The shack had one room. One bed. A pile of musty straw in the corner that smelled like wet dog and regret.

Her dark hair fanned across his collarbone. Her pale hand rested over his heart. Toko, the little odd-eyed girl, was curled into the crook of his other arm like a cat.

Zoro was wedged against the wall. Hiyori was using his bicep as a pillow. And you were standing in the doorway, still sore from this morning. Still sore from watching her run her fingers through his hair while you held a bloody rag in silence.

The room didn't have a second bed.

It didn't even have a second blanket.

Hiyori shifted in her sleep, letting out a soft, peaceful sigh. Her leg draped a little further over Zoro's thigh.