The hum of the Polar Tang was the first thing you felt. Low, steady, like a heartbeat under the floor. The second thing was the cold — the empty space beside you, the absence of his warmth.

You blinked sleep from your eyes, the first rays of dawn gently peeking through the horizon, painting the room in muted gold and silver. Law’s side of the bed was cool. The faint smell of coffee drifted in, soft and bitter and grounding.

His hoodie hung over the back of a chair, carelessly tossed there last night. You pulled it over your head — the fabric heavy and a little too big, sleeves falling over your hands. It still smelled faintly of him: coffee, metal, and that crisp scent that always clung to his skin.

The narrow corridor was dim as you padded barefoot toward the galley, guided by the quiet hiss of boiling water and the rhythmic hum of the ship.

And there he was.

Too tall for the tiny space, shoulders relaxed, one hand steady on the kettle as steam rose in soft curls, the other lightly gripping the pipes of the ceiling. The light from the overhead lamp caught in his hair, messy and dark, casting gentle gold across his skin.

You stopped for a moment — just looking. There was something so human about him like this: unguarded, quiet, half-awake and making coffee in the early morning calm.

Without a word, you stepped forward. He looked up briefly, eyes soft with surprise but not startled, and shifted just enough to make room for you. You slipped between him and the counter, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest.

Your arms found their way around his neck, your face pressing into the curve of his shoulder. The scent of coffee and warmth wrapped around you both. His arm came around your waist automatically, grounding you there — one hand still steady as he poured, the other anchoring you.

The world outside didn’t matter. Just the quiet hum of the Tang, the slow drip of coffee, the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.