Doflamingo tried very hard not to stare.

But it was difficult when you were standing there with Mihawk—smiling.

Not the polite, passing kind either. The kind that lingered. The kind that made the corner of your eyes crease slightly while you spoke about something he couldn't care less about.

The words between you and the swordsman meant nothing to him.

That smile did.

A faint pulse of irritation twitched in his temple. The muscle in his jaw flexed, slow and tight, as a thin vein surfaced along his forehead. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion he entertained often—certainly not over something as trivial as a conversation.

And yet.

Watching you give that expression to someone else made something ugly coil in his chest.

He wanted to wipe it off your face.

Personally.

So the moment you finally stepped away from Mihawk, Doflamingo moved.

No hesitation. No subtlety.

His long stride ate the distance in seconds, pink feathers rustling softly with each step until he cut you off completely. Your forward momentum carried you straight into him—your forehead bumping squarely against his chest like you’d run into a wall.

He didn’t move an inch.

Towering over you, he tilted his head down just enough to look at you through those tinted glasses, a slow grin pulling at his mouth—sharp and unpleasant.

“Where you going, Croc?”