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Law did not want to go to the tavern, but you managed to talk him into a begrudging agreement.
You’re perched on a barrel you absolutely should not be sitting on, hair half-loose, glass raised like you’re making a speech you’ve already forgotten the beginning of. Someone laughs…maybe because of you, maybe because of the way you nearly tip backward and catch yourself with exaggerated dignity.
“I meant to do that,” you announce, giggling.
The table erupts.
You’ve somehow collected an audience. Sailors, locals…everyone leaning in as you tell a story that starts with “So there was this island—” and immediately derails into impressions, dramatic reenactments, and sound effects no one asked for.
At some point you gesture too wide, nearly knocking your glass over.
“It survived,” you say solemnly. “Like me. Against all odds.”
Your humor is sharp tonight. Reckless. You’re loose-limbed and bright-eyed, riding the confidence alcohol and attention manufacture together.
Across the room, Law has stopped pretending to drink.
He’s leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on you. You’re too loud. You’re touching too many arms. Someone hands you another drink and you take it without hesitation.
His eyes narrow.
This was supposed to be fine. Controlled. He told himself that when he agreed to come. You’re allowed to have fun. You always do.
That’s not the problem.
You’re too drunk. The crowd is too close. And a stranger is leaning in like he belongs there.
Law stands.
By the time you notice him, he’s already there, one hand on the barrel beside you, body angled in without touching. Close enough to be felt. A quiet wall at your back.
You blink up at him, eyes lighting immediately. “Oh. Hey,” you say, delighted, like he’s an unexpected bonus. “Did you know I was just explaining maritime economics but, like—wrong?”
“I noticed,” he says flatly.
The laughter doesn’t stop, but it shifts. People clock him immediately. Tall. Still. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Law’s gaze drops to the glass in your hand. Then to the one someone else is trying to pass you.
“That’s enough.”
You frown. “Enough… stories?”
“Drinks.”
You look at him with exaggerated seriousness, then lean closer, lowering your voice like you’re sharing a secret. “You’re doing that thing,” you say, poking his chest lightly. “That voice. The one that means you’ve decided I need supervision.”
“You nearly fell off a barrel.”
“Semantics.”
His hand comes up, fingers gentle but firm around your wrist. He lowers the glass before it reaches your mouth.
The contact is brief.
It still sends a jolt through him, and he resents that immediately.
“Come on,” he says quietly. “We’re leaving.”
The crowd murmurs. Someone whistles. Someone mutters something about bad timing.
You glance around, then back at him, your smile softening. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m fun.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
You sigh dramatically and hop off the barrel, less gracefully than you’d like. Law’s hand moves to your waist without hesitation, steady, automatic.
You glance down at where he’s holding you, then up at his face. “For someone who likes to keep their distance, you’re very hands-on.”
“That wasn’t—” He stops. “Don’t read into it.”
You smile wider. “I wasn’t. I was appreciating.”
He doesn’t answer.
He keeps his arm around you as he guides you through the tavern, positioning himself so no one bumps into you. No one tries to interfere.
Outside the cold hits you. Your shoulders lift as you shiver. Law’s hand tightens at your waist on reflex…too fast, too sure. He stills it immediately, annoyed at the reaction even as it holds. His gaze moves down the street, scanning out of habit, before he starts walking, grip firm.
You let yourself be guided. After a moment, you glance up at him. “You’re very quiet,” you observe.
“Focus,” he says.
“On me?” you ask, too innocently.
He sighs.
You smile to yourself and lean a little closer as you walk, not enough to stumble…just enough to test him. His arm adjusts again, settling more securely around your waist.
“See,” you murmur. “Supervision.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re very bad at pretending you don’t care.”
He stops walking.
Not abruptly, just enough that you have to stop too. He looks down at you, expression sharp, controlled, like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Don’t,” he says.
You look up at him, unbothered. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t push it.”
You hold his gaze for a beat, then soften, voice dropping. “I’m not,” you say. “I’m just… noticing.”
That unsettles him more than teasing ever does.
He exhales through his nose and starts walking again. The rest of the walk passes in quieter steps. You slow a little as the gangplank comes into view.
“You know,” you say casually, “I don’t actually need an escort.”
“I know.”
“You could let go.”
“I could.”
He doesn’t.
You tilt your head against his shoulder briefly, just for a second. “Thanks anyway.”
He stiffens…then steadies you without comment, like he’s afraid of what his voice might do if he uses it.
At the ship, he finally pauses. His arm drops away reluctantly, like he’s forcing himself to remember where the line is.
You turn to face him, swaying slightly but smiling. “Good night, Captain.”
“…Good night,” he replies.
You take a step back, then another, still watching him. “If you’re worried,” you say lightly, “you could always come make sure I actually go to bed.”
His eyes narrow. “Get to your room.”
You laugh softly and comply.
Law stays where he is until you disappear below deck.
Only then does he move.