#mandrills

Mihawk. Still as ever. Only faintly damp, as if the storm had made a gentleman’s exception and parted around him.

His gaze sweeps over you. From your smudged cheeks to your soaked sleeves, down to the battered work boots you’ve worn nearly through.

“You’re done working today,” he says.

There’s no room for debate in his tone. It isn’t a suggestion. It’s a verdict.

You raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.”

You narrow your eyes. “If this is another trap spa day, I swear to the Saints—”

“Quiet,” he says, already turning.

He doesn’t look back to see if you’re following.

And yet you do.

He leads you through a lesser-known corridor, one you’ve never had reason to use. The stone here is older; the light filtered through stained glass casts pale gold and green across the walls. The air smells like forgotten things—musk and cedar, ink and dust.

Eventually, he stops at a heavy door you don’t recognize. When he opens it, the hinges sigh like they haven’t moved in years.

It’s a library.

It stretches upward like a cathedral, two stories of dark shelves reaching toward arched beams and high windows. Rain taps softly against the tall panes. A fireplace sits clean and empty, freshly stocked with dry logs. The hearth is ringed with two worn chairs, one of which you recognize from Mihawk’s study.

But it’s the books that steal your breath.

Fiction. History. Viticulture. Philosophy. Myth. Some you’ve read. Many of you haven’t. Several have titles you remember only from whispers in antique shops and impossible catalogs.

And near the center, nestled among leather-bound tomes and preserved herbals, is a short shelf of well-loved paperbacks. The kind with dramatic covers and hearts in the margins. The kind no one ever admits to reading aloud.

You step forward slowly, fingertips trailing the spines like they might dissolve if you press too hard.

“…You did this,” you say.

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over your shoulder.

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded. Watching.

“It was unused space,” he says.

“You opened a whole library because—?”

“You like books.”

“That’s not—” You turn again, overwhelmed. “You… this is beautiful.”

He’s silent.

But you catch it.

The slight shift of his mouth. The quiet bracing in his shoulders. He’s waiting.

You squint at him.

“Oh my god,” you say slowly. “You thought this would get you kissed.”

His eye flickers. “It was a gift.”

“You thought this would earn you a thank-you. With lips.”

“I opened a literary archive,” he says coolly. “That seemed worth, at minimum, some gesture of… appreciation. And the exclusive use of my first name.”

Your mouth falls open.

He continues, expression unchanged, “Affection is generally a standard return on personal libraries.”

You press your hand to your mouth and laugh. It comes out startled, bright, and utterly unguarded.

He stiffens slightly.

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m enchanted,” you manage. “You’re sulking. You’re not even being subtle about it.”

“I’m not sulking.”

You walk over to him, slow and steady, heart still fluttering like the pages around you. You stop close, closer than polite, and look up at him.

“You gifted me a library, Dracule,” you say again, more quietly this time.

His gaze doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

But something between you shifts.

The air thickens. The space between your fingertips and his seems to hum. There’s rain outside and candlelight inside and the sound of your breath, slow and uneven.

You lean in and press your lips to his jaw.

Just there. At the sharp edge, where beard meets skin. He still smells like ironwood soap, wine, and rain. His breath catches, just a little.

Mihawk turns his head, slowly, and meets your eyes.

“…Only one?” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push your luck, warlord.”

Behind you, a mandrill tiptoes into the room, sets down a chalkboard near the entrance, and disappears into the shadows.

Scrawled in messy, victorious white chalk:

“MATRIARCH KISSED ALPHA. WORLD STILL INTACT.”

You turn back to him, arms still half-raised.

“You’re seriously the worst at this,” you say.

“I’m trying,” he says softly this time. Not defensive. Not amused.

You believe him.

And you reach for him again. Not because he earned it, not because he expected it, but because you wanted to.

Because he built you a sanctuary, out of silence and paper and intention.

And because he is standing still, quietly waiting, like he always will.

The mandrills, in their chaotic, huffing, produce-flinging way, were surprisingly strategic.

You’d long suspected they were capable of plotting. You just never thought you would be the target.

For years, they watched the slow-burn nonsense unfolding between you and Mihawk with increasing frustration. The tea. The quiet tool-passing. The painfully loaded silences that screamed, ‘just kiss already’. The wine-tasting that somehow lasted two hours. The way Mihawk hovered behind you like a tall, knife-wielding shadow who had feelings and no idea what to do with them.

And worst of all: the two rooms.

His quarters were cold, dark, obsessively neat, and gave off the vibes of a man who once tried “decor” and got emotionally scarred by a doily. Yours? Sunlight from the east, a pile of gardening books you swear is not a fire hazard, warm blankets, and a chair that mysteriously resembles the one from the main hall that went missing (you maintain it came to you of its own volition).

To the mandrills, this was a travesty of justice.

Their caretakers, but let’s be honest, Mihawk might technically own the castle, but you’re the one who remembers their preferred fruit rotation and was clearly circling something permanent.

And with permanence came the possibility of…

Children.

Which, in mandrill logic, meant small, naive humans with short arms and weak boundaries. Snack dispensers. Easily bribed agents of chaos. In other words: paradise.

Thus, the plot was born.

It began on a gentle, rainy morning. The kind of morning that whispers “stay in bed,” so you did, for a while, wrapped in a blanket burrito with a book and something warm.

Eventually, you wandered to the kitchen, left for fifteen minutes—tops—and returned to find your bedroom door slightly ajar.

Not suspicious.

Until you stepped inside.

Carnage. Absolute, unholy carnage.

Your bedding was torn like it had offended them personally. Curtains hung in shreds, flapping in the breeze like defeated flags. Your pillows had exploded. Feathers everywhere. A murder scene for geese. Your favorite tunic was stuffed into a barrel, along with an apple core and what might’ve once been a croissant but now looked like it had been through three wars and a crime of passion.

Rude Bastard was perched on your armoire with a banana held high like it was Excalibur and he was the chosen one.

Two others were curled up in your laundry basket like smug, hairy goblins. One of them was actively making a nest out of your socks.

You stared.

Open-mouthed.

Absolutely speechless.

“What. Did. You. Do.”

There was no guilt. Not even the faintest flicker of shame.

Only proud, huffing arrogance and the kind of smug look that said, We have cleared the path. You may now cohabitate.

One of them farted.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him, that crisp cadence echoing off stone as if the manor itself had summoned him. Mihawk appeared not five seconds later, framed in the doorway like some annoyed war deity answering a distress call. His gaze swept the scene with all the severity of a battlefield general assessing the aftermath of a siege.

His eye twitched.

Rude Bastard, perched atop your armoire with the elegance of a goblin king, threw a sock at his head.

It hit.

The silence that followed was profound.

Mihawk’s response was not cruel, not even particularly angry. He stepped forward, raised one hand with impeccable form, and delivered a single, echoing smack to the wooden post beside the mandrill’s perch. It was loud. It was firm. It was very clearly a statement.

The mandrills scattered like smug little demons, shrieking with glee. Their retreat was not panicked. It was triumphant.

You turned on Mihawk, still reeling.

“They ruined my room,” you said, voice high with the kind of disbelief that bordered on dangerous.

“I noticed,” he replied, as though the wreckage of your sanctuary was a passing observation, like clouds or rainfall.

“Why would they—?” you began, only to stop short when you caught the look on his face.

Something shifted in his expression. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. A flicker of something almost warm, almost knowing. It was the kind of look you had seen during duels, when he recognized the edge of a clever feint before anyone else did.

Your eyes narrowed.

“They didn’t just do this,” you said slowly.

“No,” he answered, calm as always.

“They planned it.”

“Yes.”

You stared at him. Hard.

“Why?” you demanded, nearly incredulous.

Mihawk folded his arms behind his back, the picture of collected indifference. “Domestic upheaval, clearly.”

You gawked. “You’re enjoying this.”

His gaze swept the wreckage again, calm as ever. “I’m merely admiring the coordination. It took three of them to hang your corset from the chandelier.”

You turned slowly toward the dangling offense in question. Sure enough, there it was. Swinging softly like a flag of conquest. You snapped your gaze back to him, stunned.

“You’re impossible.”

Mihawk didn’t respond. He simply stepped forward, dusted off his hands with the practiced air of a man who believed in order, and reached into his coat pocket. From it, he produced a single dried apricot and handed it, with near ceremonial gravity, to Rude Bastard.

The mandrill took it with solemn dignity, nodding once like a decorated soldier accepting a medal after a long and glorious campaign.

“That’s a reward,” you accused, finger jabbing in disbelief.

“It’s a punishment snack,” Mihawk corrected without hesitation. “For boldness.”

You groaned, dragging your palms down your face. “It’s going to take days to clean all this.”

“Yes. But it’s not a task for tonight,” he replied. His tone shifted, just a shade quieter. “You’re tired. Your room is a war zone. The mandrills are still loitering like little saboteurs. It would be unwise to sleep in there.”

You threw your arms out with a theatrical sigh. “So what, I sleep in a barrel now? Is that the plan?”

“No,” Mihawk said, stepping closer. His presence was quiet, certain. “You sleep in my bed.”

Your mind skidded. You blinked. “That’s—no. I mean, that’s not—I don’t—”

“Nothing obscene,” he said, though there was a subtle shift in his voice, something lower. Quieter. “We’ve shared silence. Meals. A name. We can share a mattress.”

You opened your mouth, but your brain provided absolutely no help. You closed it again.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting. Patient.

“Unless you’d prefer the laundry room?” he offered.

You looked toward the hallway. The laundry room had a warped floorboard and smelled vaguely of wet rope.

“…Your bed is bigger,” you muttered.

“And warmer.”

“Fine,” you sighed, utterly defeated. “But I swear, if even one mandrill tries to sneak into the wine cellar tonight—”

“They’ve made their move,” he said with a quiet smugness. “They won’t press it. Not while they’re celebrating.”

You glanced again toward the hallway. Rude Bastard now wore a length of curtain across his chest like a sash, striking a pose fit for an emperor. Another mandrill was solemnly offering him a crushed blueberry.

“They’re terrifying,” you muttered under your breath.

Mihawk shrugged. “Loyal, though. To us.”

You shot him a warning look. “Don’t get sentimental.”

His smile was faint. Barely there.

The room, when you stepped inside, was precisely what you expected. Painfully austere. It carried the energy of a man who had once considered adding a rug and then deemed it a sign of weakness.

Mihawk’s quarters were clean. Spare. Uncomfortably symmetrical. There was a single shelf of books, a desk so meticulously organized it felt more like an altar, a polished sword stand near the far wall, and most damning of all, the bed.

Not a small bed, strictly speaking. But not large either. Not comfortably-shared-by-two-people-who-definitely-don’t-want-to-touch-each-other large. It was the kind of bed that implied a specific intention. The kind that left no room for pretense if anyone shifted in their sleep.

You stood in the doorway, arms folded tightly across your chest. Bare feet curled against the cold stone floor. Your only remaining clean sleepwear clung to you with traitorous softness. It was the nicest of unfortunate options. Thin. Light. Something you had once worn on a warm spring night without thinking. Now it made you acutely aware of your limbs and every inch of exposed skin.

Mihawk, of course, had already changed. His version of casual was still intimidating. Black linen pants. A white shirt, fitted so precisely it looked tailored to menace, unbuttoned just enough to offer a glimpse of collarbone and the edge of his sternum. And no shoes.

Somehow, even barefoot, he radiated the quiet danger of a man who could gut a sea beast with a letter opener if it inconvenienced him before breakfast.

He glanced at you once. Cool. Lazy. Then looked back at his book without a word.

Which, infuriatingly, made it worse.

You cleared your throat. “Your bed is tiny.”

He turned a page. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s pointy,” you shot back.

“I didn’t expect to share it with a thrashing, vengeful wine witch.”

He still didn’t look up.

You huffed and marched across the room, throwing yourself onto the far side of the bed with all the grace of someone trying not to make contact with a single molecule of their host. You curled beneath the blanket like a stubborn cat, pulling the covers to your collarbone and staring fixedly at the ceiling.

He said nothing.

He turned another page.

Fifteen agonizing minutes passed.

You sighed. Rolled onto your side. Huffed. Rolled again. Flipped your pillow. Flopped back flat with theatrical suffering.

He remained unfazed.

Another page turned with elegant finality.

Finally, you grumbled, “I can’t sleep with you reading so loudly.”

“I haven’t made a sound,” he replied, not even bothering to glance up.

“Your eyes are judging me.”

“That’s their resting state.”

You groaned and flopped onto your stomach, face pressed into the pillow, arms and legs splayed like you were awaiting divine punishment. “This is the worst night of my life.”

There was the sound of the book closing, followed by the soft glide of a bookmark slipping into place.

You peeked up, wary.

Mihawk leaned back against the headboard, entirely composed. “I can read aloud.”

You lifted your head a fraction. “What?”

“Would that help?” he asked, already reaching for another book from the nearby shelf. “Tantrum reading. That’s how the mandrills fall asleep.”

“That’s… absolutely ridiculous,” you muttered, scandalized.

But he had already opened it. The room filled with the quiet, precise rhythm of his voice. Low. Unbothered. Completely serious.

He was reading about fermentation ratios.

As if this were normal bedtime fare.

As if he had not just declared emotional war on your last thread of dignity.

You stared at him. Then into the pillow. Then back at him.

And to your absolute horror, you felt it.

A laugh. No, worse, a snort. A real one, involuntary and muffled and completely, damningly audible.

It burst out of you, right into the pillow.

Mihawk kept reading.

You wanted to sink through the mattress and perish.

“This is making everything worse,” you grumbled into the pillow.

Mihawk, voice maddeningly calm, replied, “Yeast activity prefers a stable emotional environment.”

You lifted your head an inch. “Stop it.”

“You’re flailing,” he observed. “The mandrills do that too, usually before a nap.”

“I hate you,” you muttered with pure venom.

“I’m your husband,” he replied, without missing a beat.

You shot upright, mouth falling open. “KIDNAPPED!”

“Not anymore,” he said, as if it were a legally binding truth he had personally carved into stone.

You growled, a deep, guttural sound of frustration that belonged more to a beast than a woman, and flung yourself away from him, turning over so your back now faced the center of the bed. You stared at the wall, muscles tense, breath short. You could feel him behind you, still as a shadow.

He didn’t press.

But after a moment, his hand moved. Slow. Deliberate. He adjusted the blanket, pulling it up to rest over your shoulder, smoothing the fabric down with the precision of a man who sharpened swords for comfort.

And you, tangled in exhaustion and petty indignation, didn’t fight him.

You didn’t even flinch when his fingers brushed your bare arm. His touch lingered. Not inappropriately, not possessively, but just long enough to set your skin humming under the surface.

Eventually, he closed the book for a second time and rested it beside the bed.

By then, you had shifted.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t intentional. You would have denied it to your grave.

But your shoulder now grazed his. Your foot had drifted until it hovered near his ankle, a subtle orbit. Your breathing had evened out, falling into a soft, natural rhythm.

He did not move.

He only watched. Quiet. Unmoving. His expression unreadable, save for a flicker of something too calm to be amusement, too warm to be restraint.

It wasn’t hunger. It wasn’t triumph. It was something quieter. Fierce, but still.

The look of someone who had waited long enough for the world to stop running from him and was now watching it choose to stay.

You would fall asleep before you admitted it. Before you asked for anything. Before you even realized it.

So he let you.

And when your hand shifted in sleep, brushing against his with the barest trace of contact, Mihawk allowed himself a simple act of concession.

He left his hand there, too.

Just resting.

Morning came softly.

The storm had passed sometime in the night, leaving the air clean and still. The vineyard lay wrapped in silver mist, clinging to the hedgerows and vines like a whispered promise. Birds stirred in the distance, stretching their wings against the pale light. Somewhere below, the mandrills snored in a triumphant pile of blankets and stolen fruit.

You woke slowly, half-buried in warmth.

There was weight behind you. A steady line of heat pressed along your spine. A strong arm lay draped across your waist, heavy with sleep, hand curled just beneath your ribs. The scent that clung to you was familiar: cedar, aged paper, sword oil, and something distinctly smug.

You didn’t have to look.

Mihawk, as it turned out, was a clingy sleeper.

Even worse than that?

As you stirred beneath the heavy blanket, groggy and caught somewhere between sleep and suspicion, you became keenly aware of two things.

First: your limbs were hopelessly entangled. Not just with the sheets, but with him. An arm slung across your waist, a leg pressed lightly against yours, the steady warmth of a body at your back like a second layer of blankets. He was solid, unmoving, heat and gravity in one dangerously composed form.

Second, he was awake. 

Because the moment you shifted, the moment your brain flickered online with dawning horror, he adjusted his grip. Just slightly. Just enough to pull you closer by inches, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His voice followed, low and grain-warm, edged with the self-satisfaction of a man who had won something and knew it.

“Good morning, my love.”

You went utterly still.

“This is—” you managed, eyes wide, mouth fumbling for order in a world that no longer made any. “This is not routine.”

“It could be,” he said without hesitation.

You did not turn around. You didn’t dare turn around. Instead, you blinked at the wall and made a mental list of every mistake that had led to this moment. Starting with accepting tea from him that first stormy evening and ending with falling asleep in his bed like a fool.

“Mih—Dracule,” you warned, voice rising in pitch.

“Yes, my wife?” he answered, the title rolling off his tongue with just enough smug weight to make your skin crawl.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him with it, less out of violence and more because your brain short-circuited and decided that flailing was the only appropriate response.

“Don’t test me!” you snapped, twisting to face him. “I have a room.”

He blinked once, unconcerned. “Had.”

“…Had?”

Now he opened his eyes fully, golden and sharp, still shadowed with sleep but already alert. They studied you like you were a particularly amusing duel opponent who’d walked into a trap they hadn’t noticed yet.

“It’s been repurposed.”

You stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“I relocated your bookshelf. Consolidated the storage. The mandrills helped.”

A terrible chill trickled down your spine. “Why would you do that?”

He yawned then stretched in that slow, languid way that felt entirely too comfortable for someone admitting to an act of bedroom sabotage. “Because we both know you’re not going back.”

“That’s not your decision to make!”

“It is,” he said plainly, “when your room has no bed.”

You blinked. Your mouth opened. Closed. “What?”

“I moved it.”

“You what?”

“Donated it to the mandrills. They’re using the frame as a drying rack. It’s quite effective.”

You looked down at the blanket you were wrapped in. His chest was rising and falling near your shoulder. The way his pillow still smelled faintly of cedarwood, ink, and smug ambition.

Then back at him.

“You can’t just eliminate my bedroom like it’s a broken bottle!”

“I’ve given you full claim over this one,” he said, utterly at ease. He reached out and adjusted the covers around your shoulders again, like you were some delicate guest in a five-star inn instead of the victim of a very polite domestic coup.

You sat up in the bed, flailing for something: logic, anger, the will to stand.

“You ambushed me,” you accused, stabbing the air with a finger.

He didn’t flinch. “You kissed me in a library. That’s a lifelong contract.”

“I thanked you for a gesture.”

“You slept in my bed.”

“Because I had no other choice—!”

“You don’t have one now,” he said softly.

His tone was different now. Lower. No less steady, but quieter somehow, as if the words were not meant to be challenged, only heard.

“You stay here.”

It was not a command. Not an order. It was just… truth. Placed between the two of you like an anchor.

Your heart stuttered. Then beat harder.

He didn’t move. He didn’t lean in or touch you again. He simply watched. Silent. Still. Patient. Waiting for your decision, or your denial. Whichever came first.

But the worst part?

You had nothing to give him.

No fight. No witty comeback. No practical retort.

Because you looked around, at the sheets, the room, the ridiculous calm of it all. You felt the weight of the blanket, the steady hum of his presence, the absurd safety of the moment.

And deep down, so far you almost didn’t want to admit it even to yourself, you knew.

He was right.

You weren’t going back.

You never were.

You groaned into the blanket, long and pitiful, like a tragic ghost haunting a very plush, emotionally complicated bed. "You’re the worst."

“I’m consistent,” Mihawk replied without hesitation. His voice was calm, terribly pleased with himself, as he reached for the tea tray that one of the mandrills had shoved under the door like it was paying protection money.

"And I want my bookshelf back," you muttered, still buried beneath layers of betrayal and linen.

“It’s already been moved to the sitting room,” he said. “Alphabetized.”

You dragged the blanket over your head. “Damn you.”

“You married me,” he said smoothly, as if this were a legally binding excuse for psychological warfare. “Did you not expect repercussions?”

You sighed. Loudly. Theatrically. The kind of sigh designed to echo down castle hallways and guilt people into bringing you scones. But you didn’t leave the bed. Not even a toe left the blanket.

And when he handed you the first cup of tea, you took it.

Still scowling. Still flushed.

But with both hands.

Like it belonged to you.

Like he belonged to you.

You sipped in silence, determined not to enjoy it.

Unfortunately, it was perfect.

The exact steeping time. The right temperature. The herbs were balanced in a way that could only be described as emotionally manipulative. It was warm and fragrant and everything your bitter little heart wanted and refused to admit.

"I am upset at how good this tea is," you muttered into the cup.

“I steeped it myself,” Mihawk said, sipping his own with maddening calm. “Your preferred ratio.”

You glared at him. “Which you stole from my herb journal.”

“Copied,” he corrected, completely unapologetic. “Preservation of knowledge.”

You stared into your tea like it had betrayed you. “This is entrapment.”

"And yet," he said evenly, "you are still here."

“I’m here because there is literally no furniture left in this castle to escape to.”

Mihawk raised an eyebrow slightly, as if you had just complimented his interior design. “Efficient, isn’t it?”

You grabbed a pillow and hurled it directly at his face.

He caught it one-handed, like a smug falconer taming fabric instead of birds. Somehow, he even looked pleased. As if getting hit by you counted as a fondness metric.

The hours passed.

The storm faded. The rain left the air clean and quiet. Sunlight crept through the high windows in slow shafts, turning the vineyard silver where mist still clung to the vines.

You had changed into your usual clothes, boots buckled, and hair tied back. The shift now lived folded, suspiciously neatly, on the dresser. Still in both your room. Which was quickly becoming something far less deniable.

Your room had not been mentioned again.

You hadn’t demanded it back.

Not after discovering your hair ribbon, placed beside his comb, as if it had always belonged there. Not after noticing your boots had been oiled and left by the hearth, facing outward, just the way you preferred. Not after finding your book returned to your nightstand with a pressed violet tucked inside it, a flower you hadn’t picked.

You found Mihawk in the courtyard.

He was pruning the vineyard like it personally owed him something. Each snip of the shears was precise, controlled. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, and his expression held the calm of a man at peace with his daily conquests in agriculture.

Rude Bastard sat nearby on an upturned crate, peeling a pear with a dagger like an aggressively competent butler. He wore your missing scarf and did not return it.

You leaned against the gate post, arms crossed. “You could have just asked.”

Mihawk did not stop trimming. “Asked what?”

“For me to stay in your room.”

He paused for a moment, blade suspended mid-snip.

Then, without looking up, he asked, “Would you have?”

You frowned. “…Maybe not right away.”

“Then it had to be done this way.”

You squinted at him. “You are insufferable.”

“Frequently,” he agreed, utterly at peace with himself.

You walked across the courtyard, gravel crunching under your boots, until you stood just close enough to make a point.

“You realize this counts as warfare,” you said. “With extra steps.”

Mihawk didn’t flinch. He simply turned, handed you the shears like it was a ceremony, and let your fingers brush his.

You took them.

You didn’t walk away.

“…So now what?” you asked, a little quieter.

He looked at you. Really looked. His gaze swept across your face, your posture, your defiance still hanging on by the teeth. And then, he answered.

“You’re here.”

He said it without drama. Without pressure. Just a fact.

“That’s enough.”

It had become a strange kind of routine.

Quiet. Domestic. Maddeningly consistent. The kind of rhythm that crept up on you slowly, until one day it felt inevitable.

At the end of long harvest days, after the sun bled low over the vines and the sky turned the color of crushed plums, you would stumble into what had once been his room and was now unmistakably both of yours. Your hands were stained purple from pressing grapes, your boots tracked in the damp scent of rain-soaked earth, and your limbs ached with the pleasant weight of a day well spent. You smelled like vineyard sweat and stubborn pride.

Behind you, as if summoned by ritual rather than reason, Mihawk would appear.

Not hurried. Not dramatic. He moved like time was at his command.

He said nothing. 

His presence settled at your back like a second heartbeat, calm and steady. And as you stood by the hearth, unwinding a scarf or tugging at the ties of your apron, you would feel his hands, warm and precise, at the small of your back, beginning the nightly disarmament.

He undressed you with the same care he gave to sword maintenance. No wasted motion. No unnecessary haste. His fingers moved over your corset laces as if it were not clothing but a pressure trigger, the sort that might explode if approached with anything less than reverent calculation.

One evening, his hands paused near your ribs. His voice was dry as wine and just as smooth.

“Did you re-lace this yourself?”

You kept your eyes on the fire. “Maybe.”

“Did the mandrills?”

“…Yes.”

He exhaled slowly. “It’s offensive.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re just particular.”

He gave no reply. Just continued his work, drawing each cord free with maddening care. The tension slid away with every pass of his hands, and your body began to yield without permission. Chest loosening, shoulders lowering, lungs expanding fully for the first time all day.

Then, when the final knot slipped loose, your breath came easier. It’s then that he commits his most significant offense.

He leaned in.

Not quickly. Never abruptly. It was always deliberate.

Measured.

His breath brushed your skin first, the warning before the touch, and then came the kiss.

But not on the mouth.

Never the mouth after that first time.

Tonight, it was the slope of your shoulder, just above where the fabric had slipped down. Warm. Light. Gone too fast. The night before, it had been your temple, a whisper of contact that lingered longer in your memory than it had in your skin. Once, when he was feeling ruthless, it had been the hollow just behind your ear. Your knees had buckled. Only slightly, but he had noticed.

He always noticed.

Each kiss was fleeting. Gentle. The kind of softness that wasn’t an accident, but a precise choice.

You turned your head. Your lips parted. You didn’t beg. You didn’t speak. You were simply ready.

Hopeful.

But as always, Mihawk stepped back before your hopes could tip into fulfillment.

“I’ll bring the tea,” he said, voice perfectly composed.

Then he turned and walked out, as if he had not just dismantled you with nothing more than a kiss and a pair of patient hands.

You stood in the center of the room, arms still hanging uselessly by your sides, corset half-undone, hair a tousled mess, your chest flushed and warm in a way that had nothing to do with effort and everything to do with him.

“…You insufferable tease,” you muttered at the empty doorway.

There was a quiet squeak from the hall.

Rude Bastard, curled against the doorframe like a tiny velvet sentinel, gave you a confused blink and clutched his stolen slipper more tightly to his chest.

This went on for weeks.

You thought it would fade, that the routine would dull. That Mihawk, for all his cold self-control, would eventually falter.

He did not.

He remained impossibly disciplined. The worst kind of smug. A monk with knives and perfect tea.

You tested him.

Of course you did.

You cornered him in the hallway once, pinned him between bookshelves with a look that would have turned steel to steam, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

He had simply tilted his head, placed a maddeningly soft kiss against your wrist, and walked away like you had been the one seduced.

Another time, you climbed into his lap by the fire. Not casually, not politely. You sprawled across him like a cat who owned the furniture, your limbs draped and your smirk dangerous. You whispered something about the mandrills needing fencing repairs, watching the flicker in his gaze as your fingers trailed along the open collar of his shirt.

He responded with a kiss to your collarbone.

Not a real one. Not one that meant surrender. Just enough to steal the breath from your lungs and leave you fuming.

Then, without comment, he lifted you from his lap as if you weighed nothing, set you gently on the armchair beside him, and handed you a cup of perfectly steeped tea.

You held it with shaking fingers.

“You are going to die alone in a tower full of monkeys,” you said.

He sipped his tea and replied, “I would be well attended.”

You wanted to scream.

Or set his boots on fire.

Or marry him again, to annul it out of spite.

But you never stopped standing still when he reached for your corset.

And he never stopped placing those infuriatingly tender kisses on every part of you but the one place you were beginning to crave most.

Your lips.

Still untouched.

Still maddeningly avoided, as if they were cursed. Every evening passed with the same quiet ritual. Every kiss he gave was soft, calculated, and deliberately misplaced; on your shoulder, your wrist, your temple. Never your mouth. Never what you truly wanted.

The routine held.

The tension deepened. It threaded into everything. The way he held your gaze a moment too long. The way his hands lingered at your waist before retreating. The way his voice dropped ever so slightly when he said your name.

It was unbearable.

And he knew it.

He had the patience of a mountain. Steady. Immoveable. There was something ancient in the way he waited, as if he were content to let centuries pass before taking what he already considered his.

You, on the other hand, were only human.

And on a frigid night, with the wind curling around the tower like a whispering ghost and the hearth crackling in the background, something inside you finally unraveled.

“You know you’re infuriating, right?” you said, pacing by the fire, hands clenched.

Across the room, Mihawk sat in his chair. He was dressed in his usual evening black, a book open in his hands, his posture as calm as still water.

“I have been informed,” he replied without looking up.

You narrowed your eyes at the firelight dancing on his profile. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

He turned a page with maddening composure. “Doing what?”

You stared at him. “Teasing me. Like a coward.”

That made him pause.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the book. His golden eyes met yours across the hearth.

There was no surprise in them. No guilt. Just a steady, unreadable calm.

“If you want more, my wife,” he said, voice low and even, “you’ll have to ask for it.”

You froze.

The words hit harder than they had any right to. Not because of their boldness, but because of the way he said them. Casual, almost indifferent, as if he were telling you that tea was on the tray or that it might rain tomorrow.

But there was something else beneath the tone. Something coiled and waiting.

You stared at him, unsure whether to slap him or climb into his lap.

Mihawk smiled.

Not the smug, condescending twist of his lips you had grown used to. Not the faint smirk he gave the mandrills when they pleased him. No, this smile was slow. Rare. Like a secret being revealed just for you.

It curled across his face like the first shadow of dusk across snow.

A promise.

Wicked.

Patient.

Dangerous.

It made your stomach drop straight to your toes.

You narrowed your eyes. Your voice, when it came, was quiet and deliberate. “Fine.”

He inclined his head once, as if accepting terms in a duel.

And then, without another word, he turned back to his book.

The fire crackled. The wind howled past the window. You stood there in your soft nightclothes, barefoot and flushed, pulse skipping wildly.

He did not look at you again.

He turned a page.

And you walked away.

Not retreating. Not defeated. But planning.

Mihawk merely smirked.

He had spent his life perfecting the art of perfection. He had mastered discipline, just as other men mastered their vices. Swordsmanship. Solitude. Silence. There was a stillness to him that nothing could shake. Not storms. Not fame. Not war.

And he used this exact tactic when it came to you: his wife, his vineyard-stained, sunburned, fire-eyed wife, because Mihawk knew something about you that few ever bothered to see. Something that made his patience reverent and his touch featherlight.

You had spent your life being taken advantage of.

Handed off. Instructed. Assigned.

You were pushed into roles that didn't fit, corseted into expectations that cut into your ribs. Politics had tried to mold you. Marriage had been meant to tame you. You were placed in a pretty room, like a rare painting behind glass, and told to smile.

And Mihawk, whatever else he might be, refused to give in to his desire to become another cage.

Not even as your husband. Especially not as your husband.

So he kissed you like a whisper. Never a demand.

A brush of lips to your temple after a long day in the cellar, your hands still stained with crushed skins. A soft press to your shoulder when you sighed into your tea, the weariness slipping through the cracks.

Every touch he gave was deliberate. Controlled. Meaningful.

But never more than that.

Not until you wanted it.

Because if anything were going to happen between you, it would be chosen.

Not given because you were tired. Not allowed because it was easy. Not taken because you were there.

He wanted you to want him.

And Mihawk, who had stood alone at the summit of the world without flinching, could wait for that.

He could wait forever, if he had to.

But he saw it.

The shift.

He noticed the way your gaze lingered now when he undid the buttons of his shirt at night, fingers slow, chest bared in the firelight. He saw the way your breath caught slightly, even if you looked away, eyes darting back more and more.

Not brazenly. Not foolishly. But with the quiet tension of someone circling something they craved and did not yet know how to name.

When he stepped out of the bath, steam rising off his shoulders, his hair dripping along his spine, he saw your eyes flick up from the towel to his face, not flustered. Just alert. Aware.

And you fumbled less around him now. Fought less. Your movements softened. Not because you had surrendered, but because something in you had started craving instead of fearing.

And when you crawled into the bed, night after night, shift brushing against his thigh, breath warming the air between you, he never demanded from you. Not once.

He simply let you settle.

Let you choose the distance.

Some nights, you kept space between you. A polite breath of air. A line drawn in linen.

But other nights, more often now, you inched closer.

Just a little.

A hand was draped over his ribs. A leg sliding along his, not boldly but naturally, like your body had begun to speak a language your mouth was still learning.

You’d fall asleep that way. Close.

Your heart is slow and steady. Safe.

And Mihawk would lie still beside you, book unread on his chest, eyes open in the dark. Not thinking of battles and not thinking of blades, only thinking of one thing.

Soon. But only when you say so.

You were going to kiss him.

Eventually.

Maybe.

Probably.

You had decided this in theory. In concept. As an academic goal, it is to be approached methodically, with rigor and structure, like grafting a stubborn vine and or surviving a Celestial etiquette seminar without screaming.

Because Mihawk wasn’t going to make the next move.

That much had become painfully clear.

He had kissed you, yes, but only those maddeningly gentle, strategic ones. Temple. Shoulder. Wrist. Every touch is soft as silk and never more than what you could carry. Never the mouth.

The mouth, it seemed, was your responsibility.

He had said as much.

If you want more, my wife…

And now here you were. Armed with six books, three pages of annotated notes, a whole column in your herb journal devoted to “Potential Lip-Based Scenarios,” and still, absolutely no practical knowledge.

None.

Zero.

You knew how to field-dress a wound in the dark. You learned how to gut a fish and threaten mandrills in three languages. You could name five varietals of grapes by scent alone, and had once escaped a conversation with Shanks by using a tea towel and a cleaver.

But you had never kissed anyone.

Not properly.

Not in the way that mattered.

And if you were going to kiss him, it had to be good. Not passable. Not decent. Good. Because Mihawk was terrifying. And beautiful. And the kind of man who wore silence like armor and read philosophy for fun.

You had spent two nights rereading The Garden of Earthly Delights (Annotated and Slightly Censored Edition) with a notebook on your lap and a cup of tea that went cold.

There were diagrams.

You had taken notes in the margins like Is tilting necessary? And where do noses go??? You had written “hovering: good??” and circled it three times. At one point, you tried practicing on your hand, which resulted in you nearly biting yourself and swearing out loud when Rude Bastard walked in and shrieked in alarm.

You had never felt more ridiculous.

Or more determined.

Now, tonight, curled in bed while Mihawk read beside you, your body buzzed like a swarm of bees under your skin. Your fingers were twitching beneath the covers. Your breath was doing a strange thing—fast, then slow, then fast again—and no amount of deep, philosophical thinking was helping.

He lay on his side, bare-chested, reading something about sword forms and Zen clarity. His hair was still damp from the bath. His brow was faintly furrowed in thought.

And there you were. Absolutely losing your mind beside him.

You tried to speak.

Nothing came out.

You coughed. Quietly. Adjusted your pillow and checked the blanket's alignment with obsessive precision. Moved your leg two inches closer to his, then panicked and pushed it back.

He glanced at you once, calm and unreadable.

You looked away so fast your neck cracked.

This was stupid.

You had survived nobles, the Grand Line, a mandrill insurrection, and a brief but memorable poisoning.

You could kiss your husband.

Right?

Maybe.

Probably.

Your heart had started pounding in your ears now. Your mouth was dry. Your lips were too aware of themselves. You weren’t sure what to do with your hands. Or your eyes. Or anything, honestly.

Mihawk turned another page.

The sound was crisp. Exact. As if even his page turns were confident.

You sat up a little, shifting to face him. Not directly. Just... vaguely in his direction.

He noticed.

Of course, he noticed.

He always noticed.

His gaze lifted to yours, slow and steady.

“Yes?” he asked.

Your mouth opened.

You tried to say something clever. Something bold. Something seductive.

What came out was, “Do you think—I mean, theoretically—if one were to kiss a warlord, would... would it be complicated?”

A pause.

A long one.

Mihawk blinked once. “Theoretically?”

“Yes. Hypothetically. In a structured scenario with no real-world stakes.”

He closed his book.

Slowly. Carefully.

His attention shifted entirely to you.

“Are you asking,” he said, “if it would be complicated to kiss me?”

You wanted the mattress to eat you whole.

You coughed. “In theory.”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He sat up slightly, resting one forearm across his lap. His voice stayed soft. Steady. Serious. “Only if you make it so.”

You stared at him.

Heart hammering.

Palms sweating.

Your brain yelled something about nose placement, tilting angles, lip firmness, hand anchoring, and whether breath-minting herbs counted as cheating.

The world had narrowed down to a single breath between you and Mihawk, and it was entirely your fault. You had leaned in. You had placed your hand on his shoulder. You had declared, with the trembling resolve of a woman who had spent far too long diagramming emotional proximity and annotating seduction metaphors, that this moment was going to happen.

And now it was happening.

Too much.

Too real.

Your brain was screaming.

Nose placement! Tilting angles—left or right? How firm is too firm? Where do your hands go? Is it allowed to close one's eyes, or is that presumptuous? Do breath-minting herbs count as cheating?!

You panicked.

Fully.

Spectacularly.

You made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, and launched yourself backwards like you had just attempted to kiss the concept of danger itself and remembered, too late, that it was alive.

The blanket was tangled around your ankles. Your elbow caught on the pillow. You scrambled off the bed in a graceless, flailing retreat and stumbled to your feet like a startled woodland creature trying to escape a picnic blanket.

Mihawk blinked.

Very slowly.

Still seated.

Still entirely composed.

You, by contrast, looked like someone had lit your soul on fire. Your hair was half in your mouth. Your shirt was wrinkled from sudden movement. Your hands were held out like they might catch fire at any moment from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

“I have to—I just remembered—I left something—somewhere—” you stammered.

“Where?”

You blinked at him. “...The east wing.”

“There’s nothing in the east wing except fermented pears and two suspicious ladders.”

“Exactly,” you said, voice cracking. “Very unstable. Needs monitoring.”

And then you bolted.

Out the door. Down the hall.

Barefoot, breathless, wildly humiliated.

Somewhere behind you, Rude Bastard peeked out of a curtain, banana in hand, watching your flight with mild interest.

You rounded a corner, tripped on a shoe you did not remember leaving there, and kept going, cheeks burning.

Your brain was still yelling.

You leaned in. You nearly kissed him. You fled the scene like a criminal. You might really be dying.

You reached the empty corridor outside the dusty greenhouse, hands braced against your knees, gasping.

And after a long pause, still panting, you muttered into the floor.

“I am never going to emotionally recover from this.”

Back in the bedroom, Mihawk sat alone.

He reached for his book, opened it to the page he had marked earlier, and said aloud to no one in particular,

“She’ll try again.”

And when she does, he thought, he would not move. Not an inch.

You showed your growing intimacy through declarations. Not with roses or poetry, but with sarcasm, strategic gifts, and the slow, stubborn intimacy of people who refused to admit they were already each other’s favorite person.

“I tolerate your terrifying face,” you said over pruning shears, snipping a little too close to his hand.

“You’re the least inconvenient person I’ve ever met,” he replied without looking up from the vine.

“I hope we die at the same time,” you told him over tea, “so I don’t have to do your laundry alone.”

“If someone hurts you,” he said, voice flat as ever, “I will end nations.”

A mandrill in the doorway flung a handful of stolen flower petals into the air in support. No one acknowledged it.

You slept diagonally.

A sprawling, entropy-driven menace. You stole blankets. Pillows. Even floor space, somehow.

He tolerated this with the grim solemnity of a knight on a holy quest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he were meditating through spiritual warfare. But the moment you shivered, even slightly, he moved.

Silent. Precise.

He always pulled the blanket back over your shoulders. Tucked it beneath your chin and returned to stillness.

You always woke up pretending not to notice.

He always pretended not to watch you sleep.

One night, barely conscious, you mumbled, “You’re warm.”

And from the dark, he whispered, “You’re mine.”

You made stew. He critiqued it as if it had political implications. He brewed tea. You called it “leaf water for pretentious ghosts.”

You drank every sip anyway.

He brought you rare salts from foreign markets. You baked him muffins that could break rocks. He ate every last one without blinking, as if enduring dessert were an honor.

When you caught a chill and tried to keep working, he picked you up bodily and deposited you into bed like a misbehaving cat.

“I’m fine,” you protested.

“You have a fever and the survival instincts of a rogue wave,” he replied, adjusting the blankets around you with surgical care.

He sat beside you for hours. Reading aloud and sharpening a dagger. The sound was rhythmic, strangely soothing.

You glared at him.

He smirked.

You fell asleep with your hand in his.

You found bookmarks tucked into your favorite pages. Crisp parchment. Razor-sharp handwriting. 

Reminded me of your sarcasm. This heroine survives a duel. Thought you’d approve. You laughed on this page last time.

You never mentioned them. He never admitted leaving them.

Until he opened a book one evening and found your handwriting instead.

This villain reminded me of you. No notes.

He said nothing.

But the slip disappeared into the inside pocket of his coat.

Shanks once sent a painting.

It was done by a drunk, half-blind painter who had heard rumors about your shotgun wedding and attempted to capture the moment in pastel chaos. You looked windblown. He looked furious. A mandrill in the background held a flower crown.

It was horrible.

You framed it.

It was hung above your shared bed.

You kissed your wrist to practice. Reviewed diagrams from outdated books. Took notes in the margins.

Angle: slight tilt? Where do noses go? Breath-minting herbs: acceptable or manipulative?

You trained like a soldier to instill enough confidence in yourself to kiss. 

You had just been sitting beside him in bed, blanket around your shoulders, listening to the rain. He had been reading. Shirt partially unbuttoned. Hair loose. Completely unaware of the emotional crisis unraveling beside him.

You stared.

Heart pounding. Palms sweating.

Your mind screamed: Nose placement! Lip firmness! Do you use tongue? What is tongue etiquette?!

You fail to complete the kiss.

You argued about fermentation temperatures. Sabotaged each other’s tea, swapped pruning shears like weapons.

But you also handed each other blankets without asking. Left notes in cookbooks, remembered how much salt, how much time, how much space.

You didn’t say I love you.

Not once.

Not out loud.

But every time you stayed. Every time he folded your sweater instead of moving it. Every time you think about kissing, it counts.

And if anyone tried to tell him it wasn’t love?

He would duel the definition personally.

It is the kind of dusk that wraps the vineyard in quiet magic. The last light of the sun falls in ribbons of lavender and gold, casting soft halos over the stones and vines. The air is cool, with the promise of evening, sweetened by the scent of crushed grapes and the breath of a coming breeze. Somewhere in the courtyard, the mandrills are finally still, too full of plum scraps to continue their usual chaos.

You are barefoot, standing on the smooth stone just outside the kitchen, your arms loosely folded, shoulder braced against the wall. You say nothing. You simply watch.

Mihawk is down in the rows, adjusting one of the new trellis supports with a carpenter’s patience that shouldn’t suit him, but somehow does. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow. His collar is open, exposing the hollow of his throat. His hair, shorter now than it used to be, has been carefully combed, but is beginning to rebel in the breeze, curling slightly above the nape of his neck.

There is a smear of dirt across his cheekbone. You are fairly certain no one else would dare point it out. Not aloud. It should make him look less elegant, less composed, but it only makes him seem more real, more yours. 

You do not remember when the silence between you began to shift. Only that it has. Somewhere in the long hours of routine and restraint, something changed. You have started to look too long. To lean too near. And each time he brushes past you, your skin remembers.

He never pushes.

He never demands.

But he knows.

That makes it worse. Or maybe it makes it safe. Or perhaps it is the slowest kind of disaster, unfolding one heartbeat at a time.

By the time the sun has disappeared, the tools are cleaned, and the mandrills have collapsed in a contented pile of limbs and peels, the light is gone. The house glows warm behind you. The sky has turned silver-blue. You and Mihawk move toward the bedroom at the same time, shoes in hand, steps soundless against the tile.

You meet in the doorway.

He stops first.

Then steps aside to let you pass.

You brush against him, just barely, and his fingers skim yours in that quiet, intentional way that he always pretends is accidental. You pause.

So does he.

You turn to face him fully. The hall is narrow. He is close. His eyes meet yours, pale and steady and faintly reflective in the low light. He does not look surprised. He does not ask what you are doing. He simply waits.

You inhale.

Your voice leaves you quieter than expected. “Can I—I mean…Do you want me to?”

He watches you a moment longer. Then blinks once.

“Do you?” he asks.

You hate that answer. You hate it because it places the decision back in your hands. Because it tells you again, without words, that he will not take what you do not give.

And you love it for the same reason.

He is power contained in the shape of a man, and still he waits. He holds himself like a weapon and yet refuses to strike. Not here. Not with you.

You hesitate.

Then step forward.

You lift your chin.

And kiss him.

It is not graceful. Not precise.

Your head tilts too late. Your nose bumps his. You are a storm of nervous energy, breath caught, fingers clinging to the front of his shirt like he might disappear before you get it right.

He does not move at first.

Then slowly, with the certainty of someone who has waited a very long time, he responds.

His lips move against yours with patience, but not passivity. This is not a question. This is not a rehearsal. He kisses you like a man finally allowed to speak in his favorite language.

It is warm. It is overwhelming. It is real.

When the kiss breaks, you are breathless.

Your fingers are still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His hand has found the curve of your waist, just resting there. He looks at you the way he studies fine steel—intent, reverent, quietly victorious.

“You win,” he says.

You stare at him, flushed. “There was a battle?”

He nods once. “You initiated the assault.”

You smile. Slowly. “I regret nothing.”

He leaned in again, slower this time, nose brushing yours.

“Good,” he murmured.

He hadn’t expected more.

Not tonight. Not here. Not when the evening had smelled of wet earth and old wood, the air heavy with rain and routine. The fire had burned low. The tea had gone cold. He had been sharpening a blade with absent care, half-listening to the wind outside and the distant hoot of some bird he couldn’t be bothered to name. Everything had felt familiar. Predictable.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polished. Your lips met his with something closer to instinct than strategy, closer to longing than logic. There had been the faintest tremble in your hands, the briefest hesitation in the lean forward, but then you closed your eyes and did it anyway.

Warm. Honest. A little unsteady.

It struck him harder than any blow he had taken in battle, not because of the kiss itself, but because it was you. And you were never ordinary.

Now you stood there, still too close, staring at him like you had just shattered something sacred and weren’t sure what pieces to gather first. Your fingers had yet to let go of his shirt. Your mouth parted slightly as if to speak, but your breath caught in your throat.

You probably meant to explain. To say sorry. To unravel it before it could tighten into something real.

He didn’t let you.

His hand came up with careful intent. He touched your chin, the weight of his finger lighter than thought, and tilted your face to meet his gaze.

“My darling.”

The way he said it made your skin prickle. That voice of his, deep and smooth like wine left to age in old barrels, settled into your bones with terrible grace. He didn’t say it like a nickname. He said it like a fact.

He leaned in again. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just close enough for you to feel the shift in the air, the stillness before something inevitable.

“If you want more,” he said, quiet enough that only you could hear it, “you only have to ask.”

No demand. No expectation. Just the truth, resting between you like a sword laid flat.

You swallowed. Hard.

He didn’t move. He waited. Like he could stand there forever if it meant giving you the space to decide. There was no challenge in his eyes. Only patience. Only certainty.

He didn’t move. He waited. Like he could stand there forever if it meant giving you the space to decide. There was no challenge in his eyes. Only patience. Only certainty. Like he had been holding this back, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he did. And because you mattered enough to wait for.

“Do you?” he asked.

You nodded once. Then again, stronger.

“Yes.”

That single word changed something between you. You saw it in the way he inhaled. In the way his posture shifted, intention blooming behind his restraint.

He closed the distance.

This kiss was unlike any of the previous ones. It was certain.

His hands slid to your waist, steady and reverent, while yours clutched at him like you were afraid you might lose your balance. When your mouth opened to him, it felt less like surrender and more like recognition.

He kissed you like a promise kept. And you answered like someone who had been waiting a long time to be heard.

Whatever cracked open between you stayed open.

The air changed. His breath caught against your mouth, and when he drew back, it was only to look at you. His gaze swept over your face as if he were memorizing it. Every breath. Every silent permission.

Then his hand moved to the small of your back. His voice came quietly and roughly.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t speak. You followed.

The castle felt different now, quieter somehow, as if it understood. Torches flickered in low pools of amber. The halls stretched long and warm. His grip on your hand never faltered.

When the door closed behind you, he turned to you again.

There was no rush. No urgency. Just need. Just reverence.

He kissed you deeper, one hand cupping your cheek while the other found your waist. When he touched you, it was careful and full of intention as if you might vanish.

Clothes fell away piece by piece. Fingers skimmed over skin. He undressed you slowly, worshipfully, as if he were peeling back centuries of distance just to reach you.

He laid you down like something sacred.

And when he touched you again, skin to skin, his breath stuttered.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice raw with restraint.

You pulled him closer, your answer pressed to his lips.

“Please.”

He loved you slowly. Carefully. The moment stretched long and quiet, thick with feeling. He stayed still inside you, forehead resting against yours, as if trying to steady himself against the weight of it all.

You wrapped yourself around him and moved.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was full of heat, yes, but it was more than that. Every movement was a conversation. Every breath was a truth. Every sound he made into your skin became something you would never forget.

When you came apart, he followed you, a quiet sound slipping past his lips like a vow finally spoken.

He stayed with you. Held you. Ran his fingers through your hair like he needed to touch every part of you just to believe it was real.

And when he said your name, it was soft, like worship.

Your lives changed.

Not with thunder or fireworks or declarations shouted from castle turrets. But with quiet shifts. With stolen glances and unraveled habits. With routines that bent at the edges until they were no longer routines at all, just excuses to be near each other.

Gone were the days of stiff silence, of you and Mihawk moving around each other like rival ghosts haunting the same keep. No more blanket wars conducted with the gravitas of military strategy. No more sulking over tea temperatures or debates about candle placement that lasted longer than most naval sieges.

Now, bedtime was ridiculous.

Ridiculous in the way only two people who were utterly in love, and still far too proud to say it outright, could manage.

You would sit before the hearth, brushing your hair with slow, measured strokes, always facing the fire. Always pretending you didn’t notice the way Mihawk watched you from the bed, one arm propped under his head, eyes tracking your every movement like he was studying the arc of a blade mid-swing.

“You’re staring,” you would say, not looking up.

“I’m admiring the most beautiful woman in the world,” he’d answer, voice smooth and unapologetic, “Forgive me for having taste.”

You would flush as he proves means exactly what he says, pulling you up into his lap.

Then came the negotiations.

He liked the window open. You liked the blankets heavy—a classic stalemate. So you compromised the only way you knew how by bickering under the covers until one of you “accidentally” rolled closer.

“I sleep better on the edge.” You teased.

“You sleep better when you’re wrapped around my ribs.” He retorted, pulling you in.

“…You’re arrogant.”

“You’re warm.”

“Fine. But you’re the little spoon tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not.”

Rude Bastard once walked in on the two of you mock-arguing beneath a fortress of blankets, only to back out slowly like he’d interrupted a sacred ritual or stumbled into a very strange religious experience.

The teasing became ritual. Holy, in its own right.

One night, you climbed into bed and stole his entire half of the blanket without shame. He didn’t say a word. Just reached over, gathered all of it, and you, into his lap like a smug dragon claiming treasure.

“This is a kidnapping,” you muttered, wriggling but not trying to escape.

“You’re my wife. It’s extradition,” he replied, completely deadpan.

There were kisses now. Freely given and casually stolen.

You would mumble things like, “Don’t get used to this,” even as you tucked yourself beneath his arm like you belonged there, which you did.

He would grumble, “You’re in the way,” as he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead like a benediction.

And sometimes, just before sleep, when the world was quiet and the night pressed close, you would whisper, “You’re not nearly as terrifying as people say.”

And he would reply, low and certain, “I am. Just not with you.”

Then you’d kiss him, slow and smug, and say, “Lucky me.”

And Mihawk, beneath the warmth of shared blankets and the weight of something far more dangerous than any sword he’d ever wielded, would think, ‘I believe, my lady, it is quite the opposite’.

Domestic bliss had settled into the castle like a second vintage; rich, warm, quietly intoxicating.

The mandrills were thriving. The vineyard was lush. The tea was always perfectly steeped. And you, somehow, now fell asleep tangled in your husband’s limbs like he was the last pillow left on earth and you were determined to hoard it.

You cooked together. Gardened together. Bickered like lifelong enemies and kissed like lovers too old to bother pretending they weren’t both. You stole his shirts. He pretended not to notice. You organized his cloak collection by "intensity of brooding" and labeled them with tiny handwritten tags. He pretended to be outraged, then wore the one labeled For Duel Days with suspicious frequency.

It was peace. It was chaos. It was perfect.

So, of course, Shanks ruined it.

The package arrived by bird.

Not a normal bird, of course. A smug little falcon with a flair for dramatics and excellent posture. It dropped a sleek box onto your kitchen table, tied with red twine and sealed with wax in the shape of a grinning face.

You opened it while Mihawk sliced plums with the kind of slow, precise menace that made fruit look like it had committed war crimes.

Inside were twelve delicate glass vials, arranged in a velvet tray like expensive perfume.

Each one was labeled in Shanks’ unmistakable chicken-scratch: Captain Shanks’ Signature Baby Delay Tonics™: Now with extra effectiveness and absolutely no testing.

You stared at the label. Blinked.

Mihawk paused mid-slice.

Tucked beneath the vials was a note.

“Figured you two would eventually realize you’re married in more than paperwork. Thought I’d help you keep things limited to wine and awkward eye contact a little longer. You’re welcome. —Love, Shanks

P.S. This counts as a wedding gift. I’m not sending more wine.”

You stared at the note. Then at the vials. Then at your husband, who was now slowly, silently setting his knife down with the reverence of a man preparing for combat.

He turned and left the kitchen.

You heard the cellar door creak open.

Footsteps.

The shuffle of travel gear.

The sharp metallic whisper of Yoru being drawn from its resting place.

You poked your head into the hall. “Dracule?”

No answer.

“My love, what are you doing?”

“Leaving,” came the reply, calm and cold as polished steel.

“Where?”

“To commit a murder.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re going to sail across the sea because Shanks sent you magical birth control?”

“Yes.”

“You know he’s joking.”

“He’s breathing. I intend to fix that.”

You bit your lip, fighting laughter. “It’s… sort of sweet. In a wildly untested, mildly unlawful sort of way.”

“I will test it. On him.”

He swept past you, fully cloaked, armor buckled, sword sheathed with intent.

You reached out and hooked one finger in his belt loop, tugging until he stopped. Tiptoeing up, you kissed him soundly. When you pulled away, his scowl had softened, just barely.

“You’re not leaving in the middle of harvest,” you murmured. “You’d miss bottling. And your favorite blankets.”

He stared. 

Sighed.

“He will die.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it. But for now…”

You picked up one of the vials, holding it between your fingers like a toast.

“We’ll shelf this under options, not insults.”

Mihawk grunted.

He dropped the cloak.

And muttered, “If he sends matching onesies, I will burn his fleet.”

You laughed, tucked the vial into a drawer, and returned to your downright absurd, definitely-not-pregnant domestic bliss.

For now.

Mihawk stayed.

Despite the insult. Despite the tonics. Despite the primal urge to see if a man could be sliced through three layers of humor and still talk afterward.

He stayed because the harvest was sacred.

And because you were more important than his temper.

Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves, pulled on worn gloves, and joined you in the fields.

It was an unspoken thing, the way you worked together.

You knew how to read the vines like song lines. He knew how to cut with precision that bordered on artistry. Together, you moved through the rows like a duet; efficient, patient, and always a little competitive.

You never needed to ask him for help. He never needed to ask why you paused to test the fruit by touch alone. When your back began to ache, he handed you a glass of water. When he nicked his palm, you patched it with the same tenderness you used on wilting grape clusters.

The mandrills, sensing the sacred nature of the moment, behaved. More or less.

At the final row, as the sky turned gold with the setting sun, you stood with dirt on your cheek and ache in your hands. Mihawk stood beside you, a basket of grapes slung over one hip, his gaze set on the distant horizon.

“You didn’t have to help,” you said. “You did more than you needed.”

“I did.”

You looked at him then. Not the warlord. Not the legend. Just the man standing next to you in the soil.

“Why?”

He turned toward you. His expression unreadable, but his voice steady.

“Because this matters to you,” he said. “Which means it matters to me.”

He reached out, brushing a bit of dirt from your cheek with his thumb. No fanfare. No dramatics. Just quiet care.

You bit your lip. “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”

His gaze flicked back to the horizon. “I’ll be back before the first frost.”

“You’re going to cross to the New World over some baby tonics?”

Mihawk’s voice was very calm. “He tampered with my marriage.”

You smirked. 

“And here I thought you didn’t take our marriage that seriously.”

He looked down at you. His eyes were golden, steady. There was something alive and crackling behind them. Something that belonged only to you.

“I take you seriously,” he said. “I will die before I let another insult you.”

Just that.

Then he kissed you. Slow. Intentional. Not for show. Not to win an argument.

A promise.

When he pulled away, his voice dropped to a murmur. “Save a bottle for me.”

You smiled. “I’ll save the whole barrel.”

He turned, cloak in hand, sword at his back.

The mandrills lined the path like an honor guard. Silent. Impossibly solemn. One of them even saluted.

You watched him disappear over the ridge, hand pressed to your chest.

To the vines, you whispered, “He better not come back with blood on the coat I just fixed.” Then you turned back to the grapes. To the life you’d grown together.

And you began bottling the wine that would await him.

Always.