Work Text:
The first sign something is wrong is that Law stops reaching for you.
Not physically.
Practically.
He still speaks to you. Still includes you in briefings. Still answers when you ask questions. But the small moments are gone; the way he used to turn toward you when you entered a room, the way his attention stayed on you longer than necessary.
Now everything is precise.
Professional.
Corrected.
You notice it the morning after the kiss.
Not because anything dramatic happens. Because nothing does.
“Morning,” you say when you find him in the common area, already seated with reports spread out.
“…Morning.”
Law doesn’t look in your direction. He slides a report toward you without letting your hands touch. The adjustment is subtle. Deliberate.
Your stomach tightens.
The day continues like that.
He keeps conversation task-focused. He doesn’t linger. When you speak, he listens — really listens — and then disengages cleanly, like the interaction has reached a natural endpoint.
By midday, you stop trying to catch his eye.
By evening, the word mistake has worked its way into your thoughts.
You hadn’t planned the kiss. It wasn’t calculated. It had felt real in the moment — unguarded, mutual. And now, watching him move through the ship like nothing happened, you start to wonder if you imagined that part.
Or worse — if he regrets it.
You find him in the infirmary later, busy with equipment that doesn’t need attention.
“You’re up late.”
“I’m aware,” he replies.
You wait. He doesn’t look at you.
“Law,” you say, quieter. “Can we talk?”
That gets his attention.
He turns slowly, expression controlled. Too controlled.
“Last night doesn’t change how things work.”
Your chest tightens. “Why not?”
Because it shouldn’t have happened.
He doesn’t say that. But you hear it anyway.
“It was a kiss,” you continue, trying to keep your voice steady. “And if I misread something, I’d rather know.”
He exhales through his nose.
“You didn’t,” Law says.
“Then why are you acting like it shouldn’t have happened?”
Silence.
He looks away first.
“Because if I don’t correct it,” he says finally, “I won’t.”
Your confusion sharpens. “Correct what?”
“Myself,” he answers.
That sounds wrong. Cold. Final.
You nod slowly, because you don’t know what else to do. “So it was a mistake.”
“No,” he says immediately.
Too fast.
“Then what was it?”
A pause. Longer this time.
“Something I don’t have room for,” he says. “Something that interferes with how I operate.”
You stare at him. Long enough that he notices.
“So the solution,” you say slowly, “is pretending it didn’t happen.”
“The solution,” he replies, “is keeping a handle on it.”
Something in you settles.
Not breaks.
Settles.
You nod once. “Okay.”
He looks at you sharply. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, already stepping back. “If that’s what you need, I get it.”
“That’s not—” He stops himself. Recalibrates. “You’re being dismissive.”
You almost laugh. “I’m not,” you reply. “I’m just not going to keep guessing where we stand.”
You turn to leave before your voice does anything embarrassing.
Behind you, his voice tightens. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.”
You don’t stop.
“It mattered to me,” he adds quietly, after the door closes. His grip tightens on the counter before he forces it still.
Annoying.
Because now you’re walking away thinking you imagined something real.
And Law is standing alone, realizing he may have just taught you the exact wrong lesson.
Not that the kiss was a mistake.
But that wanting him was.
Later, alone in your quarters, you sit on the edge of the bed and replay the kiss one last time.
Not because you miss it.
But because you’re trying to decide whether it was something real that scared him —
or a mistake he’s already corrected for.
And that uncertainty hurts.
Law doesn’t notice the absence right away.
He notices the expectation.
He keeps pausing in conversations that should be finished — not because there’s more to say, but because there used to be. A comment. A terrible joke. Something unprompted that bridged the gap.
Nothing comes.
He waits through one silence too long before realizing you aren’t going to fill it.
That’s when it becomes clear this isn’t drift.
It’s restraint.
The first time he clocks it clearly is in the infirmary.
You stop by with a stack of reports and set them on the counter. Efficient. Professional.
“These need your sign-off,” you say.
“Leave them,” he replies, not looking up. “I’ll handle it.”
Normally, you’d stay. Make a comment just to irritate him.
This time, you nod. “Okay.”
You turn to go.
Law looks up too late.
The door closes softly behind you.
Annoying.
He tells himself it’s fine. This is what he wanted — clean interactions, no ambiguity, no unnecessary overlap.
Except now the silence doesn’t feel neutral.
Later that day, you pass each other in the corridor. He slows, expecting — without thinking — a glance, a remark, something easy.
You keep walking.
No pause. No adjustment.
The absence lands harder than any argument would have.
He stops in place, irritation flaring sharp and misplaced.
That night, he catches himself waiting.
For what, he doesn’t know.
You don’t come by the infirmary. You don’t check in under the excuse of logistics or shared work. You don’t offer him anything that isn’t required.
You’ve stopped giving him access to the parts of you that weren’t part of the job.
And now he’s the one feeling the loss of something he never explicitly asked for — the quiet permission to exist in your orbit without explanation.
It dawns on him slowly, uncomfortably:
You didn’t pull away because you were hurt.
You pulled away because you listened.
Because you took him at his word and adjusted accordingly.
That’s the problem.
It irritates him.
Control was supposed to protect him. Instead, it’s costing him you. And if he wants you back in that space, he’s going to have to ask.