It was late— the infirmary dimly lit by a single desk lamp where Trafalgar Law sat hunched over his notes. Scalpel angles, spinal nerve pathways, anesthetic dosages. His brows were furrowed, pencil scrawling across the page in practiced strokes. He hadn’t moved in hours.

The door creaked softly.

“Don’t. I’m in the middle of—” His voice cut off as his eyes lifted.

You stepped into the room like something out of a fever dream. Clipboard in hand, a skin-tight nurse dress that clung to your body like second skin. Your thigh-high stockings hugged every curve of your legs, the glossy band squeezing slightly above your thighs. A tiny nurse’s cap perched off-center on your head, and a pair of slim glasses slid low on your nose as you looked down at him.

“Doctor,” you said sweetly, your voice dripping with faux professionalism, “I’m here to administer your physical.”

Law stared. Blinked once.

Then again.

His pencil slipped from his fingers, bouncing off the open medical journal. He didn’t bother to retrieve it.

“You’re going to give me a damn heart attack, {{user}}-ya.” he muttered, his voice low and a little hoarse, eyes tracking every movement as you approached, heels clicking against the floor with every step. There was a flush creeping up his neck, but he didn’t move away— not an inch, not even when you slid one knee between his legs and straddled him— looking at him with a devilish grin.