately. The good. The horrid. And everything in between.

“You should give him a chance,” Shachi said, lowering himself onto the couch.

You scoffed, leaning against the wall, arms locked tightly over your chest. “A chance? After everything?”

Penguin opened his mouth, then shut it again, his expression tight, like he was trying to find the right words. “Look, we get it, okay? You're hurt. But you don’t know what kind of life he’s had, what he’s been through. Maybe it’s harder for him to—”

“Stop.”

The word burst from your lips before you could stop it. You would rather not hear it. Frustration clawed its way up your throat, while your fingers dug into your arms as you tried to keep the anger from swallowing you whole. They were not the ones you should be mad at.

“You don’t understand. You weren’t the one he fucked and then just… disappeared.”

Both of them froze, their bodies going still as statues, eyes wide with disbelief. They were stunned—completely blindsided by the revelation you had just dropped.

Maybe you shouldn’t have told them. But you didn’t care. Not after everything. Now that Law was out of your life, they gonna disappear too. Shame. You had actually grown to like them. Their easy banter, their loyalty, and the way they always had each other’s back, even yours.

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. You could see it in their faces—the way their eyes darted toward each other, how Shachi shifted uncomfortably, jaw working as if trying to find the right words, while Penguin’s brows drew together, a frown deepening on his face.

Shachi was the first to break the silence. “Shit. Sorry. Fuck. We didn’t know… we didn’t know it was like that.”

“Yeah, um, shit…” Penguin exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, we all know Law’s not great at opening up. Maybe…  maybe something happened… maybe he didn’t know how to explain it to you. Maybe he thought it was easier to just… leave.”

He didn’t just say that.

Even now they were still trying to shield him. How noble of them. Loyal to the bitter end. Great friends, really. Standing by him, covering for him, even after hearing what he did to you.

Your jaw tightened as you turned to him. “Oh, well, that makes everything alright then,” you muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Penguin sighed but didn’t argue.  He knew better than to fight you on this, not when the severity of your pain was so visible. Shachi just looked away, pressing his lips into a thin line.

After a moment of uncomfortable stillness, Shachi shifted again in his seat, glancing at Penguin before looking back at you. “Look, I’m sorry you had to go through that. I wish we’d known sooner, but Law’s been… a mess, too.”

“I don’t want to hear about his problems right now,” you snapped, the sting of betrayal still burning in your chest. “I don’t care what excuse he has. It doesn’t change what he did.”

“We get it. Really, we do. We just… didn’t know the full story, that’s all. We didn’t know what he was putting you through.” Penguin hesitated, his voice quieter now. “He’s a stubborn idiot sometimes, and I’m sorry he hurt you.”

The apology, though sincere, felt hollow. He was not the one that should be apologizing to you right now. There were no words that could fix the damage. 

“You're not the one that should be apologizing.”

Shachi scoffed, his voice rising. “He didn’t even apologize?! Fucking asshole.”

You let out a shaky breath. Good to know that at least they were also enraged by Law’s behavior. “He did, I guess.” But the words tasted bitter, meaningless. “It didn’t change a thing.”

Shachi exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. “Maybe… maybe you could talk to him? I know it’s hard, but you don’t know the whole story. His life was a shitshow. I think… I think there’s more to it.”

“Of course, you’d say that. You’d defend him, wouldn’t you?”

Shachi shook his head. “No, it’s not about defending him. It’s just… if you could hear him out—”

“Shachi.” His name left your lips like a warning, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “I don’t need to hear him explain himself. I don’t need him to tell me he’s sorry, that he ‘didn’t mean to hurt me.’ I don’t need some half-assed reason for why he abandoned me.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat thick and painful. “It won’t change anything. Nothing will. It’s over.”

Shachi’s shoulders sagged. “I wish we could’ve done more. I didn’t know what was going on with you two.”

 “Yeah, Law’s always been good at hiding shit, but this? We actually thought it might end up well.” Penguin jumped in.

“Well?” you echoed, the word slicing through the air. “Yeah, I thought that too. I let myself believe it, stupid as that was.”

Penguin flinched slightly, his mouth tightening like he wanted to take the words back or soften them somehow, but he didn’t speak. Maybe even he knew there was no dressing this up. 

“Look,” he said after a moment, tone lower now, more cautious. “None of us are trying to excuse what he did. We’re just… trying to make sense of it.

Shachi stood up and stepped forward, hesitant but genuine. “He doesn’t let anyone in, you know that. Not really. Not even us, sometimes. We figured it was just… another one of his moods. That he’d get over it, or that he’d talk to you when he was ready.”

“Well. You were wrong,” you muttered.

Damn them. Damn them for being good people. For not making it easy to hate them. You wished that they’d just been assholes about it. That they’d blamed you, lashed out, picked his side without hesitation. It would’ve made losing them easier. But no, they had to be kind. Had to look at you with those wounded, apologetic eyes, like they were hurting too.

It made everything so much worse.

You just wanted it to stop. You wanted them to stop—stop talking, stop looking at you like that, stop dragging his name back into your mind every damn second. 

You wanted them to pack up his stuff, take whatever pieces of him were left behind, and go. Get out. Get it over with. So you could finally breathe again without feeling like you were choking on what he left behind.

Penguin reached over like he could read your mind, placing a hand on one of the boxes Law managed to pack before leaving. His fingers lingered for a moment before he exhaled, standing as his eyes traced the remnants of Law’s things.

“We’ll take care of the rest, alright?” “Just… take care of yourself, okay?”

You watched them grab the items as if they didn’t belong in your apartment anymore. They spoke in hushed voices, murmuring to each other, but their words were nothing more than background noise.

It felt like the finality of it all. The last remnants of Law being carted away. The room felt emptier with each thing they packed up, and yet it still didn’t feel like enough. The space seemed larger now, like there was a vacuum where his presence used to fill every room. The walls felt colder.

By the time they left—after awkward goodbyes and apologies that you neither wanted nor had the energy to reject—you were alone again.

You sat on the couch, fingers digging into the cushions, staring at the place where Law's things used to be. It wasn’t just his belongings that were gone. It felt like a part of you had disappeared with them.

As you swept over the living room once more, something caught your attention. Comic books. Law’s comic books. They were mixed with your books, and somehow Penguin and Shachi in their quest to leave as soon as possible must have missed them. 

You stood up, your legs stiff from the stillness of sitting too long, and moved closer to the bookshelf. Your fingers brushed over the spines, feeling the familiar weight of the comics, their well-worn edges and creased covers telling stories of a time before things had gone so wrong.  

You could practically hear his voice, clear as day in your memory—soft, animated, that rare edge of excitement slipping through his usual calm and detached behavior. He’d light up when he talked about them. The characters, the intricate plots, the moments that made him forget the world for a little while. His eyes would go distant, a small smile would form as he explained what made a story stick with him, what made it matter.

They were important to him, you knew that. They were his comfort, maybe even hope in the quietest corners of his mind. You knew that.  He would want them back.

You considered texting him to tell him they were still here. Just a quick message.

Your comics are still here if you want them.  

Something simple. Something that wouldn’t show the weight of everything still residing in your chest. Maybe it could just be about the comics. Just a practical gesture. Clean. Distant. Safe. To close that relationship completely. Maybe it would be a trivial thing, a neutral gesture, just to return them without any of the messy emotions you were carrying. 

You quickly swatted that thought away angrily. 

Why did you still have to care about his feelings and needs? Why should you make an effort to make things right for him when he hadn’t bothered to make things right for you? 

You had already given so much. Too much. Pieces of yourself, time you couldn’t get back, love he hadn’t earned. And now here you were, still worrying about what he might want.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of the comic books. You wanted—no, needed—to pull them free from the shelf and tear through page after page, just like he tore through your heart without a second thought. To obliterate what he held dear, to punish those quiet fragments of joy that had once belonged to him. The same way he had shattered you.

But you didn’t pick them up. 

Beneath the burning urge to destroy, there was something far more fragile stirring inside you, a paralyzing vulnerability that whispered you might actually break. That you might bend, buckle beneath the crushing force of everything you’d lost and everything you still carried.

And for one terrifying moment, you imagined reaching out—desperate, trembling—for that final, weak thread still connecting you to him.

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Not anymore. You couldn’t keep holding onto him, couldn’t keep making excuses for the things he never said, the things he never did. 

With a final, steadying breath, you released the comics, leaving them exactly where they were. You just wished you could leave your aching heart next to them.

Chapter 13

Notes:

And now… the plot thickens

You were thinking about him. Again. You hated how Shachi’s words: “I know it’s hard, but you don’t know the whole story. His life was a shitshow. I think… I think there’s more to it” kept replaying in your mind, swirling with the memories of all the things Law had said, all the things he hadn’t.

You couldn’t help but wonder if there really was more to Law’s behavior than just being a complete and utter asshole. What could possibly excuse the way he’d left, as though your feelings were disposable, as though the space you’d built together was nothing more than a fleeting moment to him? What could be a good enough reason to abandon someone, to leave them shattered in pieces, struggling to pick themselves up again?

Maybe you were grasping at straws, trying to find an excuse, a thread of understanding to justify the way he’d looked at you, the way he’d held you, the way he made love to you. It all felt so real. So full of promise, so full of care. 

A frustrated sigh slipped from your lips. You really should stop overthinking it. He left. He hurt you. And yet, despite everything, you were still giving him the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t deserve.

There was only one thing to do in this case. With trembling fingers, you reached for your phone. The familiar number was already memorized by your heart, and you tapped it without hesitation. It rang once before the line clicked, and the voice you needed most came through.

“Hi. Sorry to bother you. Again,” you said immediately.

“I told you to stop apologizing. I'm here for you. Always.”

That alone lifted your mood a bit. Just those few words, so simple yet so fierce, loosened something tight in your chest. You exhaled, letting the breath carry away some of the weight you’d been dragging around lately.

“Thanks Ikka.”

“I haven't done anything yet.” 

“You did plenty.”

And it was true. The moment you’d called her—choking on tears, the story tumbling out in broken fragments—she had dropped everything. Within minutes, she was there, standing beside you with fire in her eyes and a storm of curses aimed solely at Law. You’d barely managed to stop her from tracking him down and unleashing her wrath on him.

She was the definition of ride or die. Your safety net. Your shield. Fury when yours had burned out.

And right now, she was exactly what you needed most.

“You okay there?”

You swallowed hard, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. “Been better… been worse too, I guess. So, you know, I’ll survive.”

“Of course you will!” she said, with that fierce confidence of hers. “Remember, no jerk deserves your tears.”

“Yeah, yeah. You told me that. Like a lot.”

“And I will sing it till my dying days.”

That finally coaxed a real chuckle out of you. She always knew how to disarm your sadness. She always did. From the very beginning of your friendship to this very day, knowing exactly when to speak and when to sit in silence beside you. She was a reminder that you were never as alone as you felt.

You pulled your knees closer to your chest, the phone warm against your cheek. “What are you up to now?”

There was a pause, just long enough to be noticeable. “I was just getting ready for a date.”

You hated that it stung.  You were overjoyed that your best friend found the love of her life. And you adored her partner. She was kind, thoughtful, and patient. Everything you’d hope for Ikkaku and more.

They were great together. No, not great. Perfect. 

Still, the ache snuck. You could only dream of finding someone who would do everything for you. Someone who would choose you, every day, over and over. Who’d place your happiness above their own. Who’d fight for you, protect you with their whole heart. Their whole being even.

You forced your voice to stay light. “Ooooh, a date? Fancy. Where are you two going?”

Ikka gave a soft laugh, one that buzzed with excitement. “Nothing too over-the-top. Just this little rooftop place she found.”

“Sounds amazing,” you said. And you meant it. Even if your heart was a little sore.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine,” you replied too quickly.

“Don’t lie to me. Do you want us to ditch the date and come over? We can drink wine, eat an unhealthy amount of chocolate, curse every man who’s ever existed, and blast that playlist you made for me after my last nasty breakup.”

She really was an astounding friend. Maybe the universe had failed you in love, but at least it hadn’t left you completely empty-handed.

You laughed through the tears. “That sounds great, but no. Have your fairytale night. I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“You better call me if you’re not.”

“I will.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

She hesitated for a moment, her voice gentler when she finally spoke. “You’re going to get your fairytale too. And if not exactly fairytale then at least some epic love story. Someone who would risk it all for you. I’m sure of it.”

You let out a quiet scoff. That sounded so far away, so out of reach, and you were about to say as much. To say that those stories weren’t written for people like you. That perhaps some people were just meant to watch them from the sidelines, never truly belonging to the happy endings.

But before the words could leave your mouth, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

You weren’t expecting anyone. 

For a brief, irrational moment, your heart whispered that it might be Law—coming to collect his comics, or maybe, to apologize and beg for your forgiveness. That maybe he’d come not just to grab his precious issues, but to say the words you wished to hear: I’ m sorry. I was wrong. Please, give me another chance. I love you.

You hated that your mind even went there. But it did. But deep down, you knew better. If he was here, it was for the comics. Not for you.

He really did care about Sora, more than he ever seemed to care about you. You used to think it was cute, the way he lit up talking about them, hands animated, eyes sparkling. But now? The thought only twisted your stomach painfully.

Another knock came, a little louder this time. You exhaled, rubbing your eyes. You weren’t ready for this. Not ready to face your former roommate, the guy who had once meant everything to you, and the man you still had far too many feelings for. Feelings he had never bothered to embrace.

“Someone at the door. I need to go,” you told Ikka, distracted by the sudden weight of anticipation pressing against your ribs. “Have fun tonight, okay? Love you.”

“Love you more,” she said, the smile in her voice a warm contrast to the knot tightening in your stomach.

You ended the call and rose swiftly from the couch, brushing invisible wrinkles from your clothes as if they mattered. As if he would notice.

But it wasn’t him.

A tall, blonde man stood in the doorway, his presence commanding the space with a striking confidence. There was something special about him beyond his height or the sharp, sculpted lines of his face. But what truly caught your eye was the coat. Long, tailored, and unabashedly pink. Definitely not a typical look. And you weren’t sure if you should be curious, impressed… or afraid.

You hesitated, uncertain if this was just another one of Law’s attempts to avoid confrontation. Maybe he’d sent someone else for his comics. Maybe Law was too much of a coward to face you himself.

“Umm, can I help you?” you asked cautiously, your tone guarded.

Did Law really send someone else to pick up his comic books? He seemed to go out of his way to avoid you. Sending a stranger to your apartment without even a heads-up, as though he couldn’t bear to confront you himself. Maybe he had asked Shachi, Penguin, or even Bepo to do it for him first, but you couldn’t help wondering if they were mad at him too. After all, they knew now how he’d treated you. What he did.

The thought of that… the idea that they might be upset with him, even a little, made you feel a little better. You didn’t know them that well—hell, you hadn’t spent nearly enough time with them to be close—but you could tell from their reactions that they were disturbed by Law’s behavior. 

They cared about you, or at least, they cared enough to be bothered by what he had done to you. And damn it, you had started to like them. And that just made you angrier at Law all over again. Because if they could see it, if they could understand the mess he had made, then why couldn’t he?

The man smiled politely, but there was something unnerving about the way he looked you up and down, as though trying to measure you before speaking. 

“Donquixote Doflamingo,” he introduced himself, his voice smooth. Too smooth. “Pleasure to meet you.”

You didn’t respond right away, just standing there, arms crossed. He was waiting for you to introduce yourself, but you weren’t going to offer up any information to a stranger.

“Is Law here?” Doflamingo asked, his tone casual, but there was an edge to it that made you pause. Now you didn’t like the situation even more. If he was asking that, it meant that Law didn’t send him here.

“No.” You didn’t owe him an explanation, not when the question seemed to cut through the fragile thread of your patience. You were even more furious at Law now, and he wasn’t even nearby.

He didn’t seem fazed. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

You narrowed your eyes, the anger welling up inside you once more. “He doesn’t live here anymore,” you replied, each word a sharp reminder of what had been taken from you.

Doflamingo didn't flinch at your words. Instead, he simply raised an eyebrow, as if your response was exactly what he expected. “I see,” he said slowly, almost amused. “And I take it you’re not expecting him anytime soon?”

You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to slam the door in his face. The nerve of this man, standing there as though he wasn’t asking about someone who had hurt you, someone who had shattered your very own being. 

“I’m not expecting him at all.”

Doflamingo stepped forward, his posture casual but still imposing. “Such a shame,” he mused, glancing at you, almost as if he were studying you. “I was hoping to speak with him.” He paused for a beat, looking over his shoulder, as if considering his next words carefully. “But it seems I’ll have to deal with you instead.”

You frowned. “What do you want with him?”

He shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes flicking back to you with a sharper focus now. “Let’s just say I’m dealing with a few… loose ends.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. You had no idea who this man was, but something about him—the way he carried himself, the way he spoke—set your nerves on edge. You didn’t know whether he was on Law’s side or against him, but either way, you didn’t trust him. Not one bit.

“I’m not your go-between,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. “If you’re looking for Law, you’ll have to find him yourself.”

Doflamingo gave a small, mocking chuckle, unfazed by your defiance. “Oh, I’m sure I will. It was truly a pleasure meeting you.” He gave a small bow, his eyes gleaming with something that made you feel uncomfortable, as though he knew more than he let on.

“Goodbye,” you stated firmly, pushing back against the feeling of unease that threatened to rise in your throat.

He gave you a final, inscrutable look, then turned away, walking down the hallway with the same casual grace he had entered with.

What the hell was that all about? Doflamingo’s words, his demeanor, everything about him left a bitter taste in your mouth, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. There was something far too deliberate in his actions.

Your thoughts circled back to Law, as they always seemed to. His absence in your life was an ache that refused to heal. And now, it felt like everything was spiraling further out of control.

You couldn’t shake the unease that prevailed. Doflamingo might have been all politeness and smooth talk, but something about him didn’t sit right with you. There was a cold edge beneath his words, and the way he had scrutinized you, made your skin crawl.

You let out a frustrated sigh, trying to shake the chill that had settled over you. Reaching for your phone, you felt a small flicker of hope that maybe Law would answer. You tapped his name in your contacts, but as soon as you pressed the call button, you knew. He didn’t answer. Of course, he didn’t.

But you couldn’t just let this go. Not when there were people like Doflamingo popping up at your door. You needed answers. You needed someone who could explain what the hell was going on.

So, with a huff of annoyance, you dialed Penguin’s number. The one he drunkenly punched in when you had come home that night, only to find Law and his friends inebriated. It seemed like ages ago now. Back when you weren't expecting the tension, the longing, and certainly not the emotional wreckage that would follow. It was that night that started the whole mess between you and your unattainable roommate.

As the call connected, you tried to steel yourself, not sure what you were hoping for, but desperate for something.

The phone rang. And rang.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it picked up.

“Hello?” Penguin’s voice sounded muffled at first, like he was busy with something else, but there was a bit of panic when he recognized who was calling.

You didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I need to ask you something. There was some creepy guy at my door. He just left. He was asking about Law, and I don’t know, I’ve got a really bad feeling about him.”

“What was his name?” Penguin asked, his tone shifting immediately. You could hear the concern creeping into his voice.

“Doflamingo something,” you answered.

“What’s going on?” You heard a distant voice in the background—Shachi’s, unmistakable.

“Doflamingo was at her place,” Penguin said sharply.

“Fuck, that’s not good,” Shachi mumbled, but you still caught it.

“I know that.” Penguin again.

Then you heard more distorted voices as they engaged in conversation, completely forgetting that you were still on the line. Their conversation was rushed and chaotic. You could make out the occasional curses, and there was a definite panic in their voices.

“Shit, guys, hellooo? Talk to me!” You screamed into your phone.

Penguin’s voice grew more cautious now, as if weighing his words. “Look, I can’t say much, but Doflamingo’s… complicated. He’s connected to Law’s past, to some things I’m not sure you’d want to know about.”

Your chest tightened at his words, and the sense of distress only grew. “What does that mean?!”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. “Doflamingo’s involved in some shady shit, and if he’s poking around… well, it’s not good. That’s for sure. I’m sorry you got dragged into this.”

You felt the blood drain from your face as his words sank in. This wasn’t just some random visit—it was part of something far messier than you’d anticipated. The knot of dread in your stomach tightened even more. Instinctively, you clenched your phone tighter, the smooth plastic biting into your palm, your knuckles whitening.

You swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in your throat, telling yourself to stay calm, to think with clarity. But the truth was, you were anything but composed.

“So, what am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing!” Shachi’s voice rang out sharply, now crystal clear through the line. The sudden clarity jolted you. He must have taken the phone. “You told him Law is not living there anymore, right?”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice quieter now, still shaky, but you managed to keep it together long enough to answer.

“Okay, good. We’ll talk to Law,” Shachi said, calmer, as to ease your nerves. “Don’t worry too much, but if you get any other weird visits… anything at all. Call us immediately, alright?”

You wanted to protest, wanted to demand more answers, but you didn’t get the chance. With a final, reassuring, “Take care,” the call abruptly ended.

You stood rooted to the spot, every muscle locked in place, your breath caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. Your mind spun in a chaotic whirl, thoughts tumbling over each other like a storm unleashed. Law’s world—the one you had so desperately tried to leave behind, the one you had painstakingly tried to cut out of your life—was pulling you back in, as though the invisible strings, long thought severed, were tightening around you, drawing you toward a man you’d been desperate to untangle from.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Okaay, we're finally at the next chapter. I do wanna preface by saying that this chapter deals with loss, as it’s something the reader struggles with too (I don’t mention how or who or any details). I don't usually put up all the specific tags for each chapter, instead having all of them for a full story (remember to always check the tags for what you read!). There might be other triggers in the story, but this one felt like an important and common one to put out, since the topic is hard and might not be an appropriate read sometimes if one is struggling with it. You can even skip it if you need.

Also remember, everyone grieves in their own way, and there is not one single experience.

Now onto a more personal note: This might be the hardest, most vulnerable story I’ve written and shared. It felt both healing and devastating all at once. I didn’t go into details, yet it was still not an easy thing to write, as I’m familiar with the theme all too well.

Thank you all for your patience and all your kind words! <3

In less than an hour, Law showed up. You hadn’t expected him to come, hadn’t expected to see him again at all after everything that had happened. The weight of his absence had settled so deeply in your bones that you’d convinced yourself he was gone for good. But there he was, standing in your doorway like some unfinished chapter you couldn’t close.

His usual composure had shattered. His eyes, wide and untamed, darted with a restless energy, the crease in his brow carved deeper than ever. His hands—typically so sure, so steady—twitched at his sides, fingers flexing like they didn’t know what to do with themselves. There was something frantic about him now, a sharpness to his movements, as if he was afraid to stop moving. 

Before you could even process the shock of seeing him again, Law was already by your side. 

“Did he hurt you?” he said worriedly, looking all over you for some unseen damage, some hidden wound. 

His hand moved almost involuntarily, the tattoos on his fingers—always so enamoring—pausing just before touching your cheek. The fingers hovered in the air for a heartbeat. Then, as if he’d suddenly become aware of what he was doing, they dropped abruptly. 

You blinked, still processing his sudden appearance and his overbearing concern. 

“No, he did not…” you started, but then everything began tumbling out. “Who the fuck is he? Why are you so worried? What the fuck is happening?!”

The questions tore out of you one after another, the frustration and confusion spilling over. Why was he here, acting like some knight in shining armor, when he had been the one to leave?

Law hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the door behind him, as though he were considering taking off again, just like the last time. There was the tension in his posture, the subtle shift in his body, as if the instinct to run was still there, still holding him captive. But this time, he stayed. His shoulders sagged slightly, like the weight of everything pressing on him was finally too much. And then the words came, rushed, desperate.

“You don’t want to be tangled in my life.”

You could have strangled him. You crossed your arms, a bitter laugh escaping you. 

“I already am!” Your voice rose. Why the fuck did he even show up if he won’t tell you what the hell was going on?  “You show up after a sketchy guy scares the shit out of me looking like a maniac yourself, and you expect me to just let it all go?!”

He stood there silent for a moment, debating with himself whether to explain it all to you. Until he signed and leaned on the wall. His voice became strangely monotone, detached, like he was speaking from somewhere far away.

“Doflamingo killed Corazon. He was the one who looked after me after my parents and sister perished in a fire,” 

There was no emotion behind his words, just the cold delivery of a man who had long since buried the pain beneath layers of distance.

His words hung in the air, suffocating you. You didn’t expect the sudden revelation, the rawness of it all. You’d figured Law’s life had been filled with pain, but hearing it so bluntly, hearing the depth of it all, was an awful punch to the gut.

The very thought that you could lose all your loved ones at once was terrifying. In your mind’s eye, you saw the flames creeping like living creatures, licking the walls, devouring the roof, turning to ash everything that had ever been your world. And yet… there he stood before you. The man who had survived it, somehow still standing, still fighting despite the tragedies that had defined him. You could see it now, the weight of it in his eyes, the invisible scars underneath the confidence he had shown you before.

You didn’t know how to respond. What could you say to someone who had lost everything like that? What was left to say when someone’s world had been ripped apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the remnants of a broken soul?

“Yeah, I told you my life is fucked up, and you don’t want to be in it.” Law commented. 

It sounded so bitter, so resigned, and it pained you even more. 

You shook your head, feeling a strange, unexpected wave of sympathy wash over you, crashing against the walls of anger and hurt. You hadn’t expected to feel this way—not for him. Not for the man who had torn your heart apart. But there it was, blooming in your chest despite everything.  

“You know, I’m actually surprised at how well-adjusted you are, considering how fucked up your life is.”

The expression on his face shifted instantly, his brows furrowing slightly. “That’s not the answer I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?” 

There was something so vulnerable in the way he was holding himself, as though the walls he usually kept up were crumbling just enough for you to see the wreckage that laid below.

“Pity,” he replied. “Awkwardness. Withdrawal.”

“I may not have such a fucked-up life,” you said, your voice quieter now, softer, “but I do know what loss is.”

His gaze found yours, searching, measuring. “Yeah?” 

You nodded, the ache in your heart stirring, an old wound buried beneath layers of time, but never truly healed. 

“Yeah.” 

The memories crept into the edges of your mind, ones you’d locked away so carefully, afraid to even face them yourself. Yet, the pain they carried was always there, a constant companion you’d never learned how to shake off.

It seemed Law understood that, too. His demeanor changed when he realized you might understand, might carry a piece of the same weight. It was the kind of recognition that forced the next words out of you.

“Loss changes you. It makes you see the world differently. It makes you—” You hesitated, before letting out a slow, shaky breath. “It makes you afraid to hope.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, it does.”

You wanted to ask him whether that was a reason he would rather not let you in, yet you didn’t dare to. The fear of the answer, or maybe the fear of breaking whatever fragile thread held the moment together, kept you silent.

Instead, you told him about your loss.  

The words came slowly at first, brittle and unfamiliar on your tongue. It was not a topic you discussed frequently. You had kept it in the deepest recesses of your heart, enveloped it in silence, and buried it so deeply that the mere thought of it was as painful as touching something sharp.

But there was something about this moment that reached inside and cracked something open. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe that maybe it would be okay.

And against all instinct, you let it spill. You spoke quietly, haltingly. Not all of it, just enough. Enough to feel like bleeding without the blood.

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the silence with empty words or stitched-together sympathy. He didn’t ask for more, didn’t reach for the pieces or try to patch what was never his to mend. He simply was there, silently absorbing your words, his attention unwavering.

“I’m sorry,” he said when you finished.

You shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it stops hurting.”

You blinked, the sincerity in his voice pulling you back to him. Slowly, you met his gaze, seeing the certainty there, something in his eyes that mirrored your own grief. You fiddled with your sleeve, the fabric twisted tighter in your hands.

“No,” you admitted. “It doesn’t.”

People always say that time softens pain. That it fades, dulls, becomes something easier to bear. Maybe for some, that's true. But for you, it always felt more like learning to live with it—getting used to its overbearing presence pressing down on your chest, not enough to crush you, but always enough to feel. It doesn’t get easier, you just find a way to carry it, to pretend it doesn’t hurt that much. Even though it seems cruel and unjust, life continues to move forward. There’s no pause button, no moment to catch your breath. And with it, you're expected to move too. There really isn't another choice. 

Neither of you spoke for a while. It wasn’t awkward, though. It wasn’t suffocating. It was just… still. A rare, fleeting peace in the chaos of everything else.

“I think that’s the worst part,” he said, almost as if he was admitting something he hadn’t meant to. “People expect you to move on, to be okay after enough time passes. But grief… it doesn’t work like that.”

You nodded. “It lingers. It never fucking leaves.”

He glanced away for a moment, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for something, then thought better of it. “I used to think if I just ignored it long enough, it would go away.” He huffed out a small, humorless laugh. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

“You still do that, don’t you? Try to outrun it.”

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t deny it. “Maybe.” Then, quieter, “Yeah.”

Now that you had a glimpse into his hardened past, the way life had chewed him up and spit him out, you could finally begin to understand him. And though it didn’t erase the ache left following his departure, it at least brought some clarity. It didn’t make the pain disappear, but it made it easier to accept. Still, you knew there were countless dark sides he kept hidden.

You wished, more than anything, that he’d trusted you enough to let you help carry some of that burden, to let you in. Maybe, together, you could have shouldered it. Maybe, if he’d opened up earlier, you could have shared your struggles, and in doing so, found a way to grow, to heal or just survive further but together. Instead, he retreated, he left and damaged both of you even more.

“You ever get tired of pretending?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

That little spark of surprise returned, like he hadn’t expected you to push. “What do you mean?” 

“That you’re okay? That you’re managing?” You felt silly asking that. The words felt strange, almost too bold, but there was something oddly freeing in asking. Talking about it like this with him felt surprisingly… therapeutic. You couldn’t ignore it. So you took your chance. “That you don’t care?”

His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to argue, to deflect—but he didn’t. 

He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “But what’s the alternative?” His eyes locked onto yours again, intense and searching, almost daring you to contradict him. “Falling apart? Letting people see the mess?” He shook his head. “Drag people into this fucking mess?”

“Maybe it’s not about dragging people into it,” you answered quietly. “Maybe it’s about letting them stand beside you in it.”

He didn’t say anything to that.

You took a step closer, heart pounding, unsure if it was courage or sheer foolishness that was driving you forward.

“I think you want people to think you don’t care,” you observed. “But you do. More than you’d ever admit.”

You thought he might deny it. But instead, he just shook his head slowly, the motion heavy, like it cost him something. “Maybe,” he said. “But caring never did me any favors.”

You understood that. Maybe too well.

But still, without hesitation, you replied, “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

His breath hitched just slightly—a fragile hitch that revealed something raw, hardly contained, before he slid it back below the surface like a secret locked away. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away either. And in that quiet, you had a trembling hope that maybe, someday, he’d believe you.

You wanted to reach out with sentiments that mattered. Words that could break through the armor, that wouldn’t echo empty or ring hollow. Tell him something that would make him choose to have  you by his side. 

But instead, you stepped forward again, narrowing the space between you, as if letting your presence speak the words you couldn’t.

“For what it’s worth,” you decided on, “I don’t pity you.”

“Then what do you feel?” His tone was more cautious now, almost vulnerable in the way he let the question hang.

You hesitated, the answer both clear and elusive all at once. Sympathy? Understanding? Something deeper, more complicated? Even more love?

“I think,” you declared slowly, carefully, as your hand reached for his, fingers brushing lightly against his palm, “I finally see you.”

Law’s gaze widened just slightly when it moved to your intertwined hands. His thumb brushed over your knuckles with a tenderness that surprised you. You almost felt like you’d got him back.

But then, just before the hope could fully blossom in your heart, he withdrew his hand. In one smooth motion the delicate bond between you shattered, leaving a familiar, cold emptiness in its wake. 

“If he ever bothers you again… please let me know. Immediately.” His words were clipped, protective, but the unspoken worry wrapped around them like a shadow, a vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide, no matter how hard he tried. “I’ll handle it.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, not trusting yourself to speak. He wanted to say more—you could tell, you could see it in his eyes—but whatever it was, he kept it to himself. He turned on his heel, heading for the door, but paused just as he reached the threshold.

“Take care of yourself,”  he muttered. And with that, the door clicked shut behind him, the sound vibrating through the room, leaving you standing alone.

You felt a hollow feeling in your chest that you knew all too well. It was the cruel kind of heaviness. Not the kind that broke you all at once, but the kind that persisted, wearing you down from the inside out.

Your eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, to the bookshelf.

There they were—his comic books, still untouched, still sitting there like forgotten fragments of something that never truly happened.

Chapter 15

The coffee shop bustled with chatter, the scent of roasted beans curling into the air. You wrapped your hands around the warm cup, staring blankly at the swirling patterns of cream on the surface.

You were thinking about Law. Again. About where he was living now. Was he with Penguin and Shachi, or had he moved in with Bepo and his girlfriend? Or maybe he found something entirely different, something new? That was somehow way worse.

You hated not knowing. You missed living with him—missed the quiet moments, the comfortable silences, even the stupid back and forth. It left a dull ache in your chest that nothing seemed to be able to patch.

Sighing, you took a sip and glanced out the window, the city blurring past in streaks of motion. And then—

Your heart stopped.

For a split second, in the crowd outside, you thought you saw him. Not Law, but someone infinitely worse. Doflamingo. His broad frame, that unmistakable blonde hair, the flash of pink… No. No way. Your mind had to be playing tricks on you.

But instinct took over before logic could settle in. You whipped around so fast, your foot caught on the leg of your chair. The world lurched as you stumbled.

You hit the ground, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Coffee splattered across the floor, the cup rolling away with. Heat rushed to your cheeks as a few patrons turned to stare, their murmurs blending into the pounding in your ears.

Shaking, you pressed a hand against the cool tile and dared to glance back at the window.

Nothing. Just strangers going about their day. No Doflamingo. No one familiar at all.

You exhaled sharply, willing your racing pulse to slow. You were going crazy. That had to be it. Lack of sleep, too much thinking about the past, the hole Law had left in your life. It was all messing with your head.

You tried to stand, but the sharp pain in your ankle made you gasp. Wincing, you shifted your weight, but the throbbing only worsened. Great. Just great.

With no other choice, you hobbled your way out of the café, waving off concerned looks from bystanders. The nearest hospital wasn’t far. You just had to make it there.

It wasn’t until you stepped through the automatic doors, the sterile scent of antiseptic hitting you, that you realized exactly where you were.

The hospital that Law worked in.

Your stomach twisted. Of course. Of all the places, it had to be here. You prayed that luck would be on your side, that you could slip in, get checked, and leave without running into him.

But today was not your lucky day.

Pain pulsed through your ankle as you sat in the hospital corridor. It wasn’t the physical pain that tore you apart, but a sharper, deeper suffering—a wound reopening just from a glance at him.

Law stood at the nurses' station, flipping through a patient file. His eyes scanned the page, each line absorbing his attention with the usual precision, the same intensity that had always drawn you in. He looked exactly the same—too familiar, too composed, too much like the person you’d let too close before he disappeared.

After your heartfelt conversation, there had been nothing. No call, no message. Silence. You felt like an idiot for still hoping. For still wishing he would be back and that he would let you in. Freely and truly.

But it proved to be pointless. So you hadn’t reached out either. Maybe that was the end of your history. But sitting on the hospital bench now, with him so close, you realized life wasn’t quite finished with you yet. All felt unresolved, as though some part of your story was still waiting to be written.

The moment his gaze flicked up and landed on you, the stoic mask he always wore cracked. His brows knit together, his grip on the file tightening, and he swiftly made his way towards you.

“What happened?”

His voice—so familiar, so full of concern—felt like another knife to your heart. The way it still affected you was maddening. Without another word, he knelt beside you, inspecting the injury that had already been bandaged and well taken care of. You felt his worry seep through the cracks, even as he tried to hide it. And it just reminded you why it was so hard to shake him off completely.

“I slipped,” you muttered, brushing it off. “Not a big deal.”

“You should be more careful.” And just like that, the concern evaporated. Like he had caught himself caring too much and needed to correct it. He pushed himself up from the floor.

You clenched your jaw. “Yeah, well, thanks for the advice, Doctor.”

He hesitated, and he looked like he wanted to reach out to you, but as soon as his hand reached out, it pulled back. He said nothing. It was as if he had already checked out of the conversation, of you, just like before. You recognized it. That subtle retreat. That careful step back. And that pissed you off.

A bitter laugh escaped. “You know what? Forget it. I don’t need you pretending to care.” You stood up, ignoring the pain pulsing through your ankle.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I do care,” he said, the words coming out more quietly this time, like he was testing them, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be saying them.

Something in your chest twisted. A painful, almost desperate kind of feeling, something that wasn’t quite hope but more like the ghost of it, trying to come back to life, but you crushed it before it could take root.

“Right. That’s why you disappeared on me, right? Because you care so much?”

You thought he might say something to prove you wrong, to make this ache in your chest disappear. But he didn’t. His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, his expression shuttered, retreating behind that damn unreadable mask.

That was all the answer you needed.

You turned on your heel, ignoring the stab of pain as you walked away. You didn’t look back, didn’t wait to see if he would say anything. What would be the point? He had made his choice a long time ago.

Enough was enough. It was time to cut him out for good.

The moment you got home, you started searching for a new roommate. You were done with waiting. With hoping. No more lingering in old memories. No more holding out for something that was never going to happen.

This time, searching for a new roommate felt different. It wasn’t as tedious, or maybe you’d just let go of your expectations, wanting to quickly erase every trace of Law from your life. You wanted the space, the distance, to stop feeling so tied to him.

When you found someone, you wasted no time letting him know. Your text was short to the point:

Found a replacement. You don’t have to pay rent anymore.

It should’ve felt like closure. It should’ve been a relief, the weight lifting off your shoulders. Instead, you were left with that gnawing emptiness deep in your chest, as though you had ripped something out that you weren’t quite ready to let go of.

Surprisingly, he texted you back:

I’m glad. Hope living with them will be easier than it was with me.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to scream at him immediately after reading that. To argue. To tell him that living with him wasn’t hard, that it was easy in the quiet moments when he didn’t shut down, when he didn’t pull away. That it was nice, before he convinced himself you couldn’t handle his mess, before he took your heart and ruined it.

But you didn’t reply.

Instead, you threw your phone aside. You would rather not give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words still affected you. You didn’t want to care anymore.

With a sharp breath, you pushed it all aside and focused on the task at hand—cleaning out his former room.

The room felt empty without his things. No books stacked precariously on the nightstand, no half-empty coffee cups forgotten on the desk, no stray hoodies draped over the chair. Or at least that's how you remembered it in those rare moments you entered his room.

You realized that, despite living together for months, you had never truly spent time in his space. You winced at the thought. It was just another reminder of how, despite sharing the same space, despite all the moments that could have meant something, you had only ever been a bystander in his life. Watching from the sidelines, never invited in, never allowed past the surface of what he let the world see.

You had been in the midst of cleaning when you found it. Tucked neatly under the mattress, beneath a stack of discarded papers, a folder caught your eye. But something about the way it had been carefully wedged away, out of sight, made your fingers hesitate before pulling it free.

A strange unease settled over you as you flipped it open.

Documents. Pages upon pages of meticulously detailed records. There were lists, notes, timestamps, and reports—meticulous in a way that could only be Law’s doing. No culprit was explicitly named, but you didn’t need one.

Doflamingo.

You were sure of it. The underworld kingpin’s influence, his dirty dealings, his crimes—all of it. Law had been tracking them, keeping an eye on every move. It seemed that he had been keeping tabs on Doflamingo for years.

You quickly shoved the folder into your room, your hands shaking slightly as you stuffed it beneath a pile of clothes in your drawer. The weight of what you’d just discovered persisted, pressing heavily on your thoughts, but you didn’t even have time to begin processing it before a knock at the door shattered the silence.

The girl had arrived. Your new roommate.

When you opened the door, she stood there, her bright smile almost too radiant, her eyes full of unshakable optimism. You had only spoken to her on the phone before deciding that you didn’t have the energy to conduct more interviews. When you found someone who seemed like a good fit over the phone and didn’t even want to see the place—saying that the pictures were enough—you figured it would be fine.

“I hope we get along,” she said cheerfully. “I promise I won’t be any trouble!”

Trouble. The word almost caught in your throat, and you fought the urge to laugh bitterly. If only she knew what kind of trouble had been lurking around here long before her arrival.

You stepped aside, letting her in, trying to push all the unease into the back of your mind.

She walked in, taking a moment to glance around as if soaking in every detail of the space. She was full of curiosity, and you couldn't help but notice the way her smile never faltered, like she was eager to make everything feel just right.

“Wow, it's really cozy in here. I love the vibe.”

“Thanks,” you replied, trying to match her energy.

You motioned for her to follow you. “I'll help you get settled.”

You both made your way toward the hallway. Her suitcase was a bit heavy, but you didn’t mind. It was a distraction from the thoughts swirling in your head.

“Here’s your room,” you said, pointing toward the door that had once belonged to Law.

You helped her put her bags down, and she immediately began sorting through them. As she unpacked, she looked up with a slight tilt of her head.

“By the way, how was your last roommate?”

You felt a small jolt in your chest. She was being friendly, asking questions with no hidden agenda, but the mention of him hit too close to home. You forced a smile, willing yourself to stay composed.

“He was… around, just kind of kept to himself,” you said, choosing your words carefully.

“So you two weren’t that close then?”

You tried to ignore the way your throat tightened at the question, the memories flooding back, uninvited. The reminder of how close exactly you were with Law. You still felt the ghost of his lips on your skin, the memory of his fingers tracing over your body. His gaze, intense and filled with emotions you'd never expected, focused entirely on you with such adoration. You swallowed hard, trying to push those memories into the darkest corner of your mind. You didn’t want to remember it anymore.

“No” you lied. “We were merely roommates.”

You didn’t want to lie to her, but it was easier this way. You weren’t ready to dig through the raw, unhealed parts of your heart. It was still too painful, still too fresh.

“Oh, I see,” she said, nodding thoughtfully as she unpacked a few more things. “Anyway, I hope we can be a little more social than that. Maybe you can show me around the city sometime?”

“Sure.”

The idea of showing her around sounded like a good distraction. Something to keep your mind busy, even if only for a little while.

As she began organizing her things on the shelves, she glanced over at you with a smile, still brimming with that unshakable enthusiasm. “It’s nice to finally be here. It’s a fresh start, you know?”

You nodded, trying to match her energy, but only managing a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, I get that.”

A fresh start. You wished it could be a fresh start for you too.

She seemed to sense that something was off. “Hey, I know it’s probably none of my business, but—” she hesitated, likely trying to be tactful, “—I know you said you two weren’t close, but did you guys have any unfinished stuff to clear up?”

“No,” you said, the word coming out too quickly. You fought to steady your breath. “Nothing to clear up.”

The lie sat heavily in the air, but you didn’t care enough to correct it. There were too many things unsaid, too many unresolved emotions that you didn’t know how to explain, not to her, not to anyone.

She nodded, seemingly satisfied. You could tell she was trying to tread carefully, but there was something comforting about her lightheartedness, the way she tried to fill the space with casual conversation, as if to make things feel less awkward.

After a few more minutes of setting up, she looked over at you again, her broad smile never faltering. “I’m really glad we’re doing this,” she said earnestly. “I think we’ll get along great.”

But as she unpacked her things and chattered about what she’d make for dinner, your thoughts drifted back to the folder now hidden in your room.

A fresh start.

That’s what she called it.

If only it were that simple.

You forced a smile, masking the weight of everything that still clung to you. A fresh start—what a lovely notion. But you knew better. The past had a way of lingering, of creeping back in when you least expected it. For now, though, she was a distraction, a bright, eager face that kept the shadows at bay. Maybe that was enough, at least for now.

At least until you figured out what to do with what you’d found.

“Oh, by the way,” she chirped, tilting her head slightly. “Since we’re friends now, you can call me what my friends and family call me—Baby 5.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Tangled lives