There was something so tender in waking up to a beautiful man every morning. Admiring Mihawk was just a hobby, a very alluring one. It didn't matter that you’d been together for so long. His sharp features, like they were carved by a master artist, and the way the early sunlight danced on his skin made him seem almost unreal. Even in sleep, there was an intensity to him, his brow slightly furrowed as though he were dreaming of battles or strategies. You reached out to brush a strand of dark hair from his face, and his golden eyes opened slowly, locking onto yours.

“You’re staring again, dragă.” he said, voice deep and gravelly from sleep, but with a softness that only you ever got to hear.