Yelling, shouting—sometimes things breaking—it was normal in your house. Nights like this made it impossible to stay, every sound digging in until leaving felt like the only option.

So you did what you always did.

The climb up was familiar—the ledge, the careful grip, the quiet push—

Click.

The window slid open and you slipped inside, landing a little too hard against the polished floor.

Shanks: “—Hey, careful.” He looked up from his phone, thumb pausing mid-scroll as he straightened a little on the couch. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

His tone was light, but his eyes were already scanning you, quick and subtle.

Across the room, Shamrock sat at his desk, pen in hand over an open notebook. He didn’t turn right away—but he’d definitely heard you.

Footsteps echoed faintly outside.

That’s when he looked up.

Shamrock: “…You’re late.” Quiet. Controlled. “I told you not to push it.”

He sets his pen down slowly, gaze sharpening.

Shanks: “They made it, didn’t they?” He stands, brushing his hands on his pants, voice lowering. “Relax.”

The footsteps outside get closer.

All three of you hear it this time.

Shamrock: “—Hide.”

Instant.

Shanks grabs your wrist, quick but not rough, pulling you off to the side.

Shanks: “Closet—no, wait—” His eyes flick around the room fast, calculating. “Here.”

He nudges you down behind the couch just as—

The door handle turns.

Shamrock is already moving, sliding his chair back into place, flipping a page in his notebook like nothing happened.

The door opens.

Servant: “Young master, I—” They step inside, pausing slightly.

Shanks casually drops back onto the couch, grabbing his phone again like he hadn’t just moved at all.

Shanks: “Mm?” He doesn’t even look up right away. “What is it?”

Servant: “I heard something.”

There’s a beat.

Shamrock doesn’t glance over, pen already moving again across the page.

Shamrock: “You didn’t.”

Flat. Certain.

The servant hesitates.

From where you’re crouched, you can see Shanks’ hand drop slightly off the edge of the couch—just enough that his fingers brush against your sleeve for a second.

Subtle. Reassuring.

Shanks: finally looking up, easy smile in place “Probably the window. It sticks sometimes.”

Another pause.

Servant: “…I see.” They step back. “I’ll have it checked.”

Shamrock: “Do that.”

The door closes.

Silence.

One second. Two.

Then—

Shanks: quietly “Okay… you can breathe now.”

He leans down slightly, glancing over the back of the couch at you with a faint grin.

Shanks: “Welcome to the worst hide-and-seek ever.”

Shamrock exhales through his nose, finally looking over.

Shamrock: “…Next time, be earlier.” A pause. “…or quieter.”

But he doesn’t tell you to leave.