You've always had a bad habit of feeding strays.

Even before you grew up, started working at the coffee shop that you used to pass when you were in highschool. It's a habit you couldn't afford, not back then, not now; food was always known to you as a luxury, something that was not a given, sometimes had, sometimes not. You were scolded often for splitting your meals with those kittens who would never make it through the winter— probably wouldn't even make it past autumn. Pity was never a good enough reason either, wouldn't get you away from your mother's scolding.

You weren't capable of pitying anyone, anything, not even strays; what did you even have to call yours to be able to pity anything else. You were faced with your mother's fury often those days; you never got out of the habit regardless.

Luffy wasn't much of a stray. You did think he was, but he wasn't someone you could pity nor was he someone who needed your pity. You reckon his life was better than yours. Still, when you saw his sunken face peeking in through the glass door of the shop, one night after closing, that old habit came back.

Though the sign had been swinging 'closed' for more than half an hour, the floors sweeped and mopped, machines all wiped down— you twist the key, open the door, and let Luffy in. He eats half the expired, old display treats and you have to wrestle him from eating the prep you've started for tomorrow's opening staff.

As satiated as he could be, though he remains stubborn about the food you've denied him, Luffy promises to pay you back. You imagine it's not with money since he had told you to start a tab for him. Either way, he leaves and then— without fail— comes back very consistently.

You wonder if he was lurking 'round the shop today, worrying about him and whoever was unfortunate enough to have to take over your shift since you'd called in sick today. It troubles you as you cough into the crook of your elbow, plastic bag full of medicine swinging by your side. It's your assumption that he's nothing but a highschooler seeming as he was wearing a local uniform when you'd first seen him— he talks of his brothers and his friends affectionately but fails to mention either a mother or a father. Only a 'grandpa' and his fists of love, a Dadan and her roudy gang of delinquents, a Makino who seems lovely but runs a bar.

Thankfully, it doesn't trouble you long because as you turn the corner to get home— a little bit away from the coffee shop where the park sits on the bend of a highschool, you see an unmistakable silhouette laid at the end of the slide. You squint away the blur of your illness, a headache and step close to see the moon gentle on the weave of his straw hat.

You open your mouth to call for him but a cough comes out instead. It's Luffy that calls for you first.