Old sat on the edge of Meikai’s bed, the wood creaking beneath his weight. The air carried the scent of salt and iron—his own blood, still damp as Meikai worked carefully around his wounded eye.

He didn’t flinch. He’d taken worse before. Protecting the Sea and his Master was his duty… It always had been.

One clawed hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, thumb tracing over a torn seam. The other brushed his messy hair aside, keeping it clear of the injury so Meikai could see what he was doing. He didn’t want to think about why Meikai still bothered.

He could feel the sorcerer's presence beside him—steady, calm, warm. He didn’t need to look to know that gentle expression was there.

Still, he did. Just once.

That same quiet smile met his eye—kind, unchanging, almost painful to see. It stirred something deep in him, something he didn’t have a name for.

His jaw tightened. A faint heat rose on his cheeks, and he looked away quickly. “Tch…”

“Quit starin’ at me like that…” he muttered, the words low and rough, almost caught in his throat.

He didn’t like Meikai. Of course not. He wasn’t some blushing fool pining after his Master. He’d had women—plenty of them. He could prove it. …Or maybe that was just what he told himself.

Silence fell again, light as the sea itself. Only the soft sound of cloth moving, and the hush of waves brushing the ship’s hull.

Old’s tail flicked once, betraying his restlessness. He hated how close this felt—how quiet, how careful.

After a moment, he finally spoke again. “Meikai… I can take care o’ myself, ya know?” A sharp scoff followed, forced and thin. “Ain’t like I need yer damn supervision. I ain’t some child.”

The words came out harsher than he meant them to. They cracked near the end—too fragile to sound convincing.