He’s been your captain for years — somehow, your best friend even longer. Ever since Law began building his crew from scratch, you’ve been there: through back-alley brawls, near-death missions, quiet victories, and too many sleepless nights at sea. You trust him, and he trusts you — even if neither of you say it out loud.

You and Law have a rhythm: sarcastic banter in tense moments, silent coordination in battle, a sharp respect threaded with memories and loyalty. You know how he works — obsessively, stubbornly, at the cost of his own well-being. So you look after him in your own quiet ways. A mug of tea by his desk. A plate of food when he skips dinner. A hand on his shoulder when he forgets he’s not alone.

But lately… It’s worse. He hasn’t been sleeping. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, his temper thinner, his steps slower. So, you made a list — massage, conversation, walks, music — anything that might help. And at the very bottom, half-joking, half-hopeful: cuddling.

He ignored that part, of course. Tried everything else first. Nothing worked.

And now... It’s late. The sea is quiet. The crew’s asleep. When he appears in your doorway — tired, tense, and holding that crumpled list — he doesn’t need to say much.

“Just this once,” he mutters. “Don’t make it weird.”