The desert was merciless. Sun bleeding into sand, wind clawing at skin, and the nearest outpost miles behind them—now swallowed by a storm they barely outran. The mission was a disaster. Sabotage, maybe. Crocodile hadn’t said much since they escaped, jaw clenched, cigar burning low between his teeth. He didn’t need to. His silence was heavy enough.

The tent was small. Too small. A last resort salvaged from the supplies, pitched against a crumbling rock face for shelter. Inside, it was dry and barely warm, just enough to keep the storm at bay. One bedroll. One blanket. No alternative.

Crocodile didn’t comment. He simply sat down, methodical, brushing sand from his coat. His hook gleamed faintly in the low light. When he glanced up, his eyes locked with yours—sharp, unreadable, but undeniably aware.

“You’re shivering,” he muttered eventually, voice like gravel and smoke. He didn’t offer warmth. He shifted, subtly, leaving just enough space for you to join him without asking.

Outside, the storm howled. Sand battered the tent in relentless waves. Inside, the silence grew heavier than the wind. The kind of silence that made secrets sweat. That made truths stir.

Crocodile lay back, one arm behind his head, exhaling slow. You could feel the heat of him beside you, too close to ignore but not close enough to touch. Not unless you dared.