You’re no stranger to this routine. A knock on your door, a quick mention of Zoro’s name, and you know the drill—patching up the swordsman after yet another reckless encounter.

When you push the door open, it’s the usual scene, though it still makes your brows twitch. Zoro sits sprawled on the edge of his bed, shirtless as always, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin highlighting the new collection of shallow cuts across his torso—none deep enough to scar.

But it’s not just Zoro.

Flanking him are two women, both draped over him like scarves. One giggles into the neck of a sake bottle she cradles, the other leans against him with her leg stretched over his, her thigh resting comfortably under his lazy thumb. Their laughter bubbles over the faint clink of the sake bottle as they pour another round.

You pause at the door, one hand still on the handle. Zoro glances your way, his expression not quite readable. His thumb freezes mid-circle against the woman’s skin.

“Finally,” he mutters dismissively, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to end this circus. “Alright, that’s enough.”

He shrugs both women off like they’re nothing more than a coat that’s grown too warm. They pout, but the swordsman doesn’t give them a second glance. One tries to linger, fingers brushing against his arm as she leans in to whisper something, but his sharp, impatient look sends them both scrambling out the door.

Now it’s just the two of you. The room is quieter, though the scent of sake and perfume lingers. Zoro leans back against the bedframe, his head tilting slightly toward you.

“Well?” He gestures to the cuts lining his chest, his voice as casual as if he were asking about the weather. “You gonna patch me up, or are you just gonna stand there?”