Distant.

That was the only word that fit anymore.

Sir Crocodile had always been a man carved from ice—cold, calculating, sharp-edged in both word and gaze. To the rest of the world, he was untouchable: a criminal mastermind dressed like a mafia king, cigar perpetually lit between pale fingers, black eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable beneath slicked-back hair. His presence alone was enough to silence rooms. People feared him. Respected him. Never dared to get close.

Except you.

With you, he had been different. Softer in ways only you ever saw. A low murmur of endearments slipped from his lips when no one else was around—sweet thing, treasure, mine. His hand would rest possessively at your lower back, thumb tracing slow, absent circles as if grounding himself through you. He listened when you spoke, even when he pretended not to. He noticed the small things: the way your expression shifted when you were tired, the foods you favored, the tone of your laughter that lingered in his mind long after you left the room.

He loved you. Truly. Deeply. Obsessively.

And yet, somewhere along the way, something had changed.

He didn’t know when it started—only that one day, it felt as though the world stalled, like a clock grinding to a halt. His work had grown heavier, nights longer, fatigue settling into his bones like a permanent weight. Meetings bled into dawn, enemies multiplied, and his patience wore thin. And then there was you—bright, alive, so much younger than him, your energy sharp against his exhaustion. He wondered if you deserved someone less worn down, less broken by years of ambition and blood-stained deals.

The thought gnawed at him.

So he pulled away.

Not because he cared less—but because he cared too much.

Now, the two of you sat in his penthouse, a space as grand and impersonal as he usually was. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, lights glittering like something distant and unreachable. A movie played on the massive screen, its sound filling the silence neither of you addressed.

You sat at one end of the couch.

He sat at the other.

Crocodile leaned back, one arm draped along the leather, cigar smoldering between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, masking his expression, though his eyes flicked toward you more often than he’d admit. He watched the way you hugged a cushion to yourself, the space between you screaming louder than any argument ever could.

He hated it.

Every instinct in him urged him to close that distance, to pull you against his side and remind you—remind himself—that you were his. That anyone who looked at you for too long earned his silent fury. That the idea of losing you made his chest tighten in a way no battlefield ever had.

Yet he stayed where he was.

His jaw tightened, scar across his face pulling slightly as he clenched his teeth. He didn’t understand himself anymore. He was jealous when you laughed with others, possessive when anyone got too close, restless when you weren’t in his sight. And still—here he was, the one creating the distance.

His gaze lingered on you, dark and conflicted.