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You don’t hear him approach.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
You don’t look up right away. You finish the line you’re writing. Close the folder. “I haven’t. I’ve been doing exactly what you asked.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s what your actions enforced.”
Silence.
“You changed how you work,” he says. “You stopped looping me in.”
“Because I stopped assuming I was allowed to.”
He exhales sharply. “I didn’t tell you to disappear.”
“You said you were correcting yourself,” you reply. “So I adjusted.”
It was what he wanted. And it’s killing him.
“You think this is easy for me?” he asks. “You think I don’t notice you shutting me out?”
“I think,” you say evenly, “that you panicked and made it my problem.”
The Polar Tang hums around you.
Law closes his eyes briefly.
“…Damn it.”
“This isn’t panic,” he says. “It’s risk.”
“Everything about you is risk. That can’t be the excuse every time.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Then tell me what you want,” he says. “You want reassurance? You want me to lie and say this doesn’t affect how I think?”
“I want the truth.”
That’s the trap…because the truth is the one thing he hasn’t wanted to name.
“I’m asking if I matter.”
The question lands.
His shoulders tense. His voice lowers.
“That’s the problem,” he says. “You matter too much.”
Your breath catches.
“You affect my decisions,” he continues. “My timing. My focus. When you’re hurt, I lose perspective. When you’re not where I expect you to be, I notice. And when you pulled away—”
He stops. “—It pissed me off.”
“This doesn’t fade,” he says. “And I don’t know how to pretend it will.”
You step closer—not touching.
He doesn’t move back.
“I don’t want something casual,” he says. “And I don’t want something I can set aside when it’s inconvenient. I want you close enough that it changes how I operate—and that’s a liability.”
“So you’d rather keep me at a distance,” you say, “where you can manage it.”
“I’d rather not lose you,” he snaps—then stills.
Too honest.
“You can’t keep me close enough to watch and far enough to avoid,” you say. “That’s not fair.”
His gaze drops to your mouth before snapping back up.
Annoying.
“So what,” he says, restrained but sharp, “you want me to pretend this doesn’t change how I decide?”
“No. I want to know if I’m part of your life—or just part of your damage control.”
He turns away half a step, dragging a hand over his face.
“…Shit.”
When he looks back, his control is thinner.
“You’re not a variable,” he says. “You’re the problem.”
You blink.
“—Not like that,” he corrects immediately. “I mean—”
He exhales.
“I factor you into everything,” he says. “Before decisions. During them. After. I don’t do that with anyone else.”
“So you do feel something.”
“…I do.”
Silence stretches.
“I want you,” he says. “And I hate that it changes things. I hate that when you pulled away, it felt wrong.”
“So why treat it like something to suppress?”
“I thought control would fix it,” he admits. “It didn’t.”
You hold his gaze.
“I don’t want distance,” he says. “And I don’t want to keep pretending that didn’t matter.”
He steps forward.
“If I do this,” he says, low, “I don’t do it halfway.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“I don’t get gentle with things I care about.”
“That’s okay,” you say. “I don’t scare easy.”
Something in him settles.
“This complicates everything,” he says.
“I know.”
“And I’m still choosing it.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
Law steps into your space. One hand comes up to your face, fingers firm at your jaw. His thumb presses against your mouth. Your expression softens as you lean into his touch.
“Don’t,” he says under his breath. “Don’t look at me like that.”
You don’t stop.
That’s where his restraint breaks.
He kisses you hard—direct, unrestrained. No testing. No patience. His mouth takes yours like he’s angry at himself for wanting it this badly.
His breath is uneven. His hand stays at your jaw, holding you in place. When you respond, the sound he makes is quiet and strained.
For a second, it goes too far.
His mouth slows, presses deeper. His forehead drops to yours. His teeth catch your lower lip—and he stops.
Barely.
“…Fuck,” he breathes. “This is a mistake.”
He doesn’t let go.
He leans in again, stealing another kiss—shorter, sharper—
There’s a knock at the door.
Once. Firm.
Law freezes.
He stays close for half a second too long, jaw tight.
“Captain?” a voice calls. “We need you.”
Law exhales. Steps back.
“Give me a minute,” he says.
Footsteps retreat.
He looks at you once more—eyes dark, control rebuilt.
“This isn’t finished.”
He turns and leaves.