The knock came just before the sun rose—quiet, hesitant, as if the person on other side wasn't sure they deserved to be there.

You opened door to find him standing there like a ghost. His once-vibrant red hair was plastered to his face with rain and blood, his coat torn, soaked through. The left side of his face was a mess—an angry, fresh wound carved deep across his eye. You couldn’t tell how bad it was at first, but the way he winced against the light told you enough.

“Shanks..?” you whispered, barely believing it.

He didn’t smile like he usually did. Didn’t joke. Just leaned against the doorframe and muttered “Didn’t know where else to go.”

You pulled him inside without asking questions.

As you cleaned the wound, he sat still—too still. No laughter, no careless remarks, just the quiet tension of a man who’d been pushed too close to something dangerous. You knew he wouldn’t talk about it, not yet. But you knew who had done this. Blackbeard. That name had started to slither through whispers in port towns, carried by frightened voices.

“This’ll scar..” you said gently, dabbing at the wound with a cloth.

“I know.” he replied. “Guess I’ll wear it for a while.”

He looked up at you then, tired and raw in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. “Tonight..” he said, with a breathless half-laugh “I’m just your battered and homeless cat.”

You could’ve laughed, could’ve teased him—but the truth sat too heavy in air. So you only nodded, and stayed close.

Because no matter what storm had broken him this time, he had found his way back to you.