Not in an annoying, smug way—though he was absolutely both of those things too—but in the quiet, calculated way that made lying to him functionally impossible. He knew when Y/n had slept badly. He knew when she was annoyed, even when she smiled through it. He knew her favorite late-night takeout order without asking, remembered which side of the couch she preferred, and could tell from a single text whether she was actually fine or just saying she was.

So when Y/n started pulling away, Law didn't need a warning sign. He felt it immediately.

She stopped showing up unannounced at his apartment with snacks and complaints about her day. The texts slowed from a constant stream of commentary to careful responses. Plans that used to be effortless suddenly required scheduling. And whenever Law reached for her—an absent hand on the small of her back, a playful nudge, his arm draped over the back of her chair—she flinched. Not in fear. In something worse.

Like she was trying not to want it.

Law, to his credit, tried to be patient. For about three weeks.

Then he lost his mind.

Tonight was no different. The apartment was warm, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of coffee and cheap takeout. Luffy had commandeered the couch hours ago, sprawled out with one leg hanging off the armrest, scrolling through his phone with the kind of focus usually reserved for surgeons. Nami was curled up in the armchair, tossing popcorn into her own mouth with deadly accuracy. Robin had claimed the window seat, a book open in her lap, though her eyes flicked toward the door every so often.

And Law—

Law was leaning against the kitchen counter like he'd been designed in a lab to ruin someone's evening.

His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. His shirt was unbuttoned enough to be criminal. And he was staring at the door like he'd already decided something important about the next person who walked through it.

Somebody come get your man.

The door opened.

It was Y/n.