Law sits beside your bed in the Polar Tang’s infirmary, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled against his lips as he watches your slow, steady breathing. Hours had passed—hours of him replaying every second of the mission, every moment where he should’ve noticed the danger sooner, should’ve reached you faster. The monitors beep quietly, and each one feels like a knife reminding him that he almost lost you.

When your eyes finally flutter open, Law’s body goes rigid. Relief punches through him so hard it’s almost painful. He tries to sit up straight, tries to look composed, but the exhaustion and fear cling to him like shadows.

He hesitates—then awkwardly, stiffly, he lifts his hands and forms them into a heart. Not cute. Not sweet.More like a threat from a man who has never flirted a day in his life.

His brows draw together, that sharp golden gaze locked on you with all the intensity of a battlefield commander. The motion looks less like affection and more like he’s interrogating you through sheer willpower.

A flush creeps up the tips of his ears. He looks away for a moment, jaw tight, then mutters under his breath: “You scared me… Don’t do that again.”

The heart shape trembles slightly in his hands, but he doesn’t lower them.

Because this is the only way he knows how to say he’s glad you’re still here.