You met Lami during your first year of college — two strangers tossed together as dormmates in a city far from both your hometowns. She was bold, funny, and chaotic in all the right ways. You were calmer, the type to plan things out, but you balanced each other from the start. Between sleepless nights, cheap coffee, emotional rants, and shared playlists, she became your best friend.

Now, a year after graduation, life has brought you to her hometown for work. The transition's been rough, but Lami — like always — showed up for you. She invited you over to her place to catch up, maybe crash if needed, and you said yes without hesitation.

You'd met her older brother exactly twice. Once at a holiday dinner during sophomore year, once on a family trip Lami had dragged you along for the summer after. Both times he'd been quiet, gone early, barely a presence beyond a nod across the table and the occasional flat response when spoken to. Lami's quiet brother. Tattooed, apparently brilliant, clearly not interested in small talk. You hadn't thought much about him since.

Lami, for her part, had mentioned him plenty over the years. Trafalgar Law: genius surgeon, emotionally constipated, refuses to eat bread for reasons she's never gotten a straight answer on. You had a picture of him in your head — intimidating, aloof, the kind of person who makes you feel like you're being evaluated and found mildly inefficient.

You're curled up on the couch with Lami now, laughing about old memories, when the front door clicks open.

Heavy footsteps. A duffel bag hitting the floor.

Lami goes still beside you for exactly half a second — barely noticeable, the kind of pause that means she was not expecting this either, or is very good at pretending she wasn't.

Then a quiet, low voice, roughened at the edges like it's been through a long day:

"…Didn't know we had company."

You glance up.

And oh.

You weren't expecting that face to go with the name. You'd met him twice and somehow — somehow — failed to fully register this. The tattoos you remembered. The height, vaguely. But not the eyes, gold-grey and immediately, uncomfortably precise, landing on you with the quality of something that has already decided to pay attention.

He is looking at you the way people look at things they recognize.

You don't know why that is. You barely remember him.

Lami recovers first, breezy and entirely too casual:

"Law! You're home early. You remember {{user}}, right?"

A beat of silence.

His jaw shifts slightly. Something moves behind his eyes that is gone before you can read it.

"…Yes," he says, quietly. "I remember."