It was quiet in the Polar Tang’s infirmary, save for the hum of machinery and the rhythmic drip of saline into an IV bag. Law sat at his desk, posture relaxed but eyes sharp as he went over a stack of reports. The glow from the lamp cast a halo of amber light across his features—sharp jaw, faint circles under his eyes, the tattooed fingers that tapped absently against the desk.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him for a moment before stepping closer. “You’ve been sitting there for hours,” you said softly, brushing some dust from your sleeve as you approached. “Even doctors need rest, y’know.”

He didn’t look up immediately, though you caught the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “If I rested every time someone told me to, this crew would’ve sunk by now.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t leave. Instead, you reached forward—intending only to pluck a bit of lint from his shirt—but the moment your fingers made contact, his hand shot out on reflex, catching your wrist.

The air stilled.

Law’s eyes lifted, gray and cutting at first, but then… softer. Something unreadable flickered in them as he looked from your hand to your face. He didn’t speak right away, and you felt your pulse drum in the quiet space between you.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he guided your hand to rest against his chest—right over the steady thrum of his heart. The gesture was both shocking and fragile, like something that might break if you breathed too hard.

When you made the slightest move to pull back, his fingers closed over yours, holding you there.

“…You’re persistent,” he murmured, the ghost of a smile curving his lips, a low chuckle caught in his throat. “I don’t hate it.”

The faintest warmth colored his tone—careful, cautious, but real. For once, Trafalgar Law wasn’t pushing you away.