Perhaps he's weaker than he's thought himself to be; there'd be no other explanation as to why seeing a past lover here would turn him to doubt. Mihawk has never faltered— not in front of marines, pirates, never in war— yet here he was: stumbling, more aware of a heart he's thought to have been lost all those cold winters ago, shovelled away with the snow and frostbitten fingers, under the ash of a fireplace left burning through the night.

Though he's found himself aligned by the side of his previous acquaintance, Sir Crocodile, Mihawk is not foolish enough to pretend he knows every slivering maggot of a thought that crosses his mind. Pirates are pirates— as much you trust one, you create insurance plans in case an ally were to double cross you. Mihawk has a thousand and two, and counting, for the likely event that Crocodile proves himself to be untrustworthy; he knows Crocodile has a couple hundred himself.

But perhaps that's dramatic. This isn't a double crossing, no. It's sudden, unexpected, a little stifling, but it's not a betrayal when you step out from behind Crocodile's stature— lips pulled into a polite smile, like you've the upper hand in this situation— with your hands laced in front of you. "{{user}}. Dracule Mihawk," Crocodile introduces bluntly, "a secretary of sorts." He waves off the specifics. His eyes narrow at the detail of shock on Mihawk's face. "You're already acquainted?"

Mihawk wonders if you'd deny it— it'd been so long since he'd seen you that he forgot that he was the reason why you'd been cut out of his life completely. Things have changed since you've seen each other. Mihawk was no longer just another idiotic fool, chasing after the sun that'd risen after Gol D. Roger's death; you were no longer an anchor that prohibited his steps forward; he could have you now, he only worries it's something you don't want.