#mihawk fic

Chapter 9: Venus and Mars

Mihawk turns the moment he hears you.

His coat catching the torchlight, his eyes already locked to yours like they never stopped watching the door.

The hallway holds its breath.

And so does he.

He sees the tears instantly. Sees the way your shoulders tense, the way your throat works around words you can’t say. The grief in your silence is louder than any outburst, and it cuts through him like no blade, no opponent, no duel he’s ever known.

But he doesn’t move.

He just lets you speak.

Lets you give him that single, broken word:

“Goodnight.”

And when you turn—shoulders curling inward, fingers trembling as you reach to close the door—

He catches it.

His hand, warm and steady, presses gently to the wood. Not to force it open.

But to hold it still.

“I won’t come in,” he says softly, voice barely more than breath above your ear. “Not unless you ask.”

A pause.

Then—

“But if you need me…”

His voice falters, just for a second.

“If you want me—say it.”

A breath.

“Let me in, Y/N.”

The smallest sound slips from you in reply. Not a word. Barely a plea. Just a sob.

And it guts him.

He watches you. Shoulders hunched, back trembling, hands shielding your face from his view.

And for a moment masquerading as an eternity, Mihawk doesn’t move.

Because this—you—is sacred. And he’s never been one to trespass where he isn’t wanted.

Gently, wordlessly, he steps forward. Not past the door. Not past your defenses.

Just close enough.

You feel the warmth of him at your back. Pressing, ever so slightly, against you.

And when his voice finally comes, it’s the softest it’s ever been.

“…I never wanted to hurt you.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to let me in. Not all the way. Not tonight.”

Another pause.

“But let me hold the door.”

“—Y-You didn’t come after me!”

Your trembling voice ripples through the late silence.

You can’t see it, not with your back turned, not through your tears. But Mihawk winces.

His hand falls to his side from where it was right behind your nape.

Fingers curling tight, knuckles white. He doesn't speak right away.

Because there’s no defense. Not for that.

Not for you.

When he does, his voice is low—hoarse, like something is finally managing to wound the world’s greatest swordsman.

“I wanted to. I thought about it.”

A breath.

“But I thought giving you space was what you needed. That staying back meant respecting you.”

Another breath—sharper this time.

“I didn’t realize that by not chasing you…”

He swallows hard.

“I was leaving you alone.”

You turn your face just slightly, eyes still hidden, lips parted as if searching for something to say—but the only thing left is the hurt.

The absence.

God, you knew it’d end up like this. You called it from the start.

Why can’t you be wrong for once—

“I was afraid,” he murmurs. “That if I reached for you… I’d lose you anyway.”

“But I see now—I lost you the moment I didn’t.”

Then, lower:

“Forgive me.”

Your reply comes in the form of another soft sob as you quickly wipe the tears from your eyes with your wrists.

You turn towards him, and fresh tears replace the ones you just wiped.

“S-See? We’re already hurting each other. I told you. Venus and Mars.”

A shaky inhale.

“All that we'll leave each other with is ghosts and scars. We just don’t belong together, Mihawk.”

A shaky exhale.

“Even if we want to be,” you whisper as you turn away from him again.

And for the first time in all his calculated, collected life…

Dracule Mihawk looks shattered.

Defeated, even.

He steps closer after a few silent moments.

Enough for you to feel the warmth of him— the trembling restraint behind every inch of distance he doesn’t cross.

He doesn’t argue. He can’t.

Because you’re right.

The ache in your voice is already proof. The way your sob breaks in the middle, how your hands hide your face, like admitting the want was more painful than denying it.

But then—

His voice.

Low. Rough. Barely holding steady.

“…You’re right. We don’t belong in the stars.”

You blink through your fingers.

He steps forward again.

“We don’t align in the sky. Don’t spin in harmony. Don’t dance like constellations are supposed to.”

He’s in front of you now, no longer behind you.

And gently, so gently, his hand reaches up—

Not to pull you in.

But to lift your hand away from your face.

So he can see you.

So you can see him.

Golden eyes full of ruin and restraint.

“But I’d rather collide with you until there’s nothing left of me,” he breathes, “than admit I’d be better off without you.”

And just like that—

Mars reaches for Venus.

Your breath hitches.

His fingers brush your cheek—barely—just enough to wipe a tear that hadn’t yet fallen. The touch is reverent, hesitant, like you might shatter in his hands if he’s not careful.

But you already have shattered.

And he’s here now—not as a swordsman, or as a pirate, or even as a planet, but as a man who stayed too far from you when you needed him the closest.

And now?

He’s close.

Your eyes meet his—wet and vulnerable and full of all the pain you tried to hide.

And his?

They're devastated.

He clears his throat softly, like anything louder might break the fragile thread of courage holding you both together in this moment.

“I’ll be frank with you, I don’t know how to do this.”

A breath. Words you never expected to hear Dracule Mihawk admit.

“I know how to fight. To wait. To watch. But I don’t know how to love, how to chase after something as delicate as a heart, like this.”

Like yours.

Another breath.

“But I want to learn. With you.”

Your lips part—trembling, uncertain. You don’t even realize you’re already shaking your head.

“Mihawk…”

He takes your hands.

Gently. Firmly. In his.

“If we’re both going to get hurt,” he murmurs, “then let me be there to stop the bleeding.”

And that’s it. That’s all you can take.

He catches you instantly.

No hesitation. No breath missed.

His arms wrap around you with a gentleness that betrays the strength behind them—tight enough to hold you together, but soft enough to let you break in his arms.

The duality wielded only by a man, like Dracule Mihawk.

Your face buries into his chest, warm and steady, the scent of him wrapping around you like something familiar, like something you didn’t realize you missed so, so badly until it was gone.

And Mihawk—the man who never yields, never falters—lowers his head, rests his cheek against your hair, and just holds you.

No words. No time limits this time, either.

Your fingers clutch at his shirt.

You shake against him.

And still—he stays.

One hand gently rubs your back. The other cradles the back of your head. His breath is slow, steady, controlled—but only just. Because he’s feeling it too. That trembling swell in his chest. That quiet terror of getting it wrong. That aching relief that you let him back in.

Minutes pass.

Maybe hours, all the same.

But in his arms, the noise fades. The ache dulls. The distance disappears.

And when your sobs soften into breaths, when your grip loosens but doesn’t let go—

Mihawk finally speaks again, lips pressed to your temple.

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.”

Sniffle. “Out here in this hallway?”

You murmur it softly against his chest, your voice still fragile, but touched with that worn spark he knows too well.

Mihawk stills for half a second.

Then—

The faintest huff of a breath against your hair. Not quite a laugh.

But close.

“As poetic as it would be,” he murmurs, “I imagine you’d complain about the draft within minutes.”

You feel him shift, just slightly—one hand sliding from your back to brush your cheek, coaxing you to lift your face.

His golden eyes meet yours—quiet, open, and unbelievably close.

“Let me in,” he says softly. “This time… properly.”

The door closes behind you both with a gentle click.

Like a breath finally released after being held too long.

You stand there for a moment, hand still on the handle, your back to him, the quiet wrapping around you both like silk.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move toward you.

He waits for you.

Not because he's unsure—

But because he wants you to set the tone this time.

So when you finally turn around—eyes still pink, lips pressed together like you're afraid more truth might spill out—Mihawk simply straightens his posture.

Calm. Present. Open.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.

Your fingers twist in the hem of your nightclothes. “I still feel like running. And staying. All at once.”

He nods once. A slow, deliberate movement. Then steps forward.

Not to grab you. Not to hold you again.

But to kneel.

Right in front of you. Silent. Grounded.

Golden eyes lift to yours from below.

His hand grabs yours, his lips brush your knuckles. Like a man kneeling at the altar of something he worships and treasures, both at once.

“Then stand still,” he murmurs. “And I’ll stand with you. Until you don’t want to run anymore.”

He catches you immediately—again—as you fall to your knees and embrace him.

But this time, you don’t collapse. You choose him.

Your arms wrap around his neck, desperate and full, and he folds into you like a man who’s been holding himself back for far too long.

He exhales shakily into your shoulder, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head, the other curling protectively around your waist.

Not fierce. Not forceful. Violently gentle.

Like he’s afraid if he lets go now, you’ll vanish again.

You cling tighter. You both do.

Kneeling on the floor of your room, holding each other like you’ve survived something—and maybe you have.

Mihawk’s voice is low. Threadbare.

“Don’t run from me again.”

You shake your head against him. A silent promise.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

Hair tousled. Eyes rimmed red. And still—the most devastating thing he’s ever seen.

“Beautiful,” he whispers.

And this time?

When he leans in—slowly, reverently—

You don’t pull away.

It’s soft. Softer than you expected.

Not timid— but aching.

A kiss born not of heat, but of gravity.

The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited I’ve ached I’ve come undone in silence for you.

Your lips meet his like a whispered truth—trembling, slow, desperate in the gentlest way. And Mihawk… he breathes in like you’re the air he’s been denied for too long. His hand rises to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t know was falling.

He deepens the kiss—not to consume, but to stay.

To tell you, without words: I’m here. I’m not leaving. Not even if you ask me to. Not even if you beg.

Your hands frame his face, fingers sliding into his hair, and when your lips crash into his this time, it’s no longer trembling or tentative— it’s need.

It’s everything unspoken spilling into action.

And Mihawk?

He melts into it.

His hands grip your waist—firm, reverent, grounding—like he can’t believe you’re real. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he holds too tight, but terrified you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold you at all.

He kisses you back like he’s making up for every minute lost. Every step you took away. Every door you locked.

And now, here—on the floor, in your room, in a moment that shouldn’t exist but does—

He lets go.

Not of you.

Of the restraint. The distance. The silence.

And when he pulls back—breathless, golden eyes wide with something that looks far too close to love—he whispers, forehead to yours:

“I don’t care what planet you are.”

A pause. A flicker of a smile.

“You’re mine.”

Chapter 5: Fifteen Minutes

The next day.

You don’t have time to think about Mihawk.

Your morning starts with reports piled high, three supply issues, a petty squabble between two new recruits, and Buggy somehow causing a shitshow in the armory. Again.

By midday, you’ve barely eaten. You’re snappier than usual. Even Crocodile gives you a wide berth when you march down the hallway muttering to yourself.

No one dares comment about the piece of toilet paper stuck to your shoe, either.

Because beneath your collected facade, you're flushed. Overworked. Tired as fuck.

And still—annoyingly—thinking about a swordsman with golden eyes and a spare key. Which he doesn’t have. Probably.

Probably? Probably.

By evening, your head aches with a vengeance.

You finally storm back into your room, slam the door shut behind you, lock it with a decisive click, and announce to no one:

“There. Locked. I win. No men. Infinite peace.”

You change into your nightgown. Tie the sash tight. Brew one cup of tea—one, god damn it—and take it to bed with a book you swear is about marine law this time. A suitable stand-in for garlic and some crosses.

You read exactly four sentences.

Then—

Tap. Tap.

Your heart skips.

You stare at the door.

More silence. Then, click.

Then, a calm, low voice:

“…I believe you said this would be locked.”

You lurch upright.

Mihawk stands in the doorway.

The locked doorway.

Coat off. Sleeves rolled. Sword not in sight. Holding… a small tin of fancy tea leaves.

Your jaw drops. He steps inside.

“I knocked,” he says simply. “You didn’t answer.”

“M-Mihawk! This is an invasion of privacy! And that door was definitely locked?!”

He shuts the door behind him with the same maddening calm he always has. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.

“Invasion?” he echoes, tone casual, like you’d accused him of borrowing a book without asking. “I knocked.”

He lifts the tin of tea between two fingers and sets it delicately on your nightstand, right next to your solo cup.

“This is a peace offering,” he says mildly, golden eyes flicking to yours. “So you can stop pretending I don’t drink what you serve.”

He gestures to your cup—already halfway gone.

“You made one,” he murmurs, the faintest ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth, “but didn’t finish it.”

He takes a single step closer.

“And you locked the door… but left the key in the handle.”

You freeze.

He leans in just enough to lower his voice as he nears your ear.

“If this is war, you’re a terrible strategist.”

And still, it dawns on you, he hasn’t touched you yet. Not once.

Hasn’t dared.

But the air crackles with something familiar. Not heat. Sparks.

But before it can form thunder, a genuine sigh from you shifts the entire atmosphere.

Your eyes avert themselves to the floor, your usual bravado missing in the action as a coat of weariness paints over your voice.

“I’m tired. Today was long.”

Mihawk's expression shifts—barely. The sharpness in his eyes softens. The curve on his lip fades. He straightens, no longer teasing, and for a beat… he simply watches you.

Quietly. Closely. As if seeing something that no one else noticed all day.

He walks past the bed—not toward you, but toward the teacup. He pours the last of your half-finished drink into the second cup he brought, and finishes it without a word.

Then he shrugs off his overshirt.

And sinks into the armchair.

No quipped smugness. No subtle challenge. Not even a clever retort.

Just a low, even voice, resting in the quiet between breaths.

“Then rest. You deserve it.”

A pause.

“And I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

That earns him a petulant, little glare equipped with a pursed pout and a dash of red cheeks.

“T-That’s creepy, you vampire look-alike! And no! Go back to your own room!”

Mihawk exhales through his nose—because there it is again, that quiet sound of amusement he refuses to dignify as laughter.

“A vampire,” he repeats dryly. “Charming.”

He leans back in the chair, fingers steepled in front of him, one leg crossed over the other in the most infuriatingly composed position imaginable.

“If I were one, I’d have asked to be invited in.”

He glances at the door.

“You didn’t say no. You just complained.”

He gestures faintly, as if to say the floor is yours, princess.

“Shall I leave?” he asks, calm. “Or shall I stay? Up to you.”

He looks almost smug as he waits for your reply. But his voice?

Soft. Patient. Like he’ll comply with anything you say.

Like he’ll be thankful for it.

That earns a huff as you grab your covers and pull them over you, tucking yourself into bed as you turn away from him. Eyes closed.

“Ugh. Do whatever you want, I’m too tired to care.”

The room settles as you shift under the covers.

Quiet settles in. Warmth follows.

You don’t hear noise after—Mihawk makes none—but the weight of his gaze lingers, still watching as you burrow beneath your blankets, cheeks pink with protest, lips still in a soft frown.

Then—

The creak of the chair as he finally shifts. Not to leave.

Just to sit deeper. More comfortably. Like he’s settling in for the long haul.

“I will, then,” he says softly.

Do whatever I want.

A pause.

Then, so low you almost miss it—

“…Sleep well, little Venus.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

And for a man who’s known for silence, this one feels different. Like a guard being posted. Like a promise left on your pillow.

And as your breath evens out, as your frown softens into something closer to peace—

Mihawk sits there. With a book he brought nestled in his lap.

Still closed.

“I’m really locking it tomorrow,” you mumble.

Sleepily. Barely awake now.

From the chair—so quiet you almost think you imagined it—comes a faint hum.

And that’s the last thing you hear before sleep finally claims you.

The night stretches long and quiet.

The candle on your desk flickers low, casting a soft golden glow that barely reaches the corners of the room. Outside, the sea hushes against the distant rocks, wind tapping faintly against the windowpane.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Mihawk sits in the armchair like a statue cast in midnight and discipline, one leg stretched out now, arms resting comfortably along the sides. His eyes stay on you—not possessive, not protective.

Present.

For a long time, he simply watches the way your breathing evens out. Watches the stubborn crease in your brow finally fade. Watches your fingers curl a little looser in the blanket.

Then he speaks—so low, you’d never hear it awake.

“So fierce in the daylight.”

His gaze softens, unreadable.

“So gentle in sleep.”

Utterly captivating in both.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, like he’s memorizing this version of you—the quiet one, the unguarded one. The one who let him in.

Without swords. Without tea. Without protest.

Just you.

His voice returns again, the faintest whisper tilted your way:

“…I’ll go before dawn.”

And he means it.

But not yet.

Not while you’re warm. Not while the room still smells like your perfume. Not while he can sit in silence with the woman who keeps threatening to lock him out of her heart—

Chapter 8: Orbital Collapse

One week later.

Your ship arrives under a moonless sky, the harbor shrouded in mist and salt and silence.

No announcement. No fanfare. No one waiting on the dock. Just you—hooded, cloaked, heart pounding against your ribs as the Cross Guild fortress rises before you like a shadowed memory.

You slip inside with practiced ease.

Guards nod but don’t question you. They weren’t expecting you until tomorrow. You planned it that way.

You take the back hallways. The quieter ones. The corridors where the moonlight doesn’t reach and your footsteps feel like secrets.

You don’t speak. Don’t even try to breathe too loudly.

And when you finally reach your door—your room—it’s like crossing a finish line you didn’t know you were racing toward.

Your fingers hover over the handle.

The lock clicks softly.

You step inside.

And stop.

Because nothing has changed.

The blanket still draped at the end of your bed. The chair still angled slightly toward it. The second teacup—clean, dry—resting beside your own on the shelf.

Your eyes sting.

You close the door behind you. Set your bag down slowly.

You should be tired. Exhausted, even.

But your feet carry you forward, quiet across the floor, until your hand brushes the edge of that chair. The same one he always sat in.

You hesitate.

Then—gently—you pull it closer.

Turn it to face your bed.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

But your chest aches like you should. Like you have an ocean of tears to shed, but none of them can quite make it to the surface.

So, instead, you change into your nightclothes, slow and quiet, your fingers trembling just slightly.

You brew tea with the same rhythm you always used.

One cup. Just one.

And when you crawl into bed, you lock the door.

The next morning.

The sun filters in through high windows as the meeting room begins to fill. Cross Guild’s inner circle gathers slowly, murmurs rising like steam. Papers shuffle. Crocodile leans back in his chair, cigar already lit. Buggy fumbles through a stack of notes he forgot he was supposed to read. A few newer officers look unusually tense.

Because Mihawk’s already seated.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone, actually.

Silent.

He hasn’t spoken much this week, not even to Crocodile. Not about you. Not about the locked door. He’d taken the news of your departure with no outward expression—just a flicker of his gaze and a sharp nod.

But today?

He seems… stiller.

Deadlier, somehow.

And then— the door opens.

Softly.

All eyes turn.

You step in with quiet grace, your coat draped over your shoulders, hair gently tousled from the morning breeze, eyes focused and unreadable.

Your presence is like a stone in a still pond.

Mihawk doesn’t move.

But his eyes—those golden eyes—lock to you instantly.

And it’s at that very moment you truly understand what the phrase “a gaze that could kill” really means.

But he says nothing. Does nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just watches.

Watches the way you cross the room. The way your chin tilts with quiet defiance, even as ice feels like it melds itself into your spine. The way your fingers twitch briefly as you pass his chair.

You take your usual seat.

Not next to him, of course. But close enough.

And the room doesn’t breathe again until Crocodile clears his throat.

“You’re back.”

You nod once.

“I am.”

Crocodile eyes you a moment longer, then lets it go.

The meeting begins.

But Mihawk?

He doesn’t look away.

Not for one second.

And you feel it—

The weight of his gaze. The question behind it. The ache neither of you is willing to voice here, surrounded by people and protocol.

But when the meeting ends— when the papers are gathered and the others slowly file out—

You know. You know…

Yet, when the moment arrives, you only blink in surprise when he’s the first out of his seat.

The first out the door.

Without a word. Without even a glance back.

For a second, you can’t tell if the dry lump forming in your throat is from relief or something else.

Later that night.

Your quarters are quiet again.

Too quiet.

Today hadn’t gone how you expected. Though, in all honesty, you had no idea what to expect at all.

The walk back from the meeting room had felt longer than usual. Every step echoing in your chest, every turn in the hallway carved with memories you wish you could forget.

You didn’t speak to Mihawk. You didn’t even breathe towards Mihawk.

Neither did he.

But you felt him.

And that’s what rattles you most.

Not the silence.

But how familiar it’s starting to feel— how his presence, even unspoken, has stitched itself into the seams of your life.

You drop your coat over the chair. Stand by the window for a while, arms crossed, staring at nothing. The wind tugs gently at the curtains.

You think of his voice that night. The night in the courtyard when he said, “You’re beautiful like this.”

You swallow hard.

You set the kettle down only to realize you made too much. Two cups, exactly.

You had only meant to make one.

You tell yourself it’s just habit. Muscle memory. Nothing more.

But when the tea finishes steeping, and the light begins to fade—

You carry only one cup to the bedside.

You leave the second behind.

And the door? You close it.

But tonight—unlike the others—

You lock it, once again. Not for safety.

But to keep yourself from unlocking it.

And still—

You sit awake longer than usual. Eyes drifting to that empty chair.

Half-hurting. Half-hoping.

For what? You have no idea.

Midnight.

1AM.

2AM.

3AM.

The fortress sleeps.

You don’t.

You lie curled under your blanket, one hand beneath your cheek, the other clutching the edge of the sheets like it might anchor you. Your tea’s gone cold. Your book sits closed. The candle burns low.

And your eyes keep drifting to the door.

Nothing.

No knock. No footsteps. No quiet voice asking for five minutes more.

Just silence.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, teeth clenched.

You told him not to come. You told yourself you wouldn’t open the door. You even locked it.

So why does it feel like something’s missing?

Why do you feel the very same shitty way you were trying to avoid?

Hell, worse.

Your chest aches as if it were punched through.

Not with anger. Not even with longing.

Something quieter. Heavier. Grief? No—

A sound.

Tap.

So soft you barely catch it.

Then—another.

Tap.

You freeze.

The room is still. Your pulse is not.

Then his voice—quiet, low, carefully measured:

“…I’m not here to stay.”

A pause.

“I only came to say goodnight.”

He doesn’t try the handle.

Doesn’t even check if it’s locked.

He simply stands there.

Then:

“Welcome back.”

The silence that follows swells with everything neither of you has said.

He doesn’t knock again.

He doesn’t leave right away either.

He just lingers on the other side of the door.

Long enough for you to feel the warmth of him there.

Long enough to miss him all over again.

And then—

Soft footsteps.

Gone.

And you?

Chapter 1: Venus & Mars

The moon is a sharp sliver in the sky, like a blade left resting at the edge of darkness. Cold light spills in through the high windows, washing the hall in silver. You came here to be alone—where the marble echoes only your footsteps and not the tightness in your chest.

You sit on the stone railing of the balcony overlooking the garden, arms curled around your knees, chin tucked down as though you could fold in on yourself and disappear entirely. The wind tugs at your sleeves, whispering secrets you don’t want to hear. That you’re exhausted. That you’re unraveling. That something inside you is starting to give way.

And then—

A shift in the air.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. There’s only one man whose presence feels like silence drawn taut over a sword’s edge.

“Mihawk,” you whisper, voice hoarse from holding too much in.

You expect him to say nothing. That’s what he usually does. Quiet glances, a tilted head, maybe a scoff if you’re being especially ridiculous. And perhaps you are, sitting here trembling like glass about to crack.

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pass it off as wind.

But Mihawk isn’t fooled by wind. Or lies.

“Your shoulders are shaking.”

You freeze. Your throat works to form a response, but it’s like trying to speak past a hand around your neck.

“You’ve held yourself together too long,” he adds, walking closer—not fast, not cautious, just... deliberate.

You still don’t look at him.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. Weakly. Poorly.

He stands behind you, saying nothing for a moment. Just... watching. Then comes a faint rustle of fabric. A hand reaches forward—not grabbing, not demanding—just the barest contact. The back of his knuckles brushes your cheek.

You flinch.

“I said I’m fine.”

He exhales. His voice soft, but impossible to argue with.

“And yet you’re not.”

You finally look up. Your eyes meet his—those unnervingly focused golden eyes, always cool and unblinking like they can see through the walls you’ve spent years building.

And maybe he can.

Your lip trembles.

“It’s just—” Your voice breaks. You turn away fast, wiping your eyes with your sleeve. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.”

“Then you should have crossed paths with someone less perceptive.”

A weak, breathless laugh escapes you. It cracks halfway through.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Come down from that ledge.”

“Why?”

“Because if you fall, I’ll catch you. But I’d prefer not to.”

You slide off the ledge slowly. Your feet touch the floor like you’re not sure they can hold your weight. Mihawk doesn’t reach out—he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is steadying.

You stand there, looking at him, trying to swallow the wave rising in your chest.

And then it hits you anyway.

Your eyes shut tight. Your shoulders shake. A breath escapes—raw and wrecked. You sway—

—And find yourself against him.

Not pulled, not snatched—just... there. His coat shifts open just enough to let you lean into the warmth beneath it. It’s not the warmth of comfort, not exactly. It’s the warmth of something solid.

Something real.

You don’t sob. Not loudly. But you tremble as though every thread inside you has been plucked loose.

Mihawk doesn’t speak. One hand rests at your back. The other slowly—almost cautiously—lifts to your cheek, tilting your head just enough so he can see your face.

His thumb brushes away a tear. Not like he doesn’t want to touch it. Like he refuses to let it stay.

“You are not weak,” he murmurs. “But even the strongest blades need rest. And care. Or they shatter.”

A soft, broken sound escapes you. It could be a laugh. It could be a sob.

“So I’m a sword now?”

“You are something far more dangerous,” he says, and there’s a softness in the corners of his mouth that few have ever seen.

“But even dangerous things bleed.”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you can’t look away.

“Why do you care?”

He stares at you. Then, slowly, one hand cups your face with a surprising gentleness.

“Because you’ve been bleeding for a while now.” He whispers.

“And I seem to be the only one who notices.”

His gaze didn’t flinch when you did.

Golden eyes locked onto yours—not demanding, not searching, but quietly watching for the moment you'd let yourself fall apart. Or maybe… let someone catch you before you did.

His hand was warm, and that surprised you. You always imagined him cold to the touch, like the steel he carried. But this—this was human. Grounded. Real.

He didn’t say anything else. He let the silence stretch—an invitation, not a demand.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

His voice dipped a little lower, almost a whisper. “Not tonight.”

However, rather than lean further into his embrace, rather than a smile brought about by his gentility...

...You can't help but scowl.

“Mihawk. I consider you to be a smart man. Sensible and logistical. So you should understand what I mean when I say this.”

You tear your face up to look into his golden eyes while tears threaten to spill from yours.

Teeth, grit. Jaw, clenched.

“Don't open something you won't be able to close.”

He didn’t flinch. Not at your words. Not at the emotion behind them.

He simply studied you—silent, unreadable as stone, though something flickered beneath the surface. Not quite surprise. Not offense. Something heavier. Slower.

His hand didn’t drop from your face. If anything, his thumb moved the smallest bit—just enough to wipe away a tear that had begun to fall despite your warning.

“I am a sensible man. And I do not start what I do not intend to see through.”

His voice was quiet. A blade sheathed in calm.

Then, after a pause. “But I also know better than to close what should never have been sealed in the first place.”

He leaned in just slightly—not to close the distance, but to anchor you in it. His presence wasn’t overwhelming. It didn’t demand anything from you.

It was simply… there. Unmoving. Unyielding.

“If you want me to walk away, say it. And I will. You’ll never see me again. But if you don’t…”

He let the words hang there—letting the choice rest in your hands, not his.

Even now, even as he looked at you like you were the only thing that wasn’t breakable in this world—he would never force your heart open. Only wait. Only offer.

“…Then I won’t close this.”

A sharp inhale leaves you. And then...

His arms came around you without hesitation as you fell against his chest.

No dramatics. No gasp of surprise. Just quiet certainty—as though he’d already braced himself for this moment, as though he’d been standing on that edge for longer than you realized, waiting for you to fall not apart… but in.

Towards him.

The fabric of his coat was thick beneath your cheek, but his heartbeat was steady. Solid. A quiet drum that didn’t falter, even as your tears soaked into the black.

He held you—not like something delicate, not like something he didn’t understand—but like a man who had carried weight before.

And knew how not to drop it.

“I’m still here.” He whispers, low, by your ear.

No poetry. No promises. Just fact. Steady. Present. Unshaken.

One of his hands moved to cradle the back of your head, fingers weaving gently into your hair.

“You don't need to ask me to stay.”

He exhales, and it was the closest thing to a sigh you’d ever heard from him.

“You’ve already earned that.”

You grit your teeth as you hug him, your arms encircling his waist like a lifeline to a drowning man.

He accepted your embrace with the kind of stillness that wasn’t cold—but reverent.

One arm circled you tighter, anchoring you fully against him, while the other remained at the back of your head, a steady, grounding pressure. Not possessive. Not hesitant. Just there—as if holding you was a truth he didn’t need to speak aloud.

His cheek lowered slightly, brushing the crown of your head.

“There’s no shame in needing someone.” He says, quietly.

A beat passed. Then another. You felt his chest rise with a measured breath, slow and careful, like he was adjusting to the feel of you pressed so close.

“And even if there were… I wouldn’t let it touch you.”

His voice, usually so composed, had an edge of something raw now. Not emotion spilling over—but being held back. For your sake.

For his.

He says nothing else. Just let you stay. Let you breathe. Let you be—without pretending, without posture.

As if you were safe now. As if you'd been all along.

After some time, you calm down. Tears reduced into mere sniffles.

Your eyes red, puffy and exhausted. Mimicking the sorry state of your soul.

You remove yourself silently from his embrace, but don't step too far away as your eyes stare at the ground.

He let you go the moment you moved, but not without a final, brief press of his hand at your back—as if to say he was still there, even as you stepped out of his arms.

The distance between you now was only a breath. No more than a whisper of space. But he didn’t reach for you again. Why?

Because Mihawk was not a man who chased.

And you knew that. Quite too well.

Instead, he stood steady, offering presence in place of pressure.

His gaze followed you quietly. The wind shifted, brushing your hair out of place. He didn’t fix it. Just watched you, eyes low beneath the brim of his hat.

“…You look as though you’ve been in a war.”

It wasn’t mockery. It wasn’t even teasing. Just his way of saying he’d noticed the redness around your eyes. The quiet exhaustion behind your breath.

Then, gently: “Did it help?”

His voice was quieter now. Not uncertain—he never was—but softer. Like he didn’t want to make you feel small for having fallen apart.

Like he knew the courage it took just to let yourself be seen in parts.

You sigh. “Too much.”

He nodded once. Not with pity, not with sympathy—just understanding, like he’d seen people come apart before… but rarely trusted anyone enough to watch them rebuild.

“That tends to be the way of it.”

He shifted, just slightly, and his fingers reached up—slow and deliberate—to brush a strand of hair away from your damp cheek. The gesture was simple. Thoughtful.

And somehow more intimate than anything he’d said all night.

“You carry too much for one person.” A pause. “But you don’t have to.”

The words weren’t a command. They were a quiet offer.

He lowered his hand, but didn’t step back.

“If ever again you feel it’s too much…” His gaze held yours, clear and steady. “Come to me.”

And for the first time tonight, his voice wavered—not with weakness, but with something close to honesty. Something rare and precious.

“I would rather bear it with you than watch you brea—”

“—Mihawk. Don’t.”

You interrupt him, your tone poised like a knife to a throat.

“Don’t tread on a line you won't walk fully through.” A pause. A breath sucked in. “Because I'll get attached. And neither of us wants that, clearly.”

Your glare in that moment—wet-eyed and trembling—was anything but sharp. But it hit. Right between the ribs, where even a sword couldn’t reach.

Mihawk didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just… looked at you.

Not with coldness. Not with regret. But with something undeniably present.

“You’re wrong... I’m already attached.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The sea breeze stilled. Even the shadows seemed to hold their breath.

His tone didn’t rise. His expression barely shifted. But the weight of his words hung in the air between you—clean, unflinching, and irreversible.

He stepped forward, just enough to close the sliver of space between you again. Not to claim. Not to trap. Just to be nearer.

“I tread carefully not because I won’t follow through… but because I know the cost of crossing lines that can’t be uncrossed.”

His gaze lowered slightly, shadowing his eyes beneath his hat.

“But I won’t pretend I haven’t crossed it already.”

There it was. The thing you weren’t supposed to say aloud. The thing a man like him wasn’t supposed to feel. But there, in the moonlight and quiet, with your hurt still lingering between you, he gave it form.

He met your eyes again.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

However, you do. You avert your gaze from him with your cheeks stained red and a petulant little pout on your lips.

And you whisper: “You had too much wine.”

His lips curved—just slightly. Not a smirk, not quite a smile. But something dry and razor-thin, like the glint of steel under moonlight.

“I’ve had exactly one glass.”

A pause, then—

“Your deflections could use sharpening.”

He didn’t sound amused. Not fully. But there was a shift in the air—something lighter, almost imperceptible. As if he were offering you an out, if you wanted it. A way to step back from the weight of what had just been said.

But he wasn’t stepping back.

He stood there still, hands calm at his sides, watching you pout with flushed cheeks like you’d wounded him somehow.

“You may choose to pretend I said nothing.” Then, quieter: “But I won’t.”

“Hmph. I'll write this all off as an illusion then. A side effect of stress.”

Stubbornly, you mumble. Then clear your throat.

“For your presence tonight, though, you have my gratitude. I won't lie. Somehow, you always give me the strength to stand up again. It's... my most favorite thing about you.”

“However.” You sharply turn. Still glaring. Cheeks only redder.

“I won't fall in love with a man like you. We wouldn't make a good pair. You're Mars, I'm Venus. You observe, I act. You never chase, I seek it. It's not a good match.”

He stood still through your words—stoic and unreadable as always, the moonlight casting silver across the angles of his face. But your final declaration landed like a thrown dagger.

He didn’t move to dodge.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t argue.

Instead, he stepped forward again, just once—closing the space until there was nowhere else to retreat but into yourself.

His voice came quiet. Unshaken.

“Then don’t fall.”

A beat. A silence.

“Stand beside me instead.”

There was no heat to his words. No plea. Just a calm refusal to accept the version of the story where he was already dismissed.

Where this ended here, with you writing him off like a threat to your peace.

You accused him of being Mars, and yet—

“You chase what you want. I protect what I value.” A flicker of something behind his eyes. “If that makes us mismatched, then so be it.”

And for a moment—just a moment—his voice dropped low enough to almost sound like regret. Or longing disguised as reason.

“But don’t mistake my stillness for absence.”

He looked down at you now, gaze heavy, voice quieter still.

“I am here. I have always been here.”

His hand lifted again—almost reaching, almost touching—but halted just short of your cheek.

“You’ll believe it when you’re ready.”

In response, your teeth only grit tighter, but your face remains tomato-colored red as you glare at him.

And with one disdainful grunt, you mutter: “Way too much wine.”

And turn to leave.

He lets out a soft exhale—too composed to be a sigh, too deliberate to be laughter. And you didn’t see it, but one corner of his mouth curved upward, just barely.

A rare thing. A quiet thing.

The kind of expression a man like him only wore for things that struck deeper than they should.

“Sleep well, Venus.” He calls as you turn.

No mockery. Just the faintest gravity in the way he said it—like it was a name he’d remember.

And as your footsteps echoed down the corridor, he didn’t follow. True to form, he remained where you left him—silent, steady, immovable.

Meanwhile, as you storm away, you grumble under your breath.

Fists clenched at your sides, heart beating a mile a minute in your chest. Yet, your mind is convinced.

He'll never chase after me. I don't move his heart like that.

...And I'm not interested in hearts that don't yield for me.

Your boots struck the stone floor in sharp little echoes—stubborn and seething. Each step was meant to steady you. To put space between you and him. Between you and that unbearable warmth.

That unbearable truth.

But your chest ached. Because you knew—you knew—you were right.

He wouldn’t chase.

He wouldn’t call your name like a fool with something to lose. That wasn’t who he was. Mihawk was a fortress, not a flame.

And your heart didn’t want a fortress.

…Did it?

You clenched your fists. You told yourself you weren’t trembling. It was just the damn cold.

And yet—in the quiet behind you, where he should have remained…

There was a sound.

Footsteps.

Not fast. Not reckless. But real.

Measured. Intentional.

Closer.

“You said I’d never chase.”

A voice calls calmly from behind you as you stop.

Another step.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

And then—

“But for you… I’ll walk.”

He stopped just a few paces behind you. Close enough for his voice to wrap around you like a cloak.

“I won’t beg. I won’t pull. But I will follow.”

Quiet again.

“Is that enough?”

“—NO!”

You turned sharply, knuckles turning white at your sides, brow furrowed as if you were in physical pain.

“It's not enough! I'm a selfish woman who lives in the delusions of her own fantasies. S-So…”

Your voice trails off as your bravado falters. A scared, hurt look briefly flashes onto your face as you will yourself to look back into the golden eyes that haunt you.

“G-Go away. You’re a sword in a stone that I can’t break.”

He stills at your outburst—stone-faced, yes, but not untouched. Something in his expression shifts. Not pity. Not softness. Something like recognition.

Like he had seen this before. Or perhaps... felt it himself.

He took in the sight of you: fists clenched like a warrior with no weapon, eyes full of defiance and ache and that terrible, honest desperation.

And he did the most infuriating thing he could possibly do.

He stepped closer.

Not fast. Not loud. But undeniably closer.

Now just within arm’s reach, he stopped. Looked down at you—not as a man towering over, but one... meeting you where you stood.

“You say you’re selfish.”

His gaze swept over your eyes. Your trembling mouth. Your fists.

“Fine. Then be selfish.”

He opened his hands at his sides, empty, as if offering himself without ceremony.

“Demand the moon. Shatter stars. Curse me, if you must.”

“But do not—”

His voice catches. Just slightly.

“Do not ask me to go when we both know I’d stay.”

His golden eyes bore into yours. Heavy with everything he didn’t say. Everything he’d held back. And still, somehow, still—he yielded.

Not with weakness.

But with will.

“Perhaps I am stone, yes. But not one you must break.” He leaned in, just barely. “Only one you have to lean on.”

And then, quieter still: “Even if you hate me for it.”

“UGH! I'd hate you if I could, you infuriating man!”

You turned away from him, crossing your arms in a huff.

Pouting.

He let out the smallest sound—dry, low, the ghost of something between a breath and a chuckle. But it wasn’t amusement at your expense.

It was the sound of a man who had finally been wounded—and welcomed it. Like a blade drawn clean across old armor.

“Then I consider myself fortunate.” He mutters, deadpan, but faintly warmer.

A pause, before adding—

“I’d rather earn your frustration than your silence.”

You heard the gentle rustle of fabric as he stepped to your side—not in front of you, not behind. Beside you.

Close enough that the brush of his coat just barely grazed your arm.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t reach for you.

He simply stood there.

Like the mountain you claimed he was—impossible to move. But for once, maybe… just maybe… choosing to stand with you, not in your way.

After a long pause, he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“…Still pouting?”

"Hmph. You don't chase, so you'll never see it." You grumble in an almost childish fashion, turning away from him yet again.

He raised a brow at that—subtle, unimpressed. But the glint in his eye betrayed him: not irritation… but something dangerously close to fondness.

“Lucky for me, you pout loud enough to feel it from here.”

A beat passed. Then, under his breath—so low it was almost to himself:

“…And yet I find I don’t mind it.”

He shifted just slightly to match your new angle, not letting you shake him off with your little turn.

If anything, he mirrored it—arms now folded across his own chest like a knight humoring a dragon guarding her treasure.

“If this is what awaits me at the end of walking instead of chasing…” A faint tilt of his head, lips barely quirked. “Then I suppose I’ll have to become a patient man.”

He turned his face toward the moonlight, letting the silence settle between you again—comfortable now. Close. Shared.

“Though if you plan to keep storming off, do let me know next time.”

A slow glance toward you.

“I’ll bring wine. Just one glass, of course.”

At that, you finally turn to look at him.

You say nothing, but you're still pouting, still glaring, cheeks red, eyes puffy, hair a little messy, but still there. Still endearing.

And he looks at you fully now.

Really looks.

At the puffiness around your eyes. The stubborn tilt of your chin. The mess in your hair that refused to obey the weight of the night. The blush that stained your cheeks like the petals of a storm-tossed rose.

And that gaze—that furious, wounded, resilient little glare that had no business being as heartbreakingly endearing as it was.

He didn’t smirk.

He didn’t tease.

He only softened.

A breath caught in his chest—barely noticeable. But there. Real.

“…You’re beautiful like this.”

Not flirtatious. Not flippant. Just honest.

He looked at you like a man who had seen many things—victories, tragedies, the rise and fall of kingdoms—and had never quite found something that stirred him quite like you did now, in this fragile, furious state.

“You think I wouldn’t chase, little Venus.” A breath. “But the truth is… I already have.”

“Liar.” You bite.

“You say you chase, but they're only on comet-paved roads in your orbit.”

You look at him one last time.

“Not mine.”

...He didn’t answer right away after that.

Because your words struck—not with heat, but with truth. A brutal, aching kind of truth. The kind that didn’t demand rebuttal. Only silence. And yet…

He still didn’t look away.

Even as you threw that final line like a closing door. Even as your voice trembled with the force of choosing distance over hope.

He stood his ground—not in pride, but in quiet defiance of the very fate you’d written for him.

“Then I suppose I will have to redraw the map.” He exhales softly, solemnly.

Yet his gaze is still steady. Golden. Unyielding.

“I do not chase comets. I wait for stars that dare fall near me.”

A step back.

A pause.

“If yours burns elsewhere… I will not stop it.”

And yet—

“But if it circles back, even once…” The faintest breath. “I will not let it go again.”

He inclined his head slightly, as if offering a final bow. Not of surrender. But respect. Of something unspoken, still held tight.

Then, quietly: “…Goodnight, Venus.”

And just like that—true to his word—he turned to walk away.

Not far. Not fast. But every step… still within reach.

“………”

“...Goodnight, Mars.”

The words sullenly leave your lips like the softest whisper as you retreat into the safety of your room.

But he heard it.

Your voice, soft and low, trailing behind like the tail of a comet refusing to vanish completely.

He didn’t stop walking.

But his pace slowed.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just enough to let the words land somewhere deep—where no blade could reach, but your voice always did.

“Goodnight, Mars.”

He would remember that. He’d carry it in silence, like he did most things that mattered.

And in the stillness that followed—beneath moonlight and tension and distance—neither of you saw it.

But the stars above burned just a little brighter.

As if, somewhere in the space between Venus and Mars…

Chapter 4: Ten Minutes

The next night.

You tell yourself it won’t happen again.

That you’ll lock the door this time. That you’ll put out the lamp early. That you’ll keep your nightgown covered with a robe, stay under the blankets, and read something Mihawk-proof—like something Buggy would indulge in. Or maybe something about naval codes.

That should be boring enough to steer him, right?

But, instead, you’re in bed. The lights are dim. The tea tray only has one cup.

And yet…

When a soft knock taps once at your door, your stomach flutters like it was waiting.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

Because Mihawk doesn’t speak either. He just lets the door creak open. Slowly. Casually. Purposefully. The room fills with his presence before his silhouette even crosses the threshold.

His coat is off this time. Sword absent. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. Hair a little damp from the sea breeze.

He glances at the tea tray.

Then at you.

And without a word—he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

His voice is low, smooth, and impossible to ignore.

“Let me guess… still five minutes?”

A pause. You glare over your book, cheeks pink again.

“I never gave you permission to come in here.”

He steps closer.

“I didn’t ask.”

His eyes flick down to the second cup that isn’t there tonight. A brow lifts.

“And I see I’m not expected.”

You lift your chin, defiant. “You’re not.”

He lets that hang in the air for a moment. Then—

“I’ll stay ten minutes, then.”

He crosses the room and sits in the chair like it belongs to him.

And somehow… you let him.

Again.

“Tomorrow, I’m locking the door. I mean it.”

Mihawk doesn’t even glance at you this time.

He leans back in the chair, one arm draped over the side, legs crossed casually at the knee—perfectly composed, perfectly infuriating.

“I’m sure you will.”

His tone is unbothered. Dry. Amused in that insufferably quiet way that makes your skin prickle.

But then his gaze slides to you again—slow, deliberate.

And softer this time.

“But you didn’t lock it tonight.”

A beat.

“You knew I’d come.”

The air shifts—just slightly.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t move closer. Just lets the words settle in the space between you, like mist curling beneath a door you forgot to seal.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, “you can pretend again.”

Then he glances toward your book.

“And I’ll let you.”

“W-We’ll see whose pretending, you stubborn oaf!”

That earns you the smallest sound—a quiet breath through Mihawk’s nose, not quite a chuckle, but the closest he gets to laughter when he's not wielding a blade.

He rests his chin in his hand now, elbow perched on the armrest as he watches you—not with judgment, not with heat, just with that damnable patience of his. Like he could sit there for hours just watching you pout and pretend you're unaffected.

"You do it so well," he says smoothly, voice low, velvet-dry. "The pouting. The fuss. The insistence that I don't belong here."

A pause. His head tilts.

"But you haven't told me to leave yet."

His gaze lingers.

"And we’re already on minute eight."

“Leave, then! Goodbye!”

A sharp quip paired with a flash of pink from your lips.

He blinks once.

Slow. Deadpan.

Then—his eyes drop slightly to your mouth. To the pout. The little flash of tongue.

And for the first time tonight, Mihawk looks like he’s considering something dangerous.

“…You do realize,” he says calmly, voice smooth as sin, “that if you keep doing things like that, I’ll start assuming you want me to stay longer.”

His fingers tap once against the armrest.

“And if you really wanted me gone,” he adds, gaze now locked to yours, “you wouldn’t look so lovely trying to convince me.”

A pause.

“You’d scowl harder.”

He leans back. Satisfied. Settled.

And nowhere near leaving.

“Twelve minutes,” he murmurs. “You’re slipping.”

“Twelve minutes. Goodbye and good riddance.”

He exhales through his nose again—still unbothered, still infuriatingly him.

But this time, he rises.

Not with haste. Not with defeat.

Just… deliberate.

He crosses the room in measured steps, pausing once at your bedside, gaze dropping to you in full—your crossed arms, your scrunched brow, your still-slightly-glossed pout.

And that tiny, teeniest little flicker in your eyes.

The one that says—wait, don’t actually go.

He leans down to your eye level—not close enough to touch, just enough that his voice brushes over you like a fingertip trailing heat.

“Tomorrow night,” he says softly, “set the tea for two again.”

Then, lower—

“I won’t ask twice.”

And with that, he straightens.

And walks out the door.

Leaving behind silence.

And your pulse. Still racing.

Yet, your voice still calls out to him.

“H-How dare you?! I told you it’s gonna be locked, you cad! And you don't deserve my tea! You didn't even finish the cup yesterday!”

The door has barely closed when his voice comes back through—smooth, amused, and entirely unrepentant:

“Then I’ll bring my own.”

A pause. Just long enough for you to throw a pillow at the air itself.

“And a spare key.”

You hear the faintest click of his boots walking away, the quiet swagger of a man who’s already won a war that hasn’t even started.

You sit there, flushed and fuming, glaring at the door like it personally offended you.

“UGH! The nerve! Spare key, my—!”

But you don’t finish the sentence.

Because your eyes flick to the tea tray.

To the second cup.

And damn it to hell, your cheeks burn all over again.

Tomorrow, you swear. You’ll lock it for real.

Maybe.

...But you should also probably brew enough tea for two.

Chapter 7: Meteor Shower

The next morning.

The sea fog hangs low along the coastline as you walk toward the inner wing of the Guild. Pale light cuts across the floors and glints off polished iron fixtures, but everything feels muted. Far away. Like the world is coated in wisps.

Your boots click softly with each step.

You’ve kept your face composed. Your voice level. But inside? You’re bracing.

Because by nightfall, Mihawk will return here. And if you don’t move now—decide now—you may not move at all.

You reach Crocodile’s office.

Two guards posted at the door straighten as you approach, but you give them only a nod. One steps aside and knocks.

Crocodile’s voice—low and gruff—answers from within.

“Come in.”

You enter.

He sits at his desk, coat draped on the back of his chair, half a cigar burning in the tray beside him. A mountain of reports lies before him, but his eyes lift to you immediately.

And linger.

He leans back.

“You look like hell.”

You roll your eyes.

“Good morning to you too.”

A pause.

You step forward, hesitating just a beat longer than you mean to, then finally speak.

“I need a leave. A short one.”

Crocodile studies you.

His brow lifts.

“Explain.”

You hesitate.

“I'm... burning out. I need space. Quiet. Somewhere else for a while. Just a week. Maybe two.”

You don’t mention Mihawk.

You don’t have to.

Because Crocodile narrows his gaze. Oh, he knows.

He’s known for some time now, in fact. The way you and the world’s greatest swordsmen catch each other’s gazes in meetings, or passing down the halls.

You always quickly look elsewhere, but Mihawk’s eyes never drift.

Crocodile exhales a long, slow breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he mutters, tossing his pen down. “I’ll have a ship prepared. Somewhere remote. Quiet. No Guild work.”

A beat.

He leans forward, grabbing his cigar from the tray.

“But if you're running, you won’t outrun him. You know that.”

Your jaw tightens.

“I’m not running.”

Another beat of silence.

Crocodile exhales smoke, slow and deliberate.

“No. You’re stalling.” Then, with surprising softness: “Don’t wait too long to make your decision. It won’t hurt any less.”

He waves a hand, already reaching for the next report.

“Go. I’ll handle things here.”

You nod, quietly. Then turn to leave.

But the weight in your chest?

It doesn’t lift. It only starts to sink faster.

Late afternoon.

You didn’t even decide to wait for the evening departure.

The thought of hearing his boots echo down the corridor—the sharp, familiar cadence that always signaled his arrival—you couldn’t bear it.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

So you move quickly. Quietly. Cloak drawn tight, bag slung over your shoulder, heart racing like you're fleeing something more dangerous than any mission you’ve ever taken.

Because you are.

You’re fleeing him. Dracule Mihawk.

How many men felled by Yoru have once been in your shoes, with this dreadful shiver trailing down their spines? Trying to outrun what feels like Death itself.

Well, your situation's a bit different, you suppose. You doubt any of those men have been looked at the way Mihawk looks at you.

Yet somehow, that knowledge only makes it worse. Because what awaits you is something far more complex than death.

The dockhands are efficient. No one questions Crocodile’s seal on the order. A small ship, crewed by minimal hands, prepped and waiting. Supplies packed. A discreet course set.

You keep your hood up the entire time.

The sun is barely starting to set—bathing the harbor in light orange and violet amidst blue—but you don’t watch it.

You’re too afraid you’ll turn and see him standing there.

Not with anger. Not with questions.

But with that look.

The one he wears when he's already seen the choice you’re going to make, and lets you make it anyway.

Your heart pounds louder with every step up the gangplank.

Leave now.

Leave now, god damn it.

You grip the railing as the ship pulls away from the harbor.

The island shrinks behind you—bit by bit—until the Cross Guild fortress is a distant silhouette, swallowed by mist and sea.

You exhale.

You’re safe.

You made it.

But as you stand at the stern of the ship, wind biting against your cheeks and your hands trembling beneath your gloves—

You don’t feel free.

You feel hollow.

And as the night eventually swallows the horizon, you whisper into the wind:

“…I’m sorry.”

Knowing full well Mihawk will return to find the lock untouched.

The chair empty. The tea cold. And you—gone.

Nightfall.

The ship cuts through the dark waves with effortless precision, but Mihawk stands at the helm, still as stone. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his hat.

He hasn’t spoken in hours.

Didn’t even glance back at the marines who had tried—foolishly—to stall him with questions on the dock.

His boots hit the Cross Guild’s stone floors with measured weight.

Not rushed. But not casual, either.

He walks the halls with his usual restraint, ignoring the awed and curious glances of new recruits. Same route. Same quiet grace.

Until—

The door.

Your door.

He stops.

Faint light under the crack.

He glances once to the side. No guards nearby. No sound. He reaches for the handle.

Unlocked.

Strange.

Mihawk pushes it open slowly, expecting… something. A sigh. A glare. A muttered "ugh, you’re back."

But instead?

Stillness.

No tea tray. No book. No flicker of warmth from the blanket you always dragged to one side of the bed.

Just emptiness.

His eyes scan the room.

The chair hasn’t moved. The desk is too clean. And the air doesn’t carry your perfume in it.

Something cold settles in his chest.

He turns on his heel and walks—briskly now—through the manor until he reaches the main hall.

Then deeper. Down toward Crocodile’s wing.

He doesn’t knock.

He pushes open the office doors with a firm hand, boots loud against the polished floor.

Crocodile looks up from his desk, cigar between his teeth, eyes flickering up for a moment.

Before he silently returns his gaze back to the report in his hand.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Mihawk says.

Not a question.

Crocodile leans back slowly. Exhales smoke.

“Left this morning.”

Silence.

Mihawk’s jaw ticks.

“For how long?”

“A week,” Crocodile replies, voice unreadable. “Maybe two.”

Mihawk’s eyes darken.

“Where?”

Crocodile doesn’t flinch.

“Far enough. Somewhere quiet.”

Mihawk’s gaze cuts like a drawn blade.

“You sent her away.”

“No.” Crocodile leans forward, golden eyes sharp. “She asked for this. Practically begged me for it.”

Silence again.

Mihawk’s fingers twitch once at his side.

He turns without a word and walks out of the office.

Crocodile watches him go.

Then, under his breath—

“…You were late, Hawk.”

But Mihawk is already gone.

And the chair by your bed?

Will stay empty. At least for now.

The following days.

You’re gone.

And Mihawk feels it in everything.

Not just in your room, or your empty chair at meetings, or the absence of your voice echoing down the hall. He feels it in the way he drinks his wine without realizing it’s too warm. In the way the guild feels unbalanced, like someone removed the center of gravity.

Even Buggy makes a note of it. Not that it helps.

He doesn’t ask where you left to. He doesn’t need to.

He knows Crocodile gave you space. Gave you silence. Gave you exactly what you asked of him.

And so, Mihawk waits.

Not because he’s patient—

But because he doesn’t chase behind comets that leave his orbit on their own accord. Even ones as lovely as you.

Even though he wants to, more than anything.

Because of all the things Mihawk wants to be for you…

An inescapable meteor shower, a storm of pressure and cataclysmic coercion, is not one of them.

So he sharpens Yoru instead. Reviews Guild intel. Attends meetings in silence, his gaze drifting to the empty seat beside him just a moment too long before snapping back.

But late at night— When the fortress is quiet, and his coat still smells faintly of rose tea—

He lets himself remember.

Your voice saying, “Five minutes.” Your fingers brushing his as you passed him a cup. Your stubborn scowl that never quite reached your eyes.

And the last thing you said to him.

“I’m tired. Today was long.”

He hadn’t asked why. He hadn’t drifted close enough to find out.

And he won’t make that mistake again.

Far away, on another island.

You walk the shoreline, wind teasing your robe as you stare out at the endless sea. Your tea is warm. The skies are soft. The quiet is everything you asked for.

But not anything even remotely close to what you need.

Because in the stillness…

You miss the sound of footsteps just outside your door. The sharp rustle of a coat as he leaned into your space. The weight of his silence—comforting, not cold.

You left to remember who you were without him.

But now, standing there…

You start to wonder—

Who are you now that he’s gone too?

Chapter 6: Time's Up

The next morning.

Light filters softly through your curtains, warm and gold, stretching across your sheets in lazy stripes. The scent of tea leaves still lingers faintly in the air—but this time it’s mingled with something sharper. Earthier.

Cologne, the scent of a man. One that lingered all night.

You shift beneath your covers, a sleepy groan slipping past your lips as you blink blearily toward the window.

Your body feels heavy. Not ill, just… worn. Muscles ache in slow pulses, your limbs like silk weighed down by too many dreams. You slept longer than usual. Deeper. And still, you feel like you could melt right back into the bed.

You blink again.

There’s a cup of tea on your nightstand.

Still warm.

And beside it—neatly placed, with infuriating precision—is a single note.

Unfolded. As if he knew you’d read it first thing.

You slept through dawn. Didn’t have the heart to wake you. —M

You stare at it.

Heart thudding softly. Sleep still clinging to your lashes.

And the only thing you can think is—

He ended up having his way, in the end. Again.

You let him.

A few days later.

You’re seated at your desk—papers stacked neatly, ink drying on a half-finished report—but you haven’t written a single word in over fifteen minutes.

Your quill rests between your fingers, unmoving. Your eyes are fixed on the tea cup near your hand.

Same placement. Same warmth. Same empty second spot beside it.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That it’s better this way. You’re busier lately. The guild’s affairs are picking up again. You have no time for distractions—least of all ones that come in the form of golden-eyed swordsmen who don’t ask, don’t demand, but stay anyway.

And yet—

You didn’t sleep well last night.

The room felt colder. The silence sharper. Even the blankets felt too big.

Because he didn’t come.

You told him not to. You meant to, anyways. But his presumably busy schedule beat you to it.

And now… the ache in your chest betrays you.

Your hand drifts to your collarbone without thinking, thumb brushing gently across your neck where, nights ago, his breath had lingered. You squeeze your eyes shut.

No more.

You can’t let this become a habit. Can’t afford softness. No less in a den of killers.

You’re too smart to let someone like him seep into your routine. Too careful to let it feel safe.

Because once it does… You’ll want more. No, you’ll desperately need more.

And someone like Mihawk never gives more.

You rise from your desk, the chair scraping softly across the floor as you move to your bedroom door.

You hesitate there—hand on the lock.

Then turn it. Click.

Locked.

This time, for real.

And you tell yourself it doesn’t sting.

Even when you stare at that untouched second teacup the whole time you undress. Even when you pull the blankets up to your chin and pretend the room doesn’t feel quieter than usual.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

Even if it hurts. Especially because it hurts.

………

…And yet, you lie awake far longer than you admit to yourself.

Blankets pulled up. Room still. The lamp’s warm glow flickers beside you, casting soft shadows over your walls.

You’ve turned the lock. You've sealed the silence. You've kept your promise to yourself.

So why does it feel like you’re holding your breath?

You shift onto your side. Then your back. Then your stomach. You tug the blanket tighter, looser, tighter again. The pillow isn’t right. The air is too warm. Too cold. You turn your face into the sheets and whisper:

“…I hate him.”

But your voice trembles.

You don’t hate him.

You miss him.

The way he entered without asking—but never crossed a line. The way he sat in that chair without a word—until you gave him one. The way he looked at you like nothing else mattered.

You sigh.

Your chest aches.

And then— a sound.

Tap. Tap.

Your heart leaps.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

Then—his voice. Low. Gentle. Right behind the door.

“…You locked it.”

A pause. Quiet. Heavy.

“I expected that.”

You can hear him lean against the doorframe. Hear the faint rustle of his coat. Hear the quiet patience in his voice; the kind that never begs.

“I’ll go.”

Please don’t.

But those words don’t reach his ears. Only silence stretches.

“I wanted you to know… I didn’t stay for the tea.”

A beat.

“I stayed for you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

You don’t reply. You can’t.

And just like that—

His presence fades.

No door creak. No parting word.

Just boots echoing down an empty corridor in the dead of night.

Your fingers curl into the sheets.

Tightly. Desperately. Like maybe if you squeeze hard enough, it’ll keep you from falling apart. From unraveling over a man who never demanded anything from you—but somehow has everything.

Your breath catches. Your throat tightens.

And the tears—quiet, fragile, frustrating—spill anyway.

You bury your face in the pillow, jaw clenched as you try not to sob. As if the sound would bring him back. As if it would break you more.

It’s getting too much.

Too close. Too vulnerable. Too real.

Every time he came, he slipped past your defenses without even touching you.

Just a glance. A word. A silent promise from across the room.

And now that he’s gone—truly gone—your chest feels hollow. Like the absence of him created a shape that you can’t fill with pride. Or pout. Or silence.

He’s Mars. That’s what you tell yourself.

Cold. Distant. Measured. A man forged in silence and merciless steel, not warmth and softness.

And you? You’re Venus.

Light and loving and longing. Too emotional. Too reactive. Too much.

The two of you were never built to last. Only to collide.

That’s the truth you cling to tonight as the tears slip down your cheeks—quiet, stubborn things, falling without permission.

“He won’t need you the way you need him,” you whisper to yourself, voice breaking. “He won’t stay. Not really. Not forever.”

And still—

You reach out.

A hand trailing toward the empty space beside you in the bed. The part you never let him near. The part that’s always been yours alone.

But tonight?

It’s cold.

Empty.

Wrong.

And that’s when the sob breaks through. Not loud. Not wild. But wrecked.

Because no matter how much you tell yourself this is right— That it’s for the best— That you’re protecting yourself from the inevitable—

The truth is…

You fucking miss him.

Not just the silence. Not just the tea. Not just the way he always watched you like you were the only person left in the world with fire still in their eyes.

You miss him.

And for once, there’s no clever retort. No glare. No shield.

Just a quiet, aching whisper into your pillow: “…Why did you have to make me feel safe, you bastard?”

The next morning.

You move through the guild like a ghost of yourself.

Your steps are measured, but they drag. Your eyes are focused, but dulled. Your voice—when it comes—is quiet, clipped, and dazed.

People notice.

Buggy doesn’t crack a joke in lieu of a morning greeting as per usual. Instead, he watches you pass with wide, uncertain eyes and doesn’t comment on the bags under yours.

Even Crocodile glances up from a document as you enter the strategy room and narrows his gaze. He doesn’t speak—but you catch the way he studies you like something’s clearly wrong.

You give your reports. You nod at briefings. You sign what needs signing.

And you pretend.

Gods, you pretend.

But everything feels too loud. Too bright. Too not him.

Because Mihawk didn’t show up again last night. Or this morning. Not even for another quip or a knock. Not even a shadow.

Maybe he was upset you actually locked the door. And maybe that should’ve made it easier. Maybe it proves your point. Maybe it means he’s finally letting you go.

But instead?

It just makes the ache worse.

By late afternoon, you excuse yourself early. Claim a headache. Claim fatigue. No one argues.

You close the door to your quarters behind you.

And your eyes immediately fall to the chair.

Empty.

Still turned ever so slightly toward your bed from the last time he sat there. Mocking you in its stillness.

You stare at it for a long moment.

“…Idiot.”

And drop your coat on the floor.

That night.

You sit curled beneath your blanket, a book in hand, the lamp casting soft pools of amber light across your bed. The wind taps gently against the window, and for once, the silence feels… still. Not heavy. Not suffocating.

Just quiet.

You’ve been here before. In stillness like this. Waiting without realizing you're waiting.

But Mihawk isn’t coming tonight. You know that.

He’s away, you heard from Buggy earlier—sent on a solo mission by the Guild. Efficient. Clean. Swift. Just like him.

And maybe that’s why, as your eyes skim the pages, your chest twists tighter than it has in days.

The chapter you landed on in your book… it hits different tonight. In it, the heroine chooses to flee from the arms of her beloved—not because she’s weak, but because her heart’s too full and her mind’s too torn.

Because staying would mean choosing pain when she barely has the strength to stand.

Ugh. You just wanted some smut, not the story of your life.

You close the book gently.

Set it in your lap.

Your hand lingers at your chest.

A thought intrudes: Maybe you should go away, too.

Not forever. Not for good.

Just long enough to breathe air that didn’t have Mihawk’s scent in it.

To feel something other than the raw pull of missing him and hating that you miss him. Long enough to remember who you are without his quiet eyes watching you unravel and saying nothing.

You rise from bed and move slowly to your desk, scribbling down a note to yourself for the morning.

Talk to Crocodile.

A week. Maybe two. Any island. Some supply excuse, diplomatic errand—anything. Literally anywhere for anything.

Just somewhere without him.

Because Mihawk is many things. Unshakable. Calculating. Disarming.

But he is also persistent.

And if you stay here… if he walks through that door tomorrow night when he gets back and looks at you that way again—

You’ll lose whatever strength you have left to cling to.

So tonight, you sleep.

And tomorrow, you plan.

Because this time, Venus has to leave Mars’ orbit.

Chapter 3: Five Minutes

Later that night.

You’d just finished showering.

Mihawk’s words had plagued you all day, leaving you pouting and frowning ever since. Moaning and grumbling. Petulant. Whiny.

You sat at your vanity, dragging a brush through your hair with a pout still stuck to your lips.

“That intolerable man… ooh, I can’t stand him!”

You threw yourself onto the bed, letting your weight sink into the mattress as you buried your face in the pillows. But the cold of the sheets only reminded you of the warmth of his arms from the night before.

A softness crossed your face, uninvited.

The quiet settled in.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat sound too loud. That makes the words you mumble into your pillow echo like confessions.

Go catch someone else, you jerk. See if I care.

But you do care.

And that’s the fucking problem.

You care in the way the sheets feel wrong—too cold, too empty. You care in the way your thoughts wander without permission—to the way he looked at you, listened to you, saw through you without asking for anything else.

And most of all… you care because part of you still hopes he didn’t mean it.

That he wouldn’t catch someone else.

That he wouldn’t want to.

Outside, the moon hangs low again. Same sky. Same orbit.

And somewhere in the depths of the Guild… you know he’s still awake.

Still reading, maybe. Or polishing a blade. Or thinking of you, maybe, with that same maddening stillness he wears like a second skin.

Or maybe—

A soft knock.

Three slow, measured taps against your door follow.

Not hurried.

Not nervous.

Just… intentional.

Like a bastard who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You glance toward the door.

“At this hour?” you murmur to yourself, rising from the bed in your nightgown as your heart, traitorous little shit, speeds up just a pulse.

Nah, no way, though. This isn’t his style. Not at this hour.

You hesitate… then open the door.

The hallway lamp casts a faint glow behind him—framing him like a shadow made flesh.

Mihawk.

Still dressed, of course. As if the night couldn’t touch him the same way it touched others. But his coat was unfastened. His sword was nowhere in sight. And his hair—though only slightly—looked tousled, as if he’d run a hand through it more than once tonight.

His gaze swept over you once—taking in the nightgown, the faint crease in your cheek from the pillow, the slight flush in your skin.

And he said nothing of it.

Only—

“May I come in?”

His voice was quiet. Low.

As though, for once in his life, the world’s greatest swordsman wasn’t here to fight.

But to see you. Yes, at this hour. Apparently.

You arched a brow, half-pouting in contempt already.

“To a lady’s quarters at this time of night? I think not. I’d rather not give Buggy more to talk about.”

Yet, your cheeks burned even as you said it.

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly—not in annoyance, but in that unreadable, calculating way that always made you feel like you were the subject of some silent analysis.

Or perhaps…

Admiration.

“Buggy talks whether or not he has material,” he replied simply.

A beat. A glance at your flushed expression.

“And I’ve long stopped concerning myself with the opinions of jesters.”

He didn’t push the door. Didn’t cross the threshold.

But he didn’t leave either.

He just stood there—like a monument to stubborn, inconvenient attraction.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he adds.

The words settled in the space between you.

Casual. But not really.

“Too much wine, perhaps.”

A subtle curve of his lips.

“Or maybe I was waiting for a comet from another planet that never passed by.”

A pause.

“Venus, was it?”

He tilted his head.

“…Or shall I leave you to pout in solitude a little longer?”

You frowned, arms crossing.

“And, pray tell, what do you want me to do about your wine-induced insomnia?”

That nearly-smile returned—dangerously subtle.

Like your irritation was the exact thing he’d come for.

“I thought you might offer me a distraction.”

He leaned, just slightly, against the doorway—arms folding lazily across his chest like a man who already knew he’d be let in.

“A sharp-tongued debate. A dramatic glare. Another attempt at pretending last night never happened.”

His gaze dropped slightly—not with heat, but with something quieter. Gentler.

Something that made your stomach twist despite the chill of the floor beneath your feet.

“Or, if that’s too much effort…”

He tilted his head again.

“You could simply let me sit with you. Until it passes.”

A breath.

“No swords. No wine. Just some loaned time.”

And then—his brow lifted, just a touch.

“Unless, of course, you’re afraid you might fall to pieces again.”

You scowled.

“Hmph. Nice to know you only come to me when bored out of your mind. You hold me in such high regard.”

You heaved a loud sigh, glancing up and down the hallway before muttering.

“Five minutes. And I’m kicking you out.”

With a glare, you stepped aside and held the door open.

Mihawk entered slowly, his boots making no sound on the floor.

His gaze moved across the room once—sweeping, silent.

The walls were painted a soft pink. The bedding matched. Coquette and warm. The lights dimmed to a soft feminine glow. Your rose perfume lingered in the air.

Undeniably, unapologetically, a woman’s room.

Undeniably you.

He turned toward you, expression unreadable.

“I said sleep, not boredom,” he murmured. “You’re many things. Dull is not one of them.”

He approached the nearby armchair, but didn’t sit yet. His eyes traced the shape of the room again—lingering on the blanket draped at the edge of your bed. The slippers on the floor. The book on your vanity. The light catching in your brushed hair.

“This is… unexpected,” he said softly.

“Soft, even.”

His gaze lingered too long.

“It suits you.”

“I’m a woman. I like pink. And I like cute things. That’s all there is to it.”

You huffed, brushing past him with a pout, the hem of your nightgown skimming your thighs as you returned to your vanity.

The brush was still warm from your grip earlier as you resumed combing through your hair—pointedly ignoring the man now taking up space in your very pink, very soft, very not-for-men room.

Behind you, Mihawk watched.

He didn’t smirk.

Didn’t mock.

His golden eyes followed your reflection in the mirror—quietly, intently.

“I didn’t say it was surprising,” he said after a beat, his voice lower now. “I said it suited you.”

He leaned a shoulder against the armchair but didn’t sit just yet. That sharp, stoic presence of his had softened—not dulled, not tamed—just… folded inward. Like a sword sheathed but still deadly.

“I’ve seen you command a room of mercenaries,” he continued. “Threaten generals. Debate Crocodile like you were born to ruin his patience.”

A pause.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours in the mirror.

“But this,” he said, with a faint gesture to the room, to you—bare-faced, flushed, dressed in softness—“is the first time you’ve looked completely real.”

You didn’t reply.

You just kept brushing.

Slower, now.

The kind of slow you didn’t realize until your hand stilled halfway down a strand of hair. Your brows furrowed faintly. You refused to look at him—but the heat in your cheeks deepened all the same.

And he noticed.

Of course he noticed.

Mihawk let out a slow breath—less a sigh, more a shift. A subtle yielding.

“I won’t stay long,” he said, finally lowering himself into the chair. He didn’t sprawl. Didn’t lounge. He simply leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely interlaced.

“I meant what I said.”

His voice dropped even quieter, nearly a murmur.

“No swords. No wine. Just… this.”

A pause.

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

You pouted deeper, trying to look annoyed as you flicked your hair over your shoulder.

“Hmph. Enjoy your fill. You’re not allowed back in here tomorrow.”

Mihawk exhaled through his nose—not quite a laugh, but something close.

“I’ll savor it, then.”

He studied the room again. The ribbons on your vanity stool. The soft glow of the bedside lamp. The worn copy of a book on your nightstand with a petal tucked between the pages.

Then back to you.

Still brushing your hair.

Still pretending not to notice him watching you.

Still glowing pink and warm and lovely under candlelight.

“I’ll take the silence, too,” he murmured. “Even if you fill it with glaring.”

Another pause.

“I prefer it to pretending you don’t want me here.”

That earned him a glance. A sharp one.

“I don’t,” you said flatly. “That, I thought, was perfectly clear.”

Still, you rose from your chair and crossed the room—feet brushing against the floor with that same soft defiance—and reached for the teapot resting near your windowsill.

You poured two cups.

The porcelain clinked gently.

You handed one to him without ceremony.

“But I suppose I’ll be a hospitable host, at the very least. Here. Tea. If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.”

And then, without looking at him.

“And before you ask, no. I don’t have wine.”

He took the cup when you offered it, his fingers brushing yours—purposeful.

Brief.

Enough to make something flicker in your chest if you weren’t careful.

“I wasn’t going to ask for wine,” he murmured, cradling the cup in his hands like it was something worth more than it seemed.

“You’ve already given me something warmer.”

His gaze dipped to the teacup. Then lifted—back to you.

“No poisons? No hexes?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—barely.

“…You’re soft,” he said, “but you’re still you.”

He takes a sip.

His gaze never leaves yours over the rim.

And somehow, in this quiet moment—with you flushed and pouting in silk and candlelight, and him sipping your tea like it’s the rarest thing in the world—it feels dangerously close to something like intimacy.

Something neither of you dares name.

“I should’ve poisoned it, you’re right. I missed a good opportunity. Then again, I wasn’t expecting company.”

You climbed onto your bed, curling your legs beneath you as you reached for your book—finding your page like nothing was different. Like your heart wasn’t thudding against your ribs.

He watched you move beneath the blankets, the silk of your nightgown slipping soft along your skin as you folded yourself into the pillows with perfect, practiced composure.

His chest pulled taut.

He didn’t move.

Just lifted the teacup again.

“You’re the only person I know who can insult someone and serve them tea in the same breath,” he mused, sipping. “I can’t decide if that’s generosity or violence.”

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t have to.

He could see it in the subtle twitch of your mouth behind your book. In the way your brow furrowed just enough to show you were still listening.

He watched you flip a page.

Watched your eyes scan the words.

Watched the slight shift of your legs beneath the blanket.

“Five minutes, wasn’t it?” he said quietly.

He set the cup down.

“I hope your timing’s flexible.”

You didn’t look up.

“Hmph. You’ll be bored to death soon enough. There are no swords in here.”

And his reply came immediately—low, unflinching.

“There’s you in here.”

No flirtation.

No tease.

Just… truth. Plain and sharp and completely disarming.

Like everything else he said when you least expected it.

“I’ll survive the lack of steel,” he added, resting deeper into the chair. One leg crossed at the knee. Arms stretched comfortably along the sides.

“You’re sharper than most blades anyway.”

A pause.

“And you’ve drawn blood with less than a sentence.”

“Shush,” you muttered, eyes locked on your book. “I’m reading.”

That smirk—small, smug, satisfied—curved his lips again.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t tease.

He just leaned back into the chair, letting the hush settle around you like dust in a sunbeam.

The room went still.

Peaceful.

The only sounds: the rustle of your turning pages, the faint clink of sipped tea, and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat—louder than it should’ve been. Because he was still watching you.

Watching like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

And for once, he didn’t need to say anything.

He just stayed.

Then, after a while—

“What are you reading?” he mused aloud, the question too casual to be innocent.

Your shoulders stiffened.

“N-None of your business!” you snapped, lowering the book just enough to glare over the top.

Mihawk raised an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “A romance novel, by the looks of it.”

“Then stop looking!”

He chuckled—low, amused, entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m only confirming a hypothesis,” he said, settling deeper into the chair. “The flushed cheeks. The wide eyes. The death grip on the page… very telling.”

His gaze flicked lazily toward your hands.

“Is it the brooding type this time? Or the charming rogue?”

You said nothing.

Didn’t need to.

The way you buried your face deeper into your book said plenty.

He tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity.

“...Both?”

Your ears turned pink.

His smirk widens just slightly—dangerous, but amused.

“A love triangle,” he murmured, almost thoughtfully. “How classic.”

You still didn’t answer.

He didn’t expect you to.

Instead, after a few seconds of quiet, he leaned back and closed his eyes—arms resting crossed against his chest—voice just soft enough to hit your spine.

“Tell me if either of them wins you over. I could use the strategy.”

The book snapped shut with a thwap.

You let out a frustrated groan and launched the nearest pillow at his chest, your face completely flushed.

“Your five minutes are up! So shoo!”

The pillow hit him with a satisfying thud—square in the chest.

And Mihawk didn’t flinch. Merely opened his eyes.

He caught it as it fell to his lap, dusted off a nonexistent speck of lint, and lifted his gaze back to you with maddening calm.

Like you were the most ridiculous—and most endearing—thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

“So violent for someone reading about love.”

He stood, slow and deliberate, walking the pillow back to the bed.

He didn’t toss it.

Didn’t joke.

He placed it gently beside you, smoothed the edge of your blanket like it was ritual, then leaned down—just slightly.

Close enough that you could smell the warmth of his cologne mingling with the faint trace of your rose perfume in the air.

“Next time,” he said, voice low and impossibly certain, “I’ll bring my own copy.”

A pause.

“And stay ten minutes.”

Then, without waiting for your response, he turned—quiet and unhurried.

Heading for the door.

No swagger.

No drama.

Just the kind of composure that made it impossible to tell whether he’d won… or just left you breathless on purpose.

He didn’t look back.

But he knew you were watching.

“T-There won’t be a next time, you lout!”

You huffed behind him, clutching your book like a shield.

And at the threshold, he paused.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t smirk.

But you saw it—the subtle rise of his shoulders. The tilt of his head. That stillness he wielded like a weapon sharper than any blade.

Then—softly, silkily—

“We’ll see.”

The door clicked closed behind him.

And just like that—

He was gone.

But his presence lingered.

In the half-empty cup of tea. In the faint scent of his cologne. In the crease of the pillow where he’d placed it beside you.

Like the place in your chest he’d quietly—shamelessly—staked a claim to.

There might not be a next time…