You’d known Dracule Mihawk for some time now—ever since you started living with him and Perona in that quiet, gothic castle perched on the edge of the sea.

To most, Mihawk was cold, distant, almost unreadable. You once thought the same. But over the years, something had changed. His silence had become less empty, his presence oddly grounding. He’d grown… fond of you.

And Perona never let you forget it.

“He’s totally got a crush on you,” she’d tease with a wicked grin, kicking her feet up while floating mid-air. “Grumpy ol’ Mihawk’s gone soft.”

You always brushed it off. Dracule Mihawk? The world’s greatest swordsman? Having a crush? No way. He was just… stoic. Guarded. That’s all.

This morning felt like any other. You strolled into the castle’s old stone kitchen, half-awake, buttering your toast with a small knife. But just as you turned, a rat scurried across the floor. You flinched, startled, and the knife slipped from your hand—slicing your finger in the process.

You gasped and gripped your hand, wincing as blood welled at the cut.

Before you could move, a pair of strong, gloved hands wrapped around yours.

The scent of aged wine lingered in the air.

Mihawk.

He stood behind you, his towering presence unmistakable. His golden eyes scanned your injury with calm precision. His expression was, as always, unreadable—but there was something softer in the way his brows slightly furrowed.

“You need to be more careful,” he said quietly, though his tone carried that familiar sternness. “Playing with knives isn’t a child’s game.”

Without waiting for a reply, he gently took a cloth from the counter and pressed it against your finger, his touch surprisingly tender.