Business doggy

There was a pause.

Both of you looked at the single bed pushed against the wall.

“I’ll take the chair,” he said.

You turned your head.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“That’s not the comforting argument you think it is.”

Law’s eyes shifted to you. Tired, flat, unimpressed.

You were starting to recognize that look. It meant he had expected his answer to be final and was now irritated to find you still participating in the conversation.

“It’s one night,” he said.

“Exactly.”

You stepped fully into the room and set your bag down beside the wall. “We are adults.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Fine. I’m an adult. You’re a miserable sea cryptid with a medical license.”

His mouth twitched.

Barely.

If you had blinked, you would have missed it.

Then he looked away, which was worse somehow.

He looked exhausted.

You hated that he looked exhausted.

You hated more that he was prepared to fold himself into that awful chair and pretend it was nothing.

“Law,” you said, softer this time.

His gaze came back to you.

“Take the bed.”

“No.”

“Then share it.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Law stared at you.

You lifted both brows. “Don’t look at me like I suggested we commit treason.”

“You’re not thinking this through.”

“I am. The conclusion I reached is that sleeping in a chair after getting hurt last week is stupid.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s usually true.”

“Law.”

His eyes shifted to yours.

“You were hurt. Take the bed.”

He exhaled through his nose and looked toward the bed again.

You crossed your arms. “We can put a pillow between us if your delicate sense of propriety needs medical support.”

“My delicate sense of propriety is fine.”

“Then get in the bed.”

His eyes narrowed.

You held his stare.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Law clicked his tongue under his breath and turned away.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you kick me, I’m moving to the chair.”

“If you move to the chair, I’m kicking you on purpose.”

“Annoying woman.”

“Dramatic doctor.”

That earned you another almost-smile.

You pretended not to see it, because with Law, noticing was dangerous. Noticing made him withdraw. Noticing made his walls come back sharper.

When you finally climbed into bed, you took the side closest to the wall.

Law noticed.

“You don’t have to trap yourself.”

“I’m not trapped.”

“You’re against the wall.”

“And you’re between me and the door. That seems practical.”

His eyes flicked to you.

There it was again.

That small, unreadable shift in his face.

Then he looked away and got in beside you.

Carefully.

So carefully it almost made you laugh, except you didn’t think either of you would survive the sound.

The mattress dipped under his weight. The blanket shifted. His body was a line of warmth beside yours, separated by a painfully deliberate stretch of space.

Neither of you touched.

The pillow between you sat like a diplomatic treaty.

For several minutes, the only sounds were the rain and Law’s breathing.

Even that felt too intimate.

You lay on your back, staring at the dark ceiling, hyperaware of every inch between you. His hand rested above the blanket near his chest.

You looked away.

Then looked back.

He was quiet for a moment. Then, low and dry, “Go to sleep.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

The room settled again.

Eventually your body began to relax. Law’s breathing evened out beside you, slower now, though you could tell he wasn’t asleep yet.

Neither were you.

“Law?” you whispered.

A pause.

“What.”

“Are you actually comfortable?”

“No.”

You turned your face toward him in the dark.

He did not turn toward you, but you could see the outline of his profile.

“Then why are you lying like that?”

“Because you complained about the chair.”

“I wanted you to not wake up unable to move your neck.”

“Why do you care?”

The question came too quietly.

You stared at him.

He still wasn’t looking at you.

You could have made a joke. It would have been easier. Safer. You could have told him someone had to keep the surgeon alive or the mission would get inconvenient.

Instead, exhaustion made you honest. “Because I do.”

Law said nothing.

Then he shifted onto his side, facing away from you. “Go to sleep,” he said again.

But his voice had changed.

At some point, you must have drifted off, because the room disappeared.

Sleep did what neither of you would.

It ruined everything.

You woke slowly.

Warm.

That was the first thing you noticed.

Solid, steady warmth pressed against you from behind.

Your eyes opened.

For one confused second, your mind could not arrange the facts into anything useful.

There was an arm around your waist.

A hand rested against your stomach, fingers relaxed, tattoos visible even in the dim light.

Your legs were tangled with someone else’s.

Law’s breath moved softly against the back of your neck.

You went completely still.

Behind you, Law was still asleep.

Not lightly, either. Not the tense half-rest you had seen him take in corners and against walls.

This was real sleep.

His face was close to your shoulder. His chest rose and fell against your back. One of his knees had slipped between yours during the night. The pillow that had once separated you had been shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Your heart started beating much too hard.

You tried to move.

Law’s arm tightened.

He made a low sound in his sleep, rough and quiet, and tucked himself closer.

Like his body knew something the rest of him refused to admit.

You stared at the wall, burning alive in silence.

This was bad.

This was very bad.

This was soft, and warm, and natural in a way that made it worse. There was nothing careful about it.

You should have woken him.

You didn’t.

For another minute, maybe two, you let yourself stay.

His hand was broad against you. His thumb rested just beneath your ribs. His breathing brushed your skin. You could feel the steady beat of him behind you, the weight of him, the rare quiet of a man who spent most of his life braced for impact.

Then Law woke.

You knew the exact second it happened.

His entire body went still.

Not relaxed-still.

Horrified-still.

His breath stopped against your neck.

You closed your eyes.

Neither of you moved.

Then Law removed his arm from your waist.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he was disarming an explosive.

You rolled onto your back at the same time he shifted away, and both of you ended up staring at the ceiling with far too much space between you now.

The pillow lay on the floor.

Neither of you looked at it.

“Morning,” you said. Your voice was too calm.

Law cleared his throat. “Morning.”

Another silence.

His hair was a disaster.

There was a crease from the pillow on his cheek. His shirt had ridden up slightly at the hem. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, and when he glanced toward you, something unreadable passed through them before he shut it down.

You wondered if you looked any better.

You doubted it.

Law sat up first.

“I’ll check the street,” he said.

“Yes. Good. Street.”

He paused at the edge of the bed.

For one dangerous second, you thought he might say something.

You wanted him to.

You did not want him to.

His hand flexed once against the blanket.

Then he stood.

You sat up and reached for your bag.

The room became busy with avoidance.

Boots. Belts. Weapons. Buttons.

Law checked the window. You fixed your sleeves. He adjusted his sword. You packed the map. Neither of you mentioned the bed. Neither of you mentioned his arm around you, your legs tangled together, the way his hand had tightened before he woke.

At one point, you both reached for the same glove on the chair.

Your fingers brushed.

Law froze.

So did you.

It was nothing.

Barely a touch.

But after waking up wrapped around each other, it felt obscene.

You pulled your hand back first.

“Yours,” you said.

Law picked up the glove. “Thanks.”

His voice was level.

Too level.

You turned away before he could see your face.

By the time you were both ready, the room looked untouched except for the unmade bed and the pillow abandoned on the floor.

Law opened the door.

You stepped past him into the hall.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The mission waited. The world had continued.

Law walked beside you in silence.

After half a block, he said, “You snore.”

You looked at him.

He kept his eyes forward.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“You were asleep.”

“I woke up.”

“You woke up and your first thought was to judge my breathing?”

“My first thought was not that.”

The words landed before he seemed to realize what he had said.

You both stopped walking.

Law’s expression did not change, but his ears went faintly red.

Your chest tightened.

“What was it?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you then.

Law’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

Then back up.

His voice came low.

“Not here.”

You nodded once.

He turned and started walking again.

You followed.

Neither of you talked about the bed.

Not yet.

“Hey, Law,” said Shachi. “Mind if I steal you for a quick lunch?”

Law didn’t lift his eyes from the chart. “Ten minutes.” 

Shachi glanced at the charts, following Law’s gaze. “Shouldn’t you have your break right now? You know some people actually sometimes eat.”

“And some know when to mind their own business.”

“Not me though.” Shachi joked.

Law allowed himself a small smirk before returning to the charts. He didn’t need lunch. There was always another patient, another heartbeat to monitor, another surgery to plan.

 “Come on, it’s surprisingly calm now. You may not get a chance to eat later.”

The cafeteria was quieter than the rest of the hospital, the midday rush not yet begun. Only a few scattered doctors occupied the tables, hunched over coffee cups and half-eaten meals, murmuring about charts and upcoming surgeries.

Law sat across from Shachi with a black coffee and a sandwich he had yet to touch. His phone lay beside it, screen dark, coat draped neatly over the back of his chair.

Shachi noticed immediately.

“You know,” he said, pointing lazily at the sandwich, “food works better when you actually eat it.”

Law lifted the cup instead, taking a slow sip of coffee. “I am eating.”

“That’s drinking.”

“Close enough.”

Shachi chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “You’re unbelievable. 

Law ignored the jab, eyes drifting briefly across the room. His mind was already halfway back in the cardiac wing, running through the list of patients scheduled for the afternoon. Post-op monitoring. Medication adjustments. One potential complication he wanted to double-check before the next surgery.

“…and then Bepo just—are you even listening?” Shachi’s voice cut through, half-annoyed, half-amused.

Law blinked once, slow, as if surfacing. “Mm.”

That was the extent of it.

“You’re unbelievable. We’re on break, you know. That thing people do where they don’t think about work?”

“It’s better to focus on work than idle nonsense,” came the flat reply.

“And your beloved comic books are not idle nonsense?” Shachi teased lightly.

Law didn’t respond. He simply picked up the sandwich and the empty cup, pushing himself up from the chair.

“We will talk later.”

Later, he met his idiotic friends at the bar—pestered into showing up after far too many ignored calls and increasingly creative insults. In the end, he’d given in. Not because he wanted to sit in that crowded pub, but because they were good friends. The kind that got under his skin and stayed there, and even he knew that he could not go through his life truly alone. 

The bar was loud: glasses clinking, laughter spilling too easily, warmth that felt almost intrusive after all day in hospital corridors full of fluorescent lights.

“By the way, the weirdest thing happened today,” Penguin began, leaning forward like he was about to announce a conspiracy. “There’s a baby under my care—”

“Dude, let’s not talk about work,” Shachi whined immediately, waving a hand as if physically pushing the topic away.

“And you shouldn’t be disclosing patient info,” Law cut in sharply, not even looking up from his drink.

“Just let me finish, will you?” Penguin groaned. “Anyway—the kid looks like a mini you, Law. I swear. I’ve seen your baby pictures. That baby looks exactly like you.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I swear!” Penguin insisted, pointing as if that alone validated him.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Law muttered, finally taking a sip.

Shachi squinted at him. “Are you sure it isn’t yours? Any random hookup happening, like… a year ago or so?” He grinned immediately after, aware he was provoking a reaction.

“I would know if I had a child,” Law replied flatly.

The conversation drifted back into noise and laughter, but Law didn’t follow it anymore. The words had lodged somewhere deeper than they should have, snagging on something buried and deliberately ignored.

That went to the place he preferred not to revisit. Your face scrunched in pleasure, back arched while you moaned so sweetly. The way you’d insisted that you were on birth control. That it was fine. That there was nothing to worry about.

He had believed you. Or perhaps he had simply chosen not to think too hard about it.

And to both of you agreeing not to let it happen again. 

Not with you—his little sister’s friend, orbiting too close to lines he normally never allowed to blur. And especially not with someone whose image haunted his mind far longer than it ever should have.

Curiosity is an insistent trait that he could not get rid of.  It was the same instinct that had pushed him into medicine in the first place, the same one that kept him in operating rooms long after exhaustion should have driven him home. And, inconveniently, it was the same impulse that had him stepping into the ICU the very next morning instead of avoiding the thought altogether.

“Curious, aren’t you?” Penguin joked as Law appeared in the unit doorway.

“I had my rounds here anyway,” Law replied evenly.

Penguin tilted his head, studying him with obvious amusement. “Come on, I will show you.”

They went to the room, and there it was, the smallest little thing. He knew everything about children, of course—growth charts, vitals, pathologies, the meticulous science of bodies still learning how to exist. He understood them clinically, in the detached way medicine demanded.

But he had never allowed himself to imagine one. Not his. Not anyone’s. Not a version of a future where something so delicate depended on him. He had never considered himself suited for it.

He would not be a good partner—a father, less so. That felt like something that should be reserved for people who weren’t him. It would be cruel, he had always thought, to bring something so fragile into a world like this. A world that cut, and failed, and demanded too much.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that the child truly looked like him when he was young. Not just vaguely, not just in the way all infants resembled one another. It had to be a coincidence. A trick of perception. An illusion planted and reinforced by Penguin’s careless remark. Nothing more.

He was about to scoff it off, turn away, and let the thought die the way all unnecessary thoughts did, but the moment he shifted, he stopped.

Because there, standing in the doorway, was a familiar face he had been trying, in the most efficient way possible, to forget.

You. Wild-eyed. Shocked into stillness. And in your arms—another small creature, cradled carefully against your chest.

Penguin cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of the tension in the room. “Hi. I just brought Doctor Trafalgar for consultation. Nothing to worry about,” he lied easily.

“Right,” you managed, though your voice barely landed. Your eyes stayed on Law, as if looking away might make this unreal.

Law didn’t react to you at first. Instead, he stepped forward, already reaching for the patient chart Penguin handed him. The motion was automatic—controlled, practiced, safe.

“Nothing to worry about?” you repeated flatly. “He is a heart surgeon. Is surgery necessary?”

Your worried voice brought him back to your face. You were just as beautiful as he remembered—if anything, more so—but now it was tempered by exhaustion.

“If we deem it necessary, we will ensure it will be successful,” he said at last.

Normally he would not say something like that to the patient or family members. Because he knew better than anyone that medicine did not deal in guarantees. Words like that were dangerous, too easy to cling to and too cruel when they broke. No matter how much they cared, how hard they tried, there wasn’t always a way to win against illness. Effort didn’t equal outcome, and skill didn’t always tip the scales. Sometimes everything was done right, and it still wasn’t enough. There wasn’t always a way to save someone, and he had learned that lesson far too well.

Even Penguin seemed to notice it. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, but he said nothing, wisely choosing silence in the presence of a mother of patient inside the room.

Law closed the chart with a controlled motion.

Then he turned and left, deliberately ignoring you, ignoring Penguin, and the entire situation as if it could be compartmentalized away like everything else. He forced his focus back toward his duties for the day, trying to silence his mind and, more importantly, his heart.

But only if life were that merciful.

He was already leaving when he had the unfortunate timing of running into his little sister, Lami.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, slowing just enough to acknowledge her.

“Helping out my friend,” she replied brightly.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. Maybe he had managed to raise her right, in his own uneven, improvised way.

“Good. You should.”

Lami immediately stuck her tongue out at him, entirely unbothered. “You don’t have to parent me anymore, you know.”

Still like a child, he thought. Still impossibly unchanged in all the ways that mattered.

He often wondered how she had managed to stay so bright—so endlessly cheerful, so stubbornly warm—despite everything they had lived through. She had been far too young when their world collapsed. Too young to lose a family. Too young for him to become someone she could fully rely on. And he had never been the kind of person meant to be a role model. 

But perhaps, while he had been forced to become tough, realistic, and grounded in order to keep her safe and cared for through life, she had become the sunlight to shine at least a bit of light into his.

“… So she nearly goes no contact, apparently gets pregnant, and now it turns out her baby is sick,” Lami continued. “Like, I was so pissed when she stopped answering me, but how can I not help now? Especially when the father is a douchebag and a no-show.”

That caught his attention immediately.

“Well—you mean…?” He felt a weird knot in his throat while saying your name.

“Yeah,” she confirmed. “How do you know?”

“Room 237,” he replied without hesitation.

“Ah.” She snapped her fingers. “Right, you met her a few times. Wow, you really have a great memory. Thanks!”

And she dipped. He didn't know what to do with himself. So he did what he knew best. Shut off.

Later, alone in his apartment, he picked up his phone and opened a thread he revisited far too often. There were only a few messages.

Law, right? It was nice talking to you. I’m so sorry I took your jacket. It wasn’t on purpose, I swear. How can I get it back? Should I give it to Lami or should we meet?

It had been after that meeting.

It was at Lamis's housewarming party after she moved out of his place to get her own. He hadn’t wanted to go. But she had convinced him anyway. As she usually did.

The apartment had been full—too loud and way too crowded. People he didn’t know, conversations he had no interest in joining. Even Shachi, Penguin, and Bepo hadn’t been enough to make it comfortable.

So at some point, he had slipped away to the balcony. You had been there, busy avoiding the crowd for a while too. He recognized you—he and Lami were close, after all, and over time he’d met most of her friends here and there, you included.

You had been the one to start talking. He couldn’t even remember the exact topic now. Something trivial, probably. Something that should not have mattered. And yet it had been… easy. Easier than it should have been. At some point he had even laughed.

Then you had gone back inside to retrieve your jacket.

Only to return empty-handed, slightly flustered, explaining that some couple had decided the couch was a convenient place to forget everyone else existed. You’d looked mildly horrified at the situation, and he had immediately offered to get it back.

You had refused. So he had done something he still couldn’t quite rationalize. He had taken off his own jacket and given it to you instead.

He still remembered how snug you had looked in it, and how the moment had been interrupted when someone at the party called you over—your friend suddenly needing to leave and asking for you. You had gone with her without hesitation, his jacket still draped over your shoulders as you disappeared into the night.

You texted him the moment you got home and realized that in your rush you forgot to give it back. He should have simply told you to pass it to Lami the next time you saw her.

But he hesitated. Because he remembered, years ago, Lami making him promise—half serious, half threatening—that he wouldn’t get involved with any of her friends. At the time, he hadn’t intended to. Not even remotely. But she had said it with enough conviction that he had agreed just to end the conversation. And he had no desire to risk her scrutiny now

 Besides, that was just being nice or something, so that's why he messaged back:

I can drop by for it on my way from work.

You sent him an address, and he showed up. 

It was supposed to be exactly that—nothing more than a quick stop, a polite exchange, a return, before the rest of his day resumed.

But when he arrived, you hadn’t simply handed it over. You had paused. Looked at him. Then, almost hesitantly, invited him inside for dinner. He had been hungry. That had been enough of a reason to say yes.

After a surprisingly good dinner, he didn’t refuse a drink, and before he fully registered how the evening had shifted, his glass was half-finished on the table and you were beneath him on your couch.

He remembered telling you, carefully and without ambiguity, that he was not someone suited for relationships. And he remembered you meeting it just as calmly, assuring him that you weren’t looking for one either. 

After that, you went your separate ways.

You did text him again about three months later.

Hey can we talk?

He saw it. Read it. And did nothing.

Then he got a few calls while in surgery. He briefly thought about calling back. But the thought never fully formed into action. Instead, he chose the easier path. And so he wrote one final message.

I told you. I do not want a relationship. Don’t contact me.

He should have called back. Should have asked what you needed. And what unsettled him most, in hindsight, was not that he ignored it, but that, at the time, the possibility of it being anything else hadn’t even crossed his mind.

The next day, he somehow found himself back in the ICU again.

And there you were. Seated quietly at your child’s bedside. Your shoulders were drawn tight, the kind of tension that came from hours—days—of holding yourself together, exhaustion pressed down and carefully hidden. Nearby, another small figure slept in a stroller.

“Lurking?” Penguin’s voice cut in from beside him, far too amused for the hour.

Damn him.

“I’m not lurking,” Law replied harshly. “That’s Lami’s friend. She asked me to check on them.”

It was, technically, not a lie. Not entirely.

Penguin signed. “Coarctation of the aorta,” he answered after a glance at the chart. “We’re talking congenital narrowing—left untreated, it’ll compromise perfusion. Hypertension above the constriction, weak pulses below. Fully operable, but timing matters.”

He had half a mind to jump in, saying he would operate. But he didn’t. It wasn’t his specialty. Still, that didn’t stop him from doing what he always did when something mattered more than it should have.

If he couldn’t be the one to operate, then he would ensure the person who did would not fail—a pediatric cardiac surgeon with the right experience was brought in without delay.

He had finished his shift. And yet he was there again.

Standing a little apart from the flow of staff and patients, gently rocking a crying baby in your arms.

And you looked just as worn. Tiredness clung to your face, heavy under your eyes, and he noticed something he would have preferred not to notice—that your eyes were slightly glassy, as if you had been holding everything together for far too long already.

“You should rest,” he said

You let out a quiet, humorless scoff without looking up. “Not really possible.”

“I didn’t know you worked here,” you  said finally, still cooing at your daughter. 

“I transferred lately.”

“Right.”

He should ask. He really should. But the words didn’t come in. Instead he said: “Don’t worry too much. We have a great pediatric cardiologist. She’s got it. I swear.”

You finally glanced at him then, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion. “I thought doctors shouldn’t make empty promises.”

“I’m not.” 

Before anything else could follow, someone called your name down the corridor.  Your gaze flicked down to the still-fussing baby in your arms, then back toward the approaching pediatric cardiologist.

Law stepped closer without thinking.

“Just let me hold her,” he said.

You hesitated.

“I’ve got it,” he added, voice steady. “I may not work in pediatrics, but I’m still a doctor. Go. I’ll be here.”

So you carefully transferred your daughter into his arms.

The baby shifted immediately, unsettled by the change, tiny cries building again as warmth and familiarity disappeared all at once.

The pediatric cardiologist gave a small nod to Law as she guided you away.

And just like that, he was left standing in the corridor. With a small, fragile bundle of life in his arms.

He knew, objectively, what to do. He had read enough, seen enough, understood enough about infants to pass any exam on the subject. But knowing was not the same as doing.

Then, awkwardly at first, he began to sway.

Small, controlled movements. The kind he had once done without thinking, years ago, with a far smaller version of stubborn determination in his life.

His voice followed a moment later—low, hesitant at first, as though he didn’t quite believe he was doing it. He told a story. One he hadn’t thought of in years. The one Lami loved as a kid. A ridiculous little tale he had told her back then just to get her to settle down.

He didn’t even realize he remembered it so well until the words were already out. The baby’s crying softened. Breathing evening out, little by little, against his chest.

You came back a few minutes later, slower this time, as if bracing yourself for what you might see. Your gaze found him immediately. Then your daughter. Then the way she was no longer crying.

“She calmed down,” came your quiet voice.

“Yeah,” he replied.

He didn’t immediately let go. For a moment longer, he simply held her there, as if ensuring the fleeting calm wouldn’t break the second he moved. Only then did he adjust his grip, easing the baby back toward you without disturbing her sleep.

“Everything all right?” he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets, unsure what to do with them now that they were empty. The absence felt strangely noticeable. He tried not to dwell on it, on how he missed the quiet weight of the baby in his arms.

“The operation should be tomorrow,” you said.

“She’s truly the best pediatric cardiologist.”

“I heard you made sure we got her,” you added, still quiet.

“I…” he began, then stopped, exhaling through his nose as if discarding the first attempt entirely. “You shouldn’t be handling this alone.”

“I got it,” you answered immediately.

“I’m not doubting that,” he said, a fraction sharper than intended.

You didn’t answer. Law held your gaze, as if waiting for something to form between you that might give this moment direction. Nothing did. So he exhaled once, turned and walked away.

He showed up the next day on his off day. Lami by his side.

She had a way of inserting herself into situations like this, especially when she decided someone mattered, and somehow, between her stubborn persistence and an argument he hadn’t bothered to fully engage with, she had managed to convince you to let her take your daughter for a few hours.

Now you were sitting in the hospital lounge, too still, as if your body had simply given up pretending it wasn’t exhausted. The coffee in front of you was untouched at first, until he quietly pushed it closer.

The hospital never stopped making noise, but this part of it felt strangely muted—like the world had narrowed down to the sound of your breathing and the distant, unbearable truth of what was happening beyond the walls.

He knew what was happening behind those doors without needing to be inside them.

At some point, your voice broke the silence.

“Why?” you asked weakly.

He didn’t look at you immediately. There were too many answers to that question. So he chose the simplest one.

“Don’t question it.”

So you didn't say anything else. You just nodded slightly, as if you didn’t have the strength to do anything else, and turned your attention back to the doors again.

A sound slipped out of you before you could stop it. You covered your mouth with your hand as your shoulders shook once, then again, the restraint finally giving way under the weight of everything you had been holding alone for too long.

Tears came fast after that. Silent at first, then not. You bent forward slightly, trying to contain it, but there was nothing contained about it anymore.

Law didn’t move. His first instinct was procedural. Stabilize. Offer something grounding. Call someone if needed. But none of those applied here. You weren’t a patient. You were someone waiting for a door to decide what kind of future you would walk into.

He set the coffee down, then stepped closer. From his pocket, he pulled a small pack of tissues and offered one to you without a word. You took it, almost absentmindedly, barely registering the gesture through your tears.

For a moment, he didn’t dare move again. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest lightly on your arm. He didn’t speak. Didn’t offer reassurance he couldn’t guarantee. He just stayed there—awkward, but present—while you cried beside him, his vision faintly blurred, stubbornly refusing to steady no matter how hard he willed it.

A few hours later, the surgery finally concluded.

“All went well.” 

The words had barely settled before you broke again—relief this time, sharp and overwhelming. Before either of you could think it through, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

Law stiffened for a fraction of a second.

Then, slowly, he brought a hand up and gently patted your back. He ignored the curious looks from the staff. None of that mattered right now.

After a moment, when your breathing steadied just enough, you seemed to realize what you’d done. You quickly stepped back, wiping at your face, putting space between you again.

“How is he?” Law asked, turning to the other surgeon.

She hesitated. “I’m sorry, Dr. Trafalgar—you know I can only disclose details like that to family.”

The words were expected. Still, something about them landed sharper than they should have.

He gave a small nod, already stepping back, already preparing to leave, when you caught his sleeve.

“Please,” you said, your voice unsteady. “Tell him too. I’m scared I’ll miss something important.”

She hesitated, obviously weighing protocol against the situation in front of her.

The look he gave her was enough—quiet, direct, unmistakably firm.

She exhaled, relenting. “Alright… I suppose, given you’re a surgeon here as well…”

That was all the justification she needed.

The surgeon went into detail, and Law forced himself to set everything else aside, slipping fully into his professional mindset. Any emotion that tried to surface was pushed down

He asked the right questions. Precise, thorough—covering more than what was usually explained to a patient’s family. By the time she finished, he had a clearer picture than most ever would. And the most important part was plainly stated. 

“Thank you,” he said at last, a quiet note of relief threading through his otherwise steady tone.

As soon as the surgeon left, he turned back to you.

“He’s going to be alright.”

Your cheeks were still damp, tear tracks not yet dried, and you nodded quickly—like if you didn’t, the words might somehow stop being true.

You looked so lost, so vulnerable that it tugged at his heartstrings. So he did what he always did when something threatened to reach too far beneath the surface. He ignored it.

Footsteps approached, breaking the moment. Lami returned, a small, bundled Kora in her arms, already talking as she crossed back toward you. The shift was immediate—your attention snapping to your daughter, your hands instinctively reaching for her.

A nurse appeared soon after, informing you that you could see your son. Law stepped back without being asked, without drawing attention to it. Quietly removing himself from the center of something that hadn't really been his place to begin with. You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did, but you had more important things to focus on now. 

“You seem to care an awful lot,” Penguin commented, far too casually for the weight of it.

They had shown up unannounced, as usual. Now they were spread across Law’s apartment like they belonged there. Penguin and Shachi taking over the couch, while Bepo had claimed the armchair. 

“I told you,” Law replied, not looking up from where he stood by the counter nursing a drink, “she’s Lami’s friend.”

Penguin didn’t let it go. “That’s the only reason?”

Silence stretched just long enough to become noticeable. Law’s grip on the glass tightened slightly.

“They might be mine.” 

“What?!”

The word hit him from three directions at once.

Law exhaled slowly, like saying it once had already been more than he intended. “I hooked up with her about a year ago.”

Shachi blinked. “Wait—what?”

“The timing matches,” Law added flatly. “That’s all.”

“And?” Penguin pressed immediately.

“And what?” Law shot back, irritation creeping in.

“What do you mean ‘and what’?” Shachi leaned forward. “Did you talk to her about it?!”

“No.”

Penguin frowned. “You’re just… not going to say anything?”

“She already has enough on her plate.”

“That’s not an answer,” Shachi pushed. “If they’re yours—”

“If they are,” Law cut in sharply, “then she didn’t want me involved.”

Bepo shifted uneasily. “And you’re just… going to let that go?”

“I don’t know, alright?!” The edge in his voice snapped through the space, sharper than anything he had said so far. He exhaled, dragging a hand briefly through his hair. “I don’t want to be a deadbeat parent, nor would I be a good one.”

“That’s not true,” Penguin said, more serious now. “When you care, you care. You’d figure it out.”

Law let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s not how it works.”

Shachi shook his head. “Man, you don’t even know that. You’re just assuming—”

“She didn’t want me in,” Law repeated, more firmly this time.

“But—”

“But nothing.” His tone shut it down, final, leaving no room for argument. “Just leave it for now.” Then, quieter—more to himself than anyone else. “She needs help. Not more problems.”

He found himself at the hospital again. Not in an operating room. Not in a consultation. Just… there.

Lami sat beside him, your daughter in her arms—Kora babbling softly, completely unaware of the weight of the conversations happening around her. You were a room away, asleep by your son’s side after days of barely leaving him.

“So,” Lami started, rocking Kora gently, her tone deceptively casual, “why are you so involved?”

Law glanced at her.

He was almost surprised it had taken her this long.

“I’m already here,” he said.

She gave him a look. A very specific look—the one that said she wasn’t going to accept that kind of answer.

He asked instead, “Do you know who the father is?”

Lami shook her head. “No. She wouldn’t say. And I don’t want to pry.”

“Does she know?”

Lami frowned slightly. “Yes.”

Kora’s soft babbling filled the space, small hands reaching aimlessly for nothing in particular.

 “You promised you’d leave my friends alone.”

“I should have,” he said simply.

That only made it worse.

“I—” she inhaled sharply, clearly about to launch into something much louder, much more explosive, and he cut her off quickly, low and firm. 

“Not here.”

She froze, glancing down at Kora, then back at him, visibly restraining herself.

“I so need to yell at you for this,” she muttered under her breath.

“I didn’t know,” he replied, quieter now. “You didn’t tell me either.”

“Why would I tell you my friend is pregnant?” she shot back. 

“You tell me everything.”

“Well, I didn’t think that would be important!” she snapped, then paused, her expression faltering slightly. “…I mean—how was I supposed to connect that?”

He couldn't blame her.

Kora let out a small, content sound, completely detached from the tension.

“So… what now?” Lami asked finally, more hesitant this time.

“It’s up to her”

But even as he said it, the thought didn’t sit as cleanly as it should have. Because “up to her” meant waiting. And waiting meant doing nothing. And doing nothing was not something he had ever been particularly good at. If they were his…then he had already failed.

He hadn’t called back. Hadn’t asked. Hadn’t even considered that  can we talk might have meant something more.

Now there were two children. One recovering from heart surgery. One small enough to fit entirely in the crook of his arm. Both existing in a life he hadn’t been part of.

Yet he couldn't stay away. 

Medicine taught him better than that. Everything had a cause. Everything had a chain of events you could trace if you looked closely enough, if you had enough data and enough discipline. And yet, nothing about this situation fit into anything rational he knew.

Law stood near the foot of the bed at first, watching. Observing. Rosi lay small against the sheets, pale but stable. The monitors told him everything he needed to know—heart rate steady, oxygen levels good, post-operative condition within expectation. 

You sat at the boy’s side, your hand resting over his, thumb moving in slow, absent circles. Behind him, a soft sound broke the quiet.

He turned immediately. Kora stirred in the small cot, her face tightening, breath hitching in that pre-cry way he had learned to recognize. Without thinking, he crossed the room and picked her up before the sound could fully form. The motion was smooth now.

He adjusted his hold automatically, supporting her head, bringing her closer to his chest. She made a small noise, then settled, her body relaxing as if she had expected this exact response.

The nights he didn’t spend at the hospital, he spent reading—quietly, obsessively—about feeding schedules, fevers, sleep regressions, the way infants cried differently depending on what they needed. It felt strange at first, almost intrusive, as if he was preparing for something he had no right to claim. And yet he couldn’t stop.

Now, standing there with the little girl in his arms, gently rocking her back and forth, it felt… natural. Terrifyingly so.

He knew you two should really talk about it, but you didn't broach this subject, and neither did he. 

You adjusted the blanket over your son, your fingers lingering a second too long. “You don’t have to do all this,” you said finally, your voice quiet.

“I know,” he replied.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t hand the baby back. Didn’t step away.

The little girl made a soft sound, her tiny fingers curling instinctively around the fabric of his shirt. His gaze dropped to her, and he smiled gently. 

“You’re good with her,” you added, almost as if you regretted saying it the moment the words left your mouth.

He let out a faint breath. “She’s… easy.”

You huffed quietly. “She’s not.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“I didn’t think you liked kids,” he heard you say, a cautious note threading through your voice.

“I… never really thought about it,” he answered just as carefully. “But I like them.”

“You’re good at handling them,” another strained sentence.

“I did my research.”

And he did. Of course he had all the knowledge he needed to be at his point in his career, but he also spent all his limited time learning about kids from more than a medical standpoint. 

“I didn’t think you’d bother,” you added after a moment, quieter this time. Your hand brushed over your son’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. He was asleep, breathing evenly, oblivious to the tension woven into the room.

He exhaled through his nose. “I don’t like doing things wrong.”

Another silence. You wanted to say something. He could see it. 

“You should get some rest,” he said instead, his voice softer now. “I can stay.”

You shook your head immediately. “No, I—”

“You haven’t slept properly in days.”

“And you have?” you shot back, but there was no real bite to it. Just a tired reflex.

He didn’t answer that. Because you both knew the truth. He was there all the time, but you didn’t send him away either.

“Law? You started.

But Rosi shifted in the bed. Both of you reacted at once.

Law moved first, stepping closer, eyes immediately scanning the monitor again even though he already knew it was fine.

“He’s okay,” you whispered.

It wasn’t really directed at him.

Law understood that. Still, he answered anyway.

“I know,” he said quietly. “They both are. You did great with them.”

You hesitated, eyes still fixed on your son. “I doubt it sometimes.”

“It would be strange if you didn’t,” he replied after a beat. Then, more carefully, “You’re a good mother. And you did it all alone.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to.

“Yeah,” you murmured, uncertain. “That’s how I chose it.”

A pause. He should have asked then. And you should have said more. But neither of you did.

Finally, Rosi was discharged.

Law was there again, helping you pack the last of the hospital things, listening to the final instructions from the doctor, standing just close enough to be present without taking over.

“I shouldn’t even bother saying all that,” the doctor said with a small, tired smile, glancing between you and him. “With Dr. Trafalgar by his side, everything will be fine.”

He bit his lip. As much as he wanted to, he probably wouldn't, but it wasn’t something he felt the need to discuss with his colleague.

The doctor excused herself soon after, leaving with a polite nod and the soft click of the door behind her.

Kora was babbling softly in the stroller. Rosi shifting with restless post-hospital energy. The quiet hum of the corridor outside. And the strange, suspended silence that settled in the space between you and him.

“Thank you,” you said at last.

“Of course I would help,” he replied immediately, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

A pause.

“I… wasn’t sure,” you admitted quietly, almost to yourself.

“I can’t blame you.”

Silence followed.

“They’re yours.”

Law didn’t react outwardly at first. Only a small shift in his gaze, a controlled inhale, the careful reining in of something that threatened to surface.

“I figured,” he said quietly. A pause. “Couldn’t be sure, though.”

A faint, almost bitter breath left you. “You’re too smart not to get it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he dared to ask.

Your gaze dropped for a fraction of a second before you forced it back up.

“I wanted to,” you said weakly. “I tried to reach out, but—”

“I didn’t answer,” he finished for you.

“Yes.”

A beat passed.

“And I know I could’ve just texted it,” you continued, voice tightening as you tried to keep it steady, “or told Lami… but we both agreed it was a one-night thing. And I was the one who convinced you to go without protection because I said I was on the pill, so it was my issue.”

His head snapped slightly at that.

“No,” he said immediately. Firm. “Our. You should’ve told me.”

“Yeah… but you had your life. Your responsibilities. You didn’t seem like you wanted kids. I didn’t want to be a burden.”

Law scoffed sharply, disbelieving, offended by it.

“Burden?” he repeated under his breath. “That’s ridiculous.”

His hand dragged through his hair, fingers gripping briefly at the roots as if to keep himself anchored. “I should’ve been there from the beginning. Helped you through the pregnancy, be there for delivery, seen them grow up—I…” He exhaled hard. “Fuck. I’m not blaming you. I’m just—”

His voice faltered, raw around the edges.

“I didn’t let you,” you admitted. “I thought I could do it all on my own.”

“You could,” he replied immediately, almost reflexively. Then softer, after a beat: “You’re capable.”

“Because once I said it out loud, it would become real,” you admitted. “And if it became real, then I’d have to watch you decide whether you wanted them.”

He went very still.

“You thought I’d walk away.”

You didn’t answer, because the answer was already on your face. His jaw tightened. Then, quietly, with a kind of fury directed entirely inward. At the shape of a past he hadn’t been part of when he should have been. He looked at the babies. His babies, “I would never walk away from them.”

“You don’t have to—” you began.

“No.” His voice cut through, steadier now, firm. “Listen.”

You stopped. For the first time, he looked directly at you  without hesitation.

“I never thought about kids,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been fighting my own demons since the moment I met you in that hospital with them. I don’t think I’m good at this—at love, at any of it.”

His throat tightened as he swallowed.

“But I came to care,” he said after a beat. “For them. For you too.”

Your eyes widened slightly, like the sentence had turned in a direction you hadn’t expected.

“I love them,” he corrected himself softly. Then he looked at you fully. “And you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“It’s your decision. Completely yours. If you don’t want me in their lives, I’ll respect that. I’ll at least support them financially. But I want to be part of it—however you allow me to. I just… I can’t step away now that I know. I cannot lose them,” he admitted slower, the words slipping past control he usually never lost.

“You can’t just say that,” you whispered.

“I’m here now.”

“That’s what scares me,” you said. “I’m used to doing this alone.”

“I didn’t know,” he said again. “If I had known, I would’ve been here. I would’ve been there for all of it. Every appointment. Every night you didn’t sleep. Everything.”

His voice faltered at the end, and he stopped himself, looking away for a moment as he pulled himself back together.

You swallowed, glossy eyes still on him. “It wasn’t that simple,” you whispered. “I didn’t even know how to ask for you.”