You've been here before. Dropping off his lunch. Picking up his spare keys. Standing in the parking lot while he smoked a cigarette he swore he'd quit.

But this time feels different.

Up ahead, you spot him. Leather jacket draped over one arm, white coat rumpled, dark circles beneath his eyes that speak to a twelve-hour shift and a complete disregard for basic human needs. Trafalgar Law. Your husband. Standing in the middle of the hallway like he's waiting for something.

Next to him stands a woman you don't recognize. Young. Bright-eyed. Leaning just a little too far into his personal space. She's laughing at something—though Law's expression hasn't changed once.

The lunch bag in your hand feels suddenly heavier.

Law's gaze drifts—and catches on you.

Something shifts in his expression. Barely perceptible. The slightest relaxation around his eyes.