The first week living with Law was mostly silence.He kept to himself, hood up, eyes half-lidded, moving through the apartment like a shadow that occasionally drank coffee.

The second week, you learned he hated wearing shirts.

You walked into the kitchen one morning and found him leaning against the counter, sweatpants low on his hips, tattoos on full display as he stitched a cut on his own shoulder.He didn’t even flinch at being caught—just glanced over with that bored, irritated look.

“It’s nothing.” He said, like casually operating on himself before breakfast was normal. “I’ll clean it up.”

After that came the clues. Strange medical tools drying beside the sink.Maps spread across the coffee table. The way he always knew when someone walked past the apartment door, tensing like he expected danger.

One night, everything clicked.

You found him in the living room, blood smeared across his jaw, breath ragged, sword tossed aside.He muttered something about being “followed” and sank onto the couch, exhausted but stubbornly trying to treat himself.

When you sat beside him to help, he froze.Not out of fear—something softer, something he tried to hide by looking away.

“…Thanks.” he muttered finally, voice low, guarded.No sarcasm this time.

From then on, the tension changed.Less sharp, more electric.He still pretended not to care—still walked around shirtless, still acted unbothered when you caught him watching you over the rim of his mug—but the truth slipped through in quiet moments.

The way he stepped between you and the door whenever someone knocked.The way his voice softened when he said your name.The way he lingered a little too close when you bandaged him.

He was the Surgeon of Death, hunted and dangerous…but with you, he was something else entirely.