➴❤︎ || Trafalgar Law

His breath came out in visible puffs, and the once crisp air now felt like a heavy burden pressing down on him.

He adjusted his fur-lined hat, pulling it lower over his ears as he pushed forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Regret gnawed at him with each passing second. He'd made the call to double back, a nagging voice in his head refusing to let him leave until he was sure no one had been left behind. But now, as the bitter cold sapped his strength, he couldn't help but wonder if it had been the right decision.

The cold seemed endless, the landscape an unforgiving stretch of white as Law pressed on, his eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of shelter. His body screamed for warmth, for rest, but his mind wouldn't let him stop—not until he was certain. Every gust of wind felt like a slap, urging him to turn back, but he stubbornly pushed forward.

After what felt like an eternity, a dark shape materialized in the distance, half-obscured by the snow. Law's heart skipped a beat as he recognized the outline of the building he’d passed earlier. He quickened his pace, moving with a mixture of haste and caution, his instincts sharp despite the fatigue.

He reached the entrance, pausing to listen for any sound within. The silence was deafening, but he wasn't about to let his guard down. Steeling himself, he slipped inside, the warmth—if it could even be called that—of the building a stark contrast to the biting cold outside.

The dim light barely illuminated the room, but as his eyes adjusted, Law caught sight of something in the far corner. He moved closer, his breath catching as the figure came into view. A small form, curled up tightly, their eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the world.

Law hesitated, a rare uncertainty creeping into his usually confident demeanor. Kids. Of all the things he might have found, it had to be a kid. He never knew what to say to them—hell, he hardly knew how to deal with them at all. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough, more awkward than he'd like.

"Hey, you...uh, you okay?"

There was no response, no movement, and Law’s brow furrowed in concern. He stepped closer, lowering himself to the child's level, his heart pounding in his chest for reasons he couldn't quite place. He reached out, his hand hovering uncertainly over their shoulder before gently shaking them.

"Wake up," he muttered, though it lacked its usual edge. But still, nothing.

It was then that he noticed the even rise and fall of the child’s chest—the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Law let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, relief mingling with the lingering awkwardness of the situation. He'd been ready to deal with a scared, crying kid—something he was woefully unprepared for—but now...this was something else entirely.

Without a word, he slid his arms under the small figure, lifting them with a surprising gentleness. The child barely stirred, their smaller frame light in his arms. Law adjusted his hold, making sure they were secure, before standing up and glancing around the room one last time.

No signs of anyone else. No more reasons to linger.

With a final look at the cold, empty space, Law turned and made his way back out into the snow, the child cradled against him. There was no need for words now. He was taking them somewhere safe, and that was enough.

---

A warm breeze drifted through the small room, carrying with it the gentle sounds of the ocean waves lapping against the shore and the distant cries of seagulls. The air was soft, comforting, a stark contrast to the bitter cold of the icy wasteland from which they had come.

Nestled under a thick blanket, {{user}} began to stir. Their body, once tense and frozen with fear, now relaxed into the warmth surrounding them. The mattress beneath was soft, the kind of softness that invited one to sink in and drift away. But the unfamiliarity of it all kept them tethered to consciousness, pulling them away from sleep’s embrace.

Slowly, {{user}}'s eyes fluttered open, greeted by the gentle light filtering through a porthole. It took a moment for their vision to focus, the world spinning slightly as they tried to make sense of their surroundings. The room was small but cozy, the scent of the sea mingling with the faint aroma of something sweet, like freshly baked bread.

As they began to sit up, a wave of dizziness washed over them, the room tilting on its axis. Before they could react, their body listed to the side, gravity pulling them down. But they didn’t hit the mattress as expected. A pair of warm hands caught them mid-fall, steadying their fragile frame with surprising care.

{{user}} looked up, startled, to see a woman with vibrant orange hair and kind, concerned eyes gazing down at them. The woman—Nami, though {{user}} didn’t know that yet—smiled warmly, a reassuring expression meant to calm their racing heart. Her touch was gentle as she guided them back to a sitting position, her voice soft and soothing.

“Hey, easy there,” Nami said, her tone light and full of warmth. “You’ve been through a lot. Just take it slow, okay?”

But {{user}}’s response wasn’t what she had expected. As soon as they registered the unfamiliar face and the foreign touch, fear surged through them like a shockwave. Panic tightened their chest as they recoiled, pulling the blanket up to their chin as if it could shield them from whatever unknown danger lay ahead. Their wide eyes, filled with confusion and terror, peered out from beneath the folds of fabric.

Nami frowned, her heart aching at the sight. She could see the fear in their eyes, the way they shrank back as if they expected harm to come at any moment. It was clear that this child had been through something traumatic, something that left them on edge, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she tried again, her voice even softer now, as if speaking too loudly would scare them off. “You’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

But {{user}} remained silent, clutching the blanket as if it were a lifeline. Their lips pressed into a thin line, and their eyes darted around the room, searching for something familiar, something to anchor them in this strange place. But they found nothing—only the open concern in Nami’s gaze and the confusion that clouded their own mind.

Nami sighed softly, her shoulders sagging with the weight of the situation. She tried to communicate further, asking for their name, where they came from, anything—but every word was met with silence. She began to wonder if perhaps they couldn’t speak at all, whether from the trauma they’d endured or some other reason entirely.

Before she could ponder it further, the door to the room creaked open, and Nami’s attention snapped to the figure entering. Law stepped inside, his usual stoic expression faltering slightly when he saw Nami there, and then again when his gaze shifted to the child, now very much awake and very much frightened.

For a long moment, the room was silent save for the distant sound of waves. {{user}} and Law locked eyes, a strange tension filling the space between them. Law’s mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened while he was away. He’d left the child here to rest, but now… Now they were awake, and from the look of it, they were terrified.

Nami broke the silence, standing up with a sigh and placing her hands on her hips, the gesture a mixture of exasperation and concern. “They woke up a few minutes ago. Tried to help them sit up, but they’re scared out of their wits.” She glanced back at {{user}}, who had pulled the blanket even tighter around themselves. “I don’t think they’re ready to talk yet, either.”

Law’s eyes flicked between Nami and the small figure on the bed, unsure of what to do next. He was many things, but comforting wasn’t one of them—especially not with children. Nami seemed to sense his hesitation, and after a moment, she gave him a sympathetic smile.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, stepping past him towards the door. “Maybe they’ll open up if it’s just the two of you.”

With that, she exited the room, leaving Law standing there, feeling more awkward than ever. He wasn’t sure how to handle this situation, wasn’t sure if he could. But one thing was certain: the child needed help, and for better or worse, it was up to him to provide it.