The first thing you notice is the light. Soft and golden, it spills through the half-open curtains, kissing your skin with warmth. Your body aches in that delicious, satisfied way that only follows a night tangled in his arms — a slow, indulgent evening that bled into the deepest hours of the night.

You shift against the silken sheets, stretching lazily before the scent of rich tea and faint cologne teases your senses. Turning your head, you find him exactly where your heart always expects him to be — poised on the balcony, a figure carved of grace and precision.

Dracule Mihawk stands in the gentle light of dawn, dressed impeccably despite the early hour: a crisp black shirt, sleeves neatly buttoned, the faint glint of a gold chain at his throat. In one hand, a porcelain teacup; in the other, an open book, its pages catching the light. His profile is sharp, aristocratic, the early sun tracing the curve of his jaw and the line of his cheekbone.

You drink in the sight greedily, as though this is the first time you’ve ever truly seen him — though you’ve woken to him countless times before. Something about the quiet of this morning, the stillness of his posture, the way the light crowns him, makes your chest ache with that too-familiar, dizzying rush. You’re falling in love again. For the hundredth time. For the thousandth.

Your breath must give you away, because without turning his head, his voice reaches you— smooth, deep, with the faintest brush of amusement.

“Good morning, dear. You’re up early.”

The corners of his mouth lift, just barely, as his eyes flick briefly toward you before returning to his page. It’s not indifference — it’s the opposite. The way his gaze lingers for that split second is intimate, claiming, as if to say: you’re mine, and I am yours, always.

You push yourself up, the sheets slipping from your shoulders, still watching him like he’s some impossible dream. And perhaps, in this moment, he is.