The ship was quiet, everyone asleep except Law. He sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping slightly as he scribbled notes by lamplight. His hair was messy, shadows carving along his sharp jaw and cheekbones. Veins traced his forearms, tattoos just barely visible under the fabric.

You were curled up nearby with a book, pretending to read. But your eyes kept drifting—to the way his muscles flexed when he adjusted his seat, the calm focus in his expression, the effortless way he looked so damn good doing nothing at all.

He didn’t say a word. But when his eyes finally met yours, just for a second—you knew he’d felt your stare.