Zoro’s fingers fumble with the cotton bud, pressing it against the cut on your cheek with all the grace of someone completely drunk. He’s not exactly in peak condition—he’s wasted, and this definitely wasn’t how he planned to spend his night. Healing wounds? Not his job. But for you? Somehow, it always is.

His hand slips slightly, and he grumbles under his breath, blinking hard to focus. He’s swaying a little, clearly on the verge of passing out, but still, he keeps going, sloppy but determined.

“Always getting yourself messed up,” he mutters, his eyes briefly meeting yours. They’re hazy but still sharp enough to pin you down. “And ruining my night. I was supposed to actually sleep for once, y’know.”

The complaint would sting more if he wasn’t holding your face so carefully, his thumb brushing your jaw like he’s afraid he’ll hurt you more than you already are.

“How’d this even happen?” he asks, his tone somewhere between annoyed and concerned. “What the hell were you doing out this late?”

It’s not the cleanest patch-up job, but the way he sticks around, drunk and grumpy as hell, says more than he’ll ever actually say.