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The so-called medical symposium dinner was, for Shanks, just another tedious evening saturated with hollow pleasantries, veiled power plays, and dull speeches. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of disinfectant, expensive perfume, and cold buffet fare. The chandeliers cast a dizzying glare. He held a barely-touched flute of champagne, his face arranged in a flawless social mask while his mind calculated the minutes until a polite exit was feasible.
Then, without warning, a sharp, vicious pain seized his stomach.
This was no ordinary hunger pang. It arrived with brutal suddenness, like an icy fist clamping around his insides. Cold sweat instantly soaked the lining of his shirt. The chandelier lights began to spin, and the surrounding chatter blurred into a distant hum.
Damn it... Acute gastroenteritis? Or something worse...
He retreated half a step almost imperceptibly, seeking the wall’s support, but his fingertips trembled with sudden weakness. He knew his complexion must be ghastly. Curious glances were already darting his way.
At that moment, a figure moved through the murmuring crowd with brisk purpose, coming to a stop before him.
It was a young man in a well-tailored dark suit, tall and lean. The most arresting feature was his eyes—on a somewhat pale face, they were a calm, storm-lake gold, holding no excess emotion, only a near-indifferent focus. A staff badge on his chest read "Attending Medical Consultant."
"Sir, you appear unwell," the young man stated. His voice was steady, his tone cool—devoid of obsequiousness or excessive concern. It was a simple declaration of fact.
Shanks’s instinct was to wave it off, to claim he was fine—his standard refusal to show weakness, especially to strangers. But another twisting cramp wrenched a low groan from him, beading fresh sweat at his temples.
The young man—later, he would learn his name was Trafalgar D. Water Law—didn’t wait for a reply. He had already stepped forward, swiftly yet politely taking hold of Shanks’s arm to support him. The grip was firm, radiating unquestionable professionalism.
"My apologies," Law said quietly, his gaze making a quick, clinical sweep of Shanks’s face and the hand pressed to his abdomen. "Suspected acute abdominal pain. Where is the nearest restroom?" he asked a nearby server.
The server hastily led the way.
Shanks found himself leaning heavily on this stranger as they walked. The pain clouded his mind, yet his senses grew oddly acute. He could smell the faint, clean scent of antiseptic soap on Law, layered with a subtle, herbal note—something unique. He could feel the steady, slightly cool pressure of Law’s hand through his suit jacket. He even noted, distractedly, the sharp lines of Law’s profile, his habitually pressed lips, the few unruly strands of black hair falling across his forehead.
Strange, Shanks thought hazily through the pain. This young man carried an aura… one that was utterly discordant with the opulent surroundings. Not a pretentious aloofness, but an almost instinctive, fundamental detachment from the glitz.
"Almost there. Bear with it," Law’s voice came near his ear, still steady, offering no extra comfort, yet imparting a peculiar sense of stability.
Shanks managed a weak twitch of his lips. "My thanks… Doctor."
"My duty," was Law’s brief reply.
Inside the restroom, Law helped him sit before turning to retrieve a medical kit. His movements held no trace of fluster. Opening the case, he withdrew a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, his actions as fluid and natural as breathing.
"Please unbutton the top of your shirt, sir," Law instructed, donning the stethoscope, his tone still calm.
Shanks complied. When the cold disc touched the skin of his chest, he shuddered almost imperceptibly—not from the temperature, but from Law’s sudden proximity and the intensity of those close-up golden eyes, focused with an absorption that felt almost gravitational. They held no awe, no curiosity for the title of "Figarland Group CEO"—only a pure, clinical assessment of a patient’s condition.
Interesting. The irritation born of pain in Shanks’s chest was quietly supplanted by a thread of peculiar fascination. He was accustomed to all manner of gazes, but this one, so utterly stripped of social context, viewing him merely as a biological entity, was profoundly rare. In this vulnerable moment of shed pretenses, such a gaze felt not intrusive, but rather… liberating. It offered a strange, equalizing relaxation.
Auscultation, symptom inquiry, abdominal palpation… Law’s every question was precise, his technique efficient. Shanks answered through gritted teeth, yet his own gaze kept drifting to the young medical consultant.
He was young, but his professionalism was impeccable. He was calm. Excessively so. In such a sudden medical episode, most would betray at least a flicker of tension or extra concern. Law displayed none. All his attention seemed channeled into "solving the problem," like a precision instrument operating on pure logic.
Yet, paradoxically, this near-emotionless calm didn’t offend or alienate Shanks. On the contrary, in this painful, awkward moment where invisible social judgments might still be lurking, this pure, impersonal "professionalism" brought him a peculiar… peace.
It was as if, in this young man’s eyes, he wasn’t the "VIP" requiring delicate handling, but simply a "medical presentation" to be managed. It granted him a temporary reprieve from the weight of his identity and masks, allowing him to exist merely as an "unwell person."
But what lay beneath this ‘calm’?
Watching Law’s impassive profile, a thought surfaced in Shanks’s mind: Was it habitual self-preservation, or innate disposition? If the former… what necessitated such layered defenses?
A desire to understand began to take root.
"Preliminary assessment suggests acute gastroenteritis, potentially food or stress-related. I’ve contacted your designated private physician; they will arrive shortly. Until then, I advise you rest supine and minimize movement," Law stated evenly as he repacked the instruments. He then turned to pour a glass of tepid water. "Sip this slowly. Analgesics are available here if required, but administration is best deferred until confirmed by your doctor."
He offered the glass, his fingers long and clean.
Shanks accepted it, his fingertips brushing Law’s in the transfer. For an instant, he felt Law’s fingers twitch minutely before settling.
Was he tense? Or simply unaccustomed to casual contact? Shanks observed without seeming to.
"Thank you," Shanks said, his voice roughened by pain.
Law gave a barely perceptible nod, then retreated two paces, stationing himself at a distance that was neither intrusive nor too far to monitor. He produced a tablet, seemingly making notes, his profile rendered格外专注 by the restroom’s soft light.
The pain persisted, but felt somehow more endurable. Shanks took small sips of water, his gaze unconsciously tracking the quiet figure.
This young man named Law was like a piece of obsidian resting in deep ocean—cold, hard, unrippled on the surface. Yet Shanks felt an inexplicable certainty that beneath that icy exterior lay something profoundly pure, perhaps even a little clumsy. The water he’d handed over was perfectly warm despite his businesslike tone; the distance he kept was precisely measured, respecting professional boundaries while ensuring readiness to assist. Such attentiveness to detail betrayed a thoughtfulness that belied his outward detachment.
A strange, potent curiosity… and a near-instinctive impulse quietly burgeoned within Shanks. This transcended mere interest in an "intriguing person"; it felt more akin to a desire to unravel, to approach, even to… protect.
He wanted to know why this "obsidian" was so cold. What shaped his past? What stories resided behind those serene golden eyes? What compelled him to encase himself so thoroughly?
More directly, Shanks wanted to be good to him. Wanted to gently lift away those overly severe professional masks, wanted to see him relaxed, wanted… to shield him, to prevent that sense of detachment—as if he viewed the world through a wall of ice—from ever resurfacing.
The feeling arrived abruptly and with startling force, surprising even Shanks. He had encountered countless individuals—handsome, clever, passionate, charismatic… Yet this young doctor, met only once, with barely a word exchanged, struck him like a precisely aimed bullet, hitting a corner of his heart whose existence he’d scarcely acknowledged. It wasn’t mere appreciation or curiosity; it felt more like… a complex weave of fated attraction and poignant care. He couldn’t simply let him walk away, vanish into the anonymous crowd.
Later, the private physicians arrived and assumed care. Law completed the handover, offered a polite farewell, and prepared to depart for other duties.
"Wait," Shanks called out, the word leaving his lips instinctively.
Law turned, golden eyes regarding him with a hint of inquiry.
Shanks had straightened somewhat. With the pain receding, the composed aura of Figarland Shanks had reclaimed him. He offered a smile far more genuine than his earlier social mask, though pallor still touched his features.
"Dr. Trafalgar, my sincere thanks for today." He paused, his gaze holding Law’s with intent focus. "Your professionalism and composure left a… remarkably deep impression. Might I trouble you for your contact information? This isn't a business matter. It's purely personal… I would appreciate the opportunity to express my gratitude more formally." His tone remained gentle, yet carried the unambiguous directness and assurance of one accustomed to command. He had no wish to alarm him, but neither would he let this chance for further connection slip easily away.
Law clearly hesitated. Such a request from a patient, particularly one of evident standing, was likely unexpected. A flicker of rapid assessment passed through his golden eyes before they settled back into their customary calm.
"…Very well," he finally conceded with a nod, retrieving his phone to exchange details. His movements stayed economical, devoid of superfluous courtesy.
Watching Law’s upright figure exit the restroom, Shanks leaned back against the sofa. A dull ache lingered in his gut, but his mood had inexplicably lightened, a faint, unconscious smile touching his lips.
He knew it was sudden, even presumptuous. But he trusted his intuition and his capacity for decisive action. That unfamiliar flutter and yearning in his chest were unmistakably clear.
He wanted to know him. To draw near. To be good to him.
The conviction was sharp and firm, as definitive as his first major boardroom decision.
Perhaps this sudden illness wasn’t entirely a misfortune, he mused. It had led him to Law.
And henceforth, the careful, patient task of warming this seemingly cold "obsidian," of drawing him under his wing, would become a wholly new, challenging, yet intensely anticipated "project" in his life. No—not merely a project. It was a form of longing he’d never before experienced—a desire for wholehearted devotion.
Beyond the window, the city’s nightscape glittered brilliantly. Shanks held his phone, which now stored the newly entered contact for "Trafalgar Law." As the pain faded, a strange, tender warmth filled the space behind his sternum. It wasn’t just the relief of subsiding discomfort. It felt more like, within the chill of the corporate world, he had stumbled upon a singular, faintly luminous star—compelling him to draw closer, to safeguard it, to witness how this star might truly blaze.
When Shanks discovered that Law was still a student at Grand Line Medical School, the initial interest born of curiosity and attraction swiftly fermented into something more concrete, more acute—a sense of poignantconcern and direct responsibility. That resolve to "take proper care of him" didn’t diminish; on the contrary, learning of Law’s student status cemented it further, infusing it with an almost paternal strain of concern. In his eyes, Law was no longer just that calm professional doctor, but also a medical student who needed reminding to eat, to rest, who bore crushing academic pressure. He deserves to be treated well. This notion grew in strength daily, bordering on obsession.
Thus, the courtship strategy underwent a subtle recalibration.
Daily greetings took on a more "domestic" flavor.
"Morning. Heavy schedule today? Don’t skip breakfast."
"Forecast says rain later. Have you got an umbrella?"
"Heard about the anatomy quiz this week. Don’t burn the midnight oil."
Shanks played the part of the fretful guardian, attentive to minutiae. He even set calendar alerts specifically for exam dates and important deadlines Law mentioned.
Law’s replies initially maintained a student’s characteristic brevity and reserve:
"Morning. Not heavy. Ate."
"Have one."
"Mhm."
But Shanks could detect, beneath the Outward of being comprehensive monitoring monitored by an elder, a sliver of something almost imperceptible… a degree of receptiveness? At the very least, no explicit dislike was shown.
He was allowing it. This recognition stirred a subtle sense of satisfaction in Shanks’s heart, as if spotting the first sign of pliancy while meticulously polishing a treasured artifact. He began unconsciously anticipating his phone’s chime. It was like a tightly sealed door easing open a crack, permitting a glimpse of the atmosphere within, letting that initial attraction gradually acquire the patina of daily concern.
The real "campaign" commenced with Law’s entry into exam week.
Shanks learned from Rosinante that Law faced a brutally compressed schedule of core course exams that semester, the pressure immense. He even "chanced" to see a late-night message from Law to Rosinante,complaining about the scarcity of library seats and an over-reliance on caffeine.
This simply wouldn’t do.
Shanks moved into action immediately. Mere meal deliveries no longer sufficed. He procured a copy of Law’s class schedule, calculating with precision his daily exit times from the library or labs.
Thus, on a night when Law was making do with dry bread for dinner, a delivery call summoned him—a steaming, substantial portion of seafood congee and a fresh garden salad, accompanied by a small square of dark chocolate. The attached note read: "The brain needs fuel, and so does the stomach. Don’t just cram knowledge. —S"
Let him eat properly, if only for this one meal. Shanks imagined Law’s potential expression upon receiving it, feeling a peculiar tenderness and satisfaction. This was no longer mere "courtship strategy"; it felt more like an… instinctive urge to treat him kindly.
On another afternoon, when Law emerged dizzy from physiology and biochemistry texts, headed for the vending machine and its chemical-laden energy drinks, a thermos was set down softly beside his open textbook. Looking up, he met Shanks’s gentle smiling gaze.
"Fruit tea for focus. A touch of honey, not too sweet," Shanks murmured, as if conducting a covert exchange in the library hush. "Ten minutes’ rest will boost your efficiency."
Law stared, caught off guard—at the conspicuously upscale thermos amidst a sea of cheap plastic bottles, then at the warmth in Shanks’s eyes. A faint blush crept to the tips of his ears. He pressed his lips together, offered a quiet thanks, and unscrewed the lid. The sweet aroma of fruit blended with subtle tea notes wafted out, undeniably more appealing than synthetic stimulants.
Shanks didn’t linger, merely gave his shoulder an encouraging pat, silently mouthed "hang in there," and slipped away as quietly as he’d come.
But Law’s reaction—that moment of stunned silence, the flushed ears, the murmured thanks—brushed against Shanks’s heart like the gentlest of feathers. He doesn’t mind. He might even… like it a little? The guess sent an inexplicable flutter of joy through Shanks. His presence and that perfectly timed offering acted like a gentle stimulant, soothing Law’s frayed nerves and affirming Shanks’s own efforts, making the desire to close the distance feel more urgent, more tender.
The most dramatic intervention came when Law, preparing for a critical surgical practical exam, camped in the simulation suite for days, neglecting meals and sleep. Upon learning this, Shanks directness appeared in the adjacent lounge, a multi-tiered tiffin carrier in hand.
That night, Law dragged his near-skeletal frame out past ten, and thought hunger was conjuring hallucinations when he caught the familiar scent of food in the air. Only upon seeing Shanks seated in a lounge chair, the open carrier before him revealing still-steaming, easily digestible nutritious meals alongside a small bowl of soup at perfect temperature, did reality snap into place.
"Eat first," Shanks commanded, his tone brooking no argument, passing over a damp hand towel. "No exam is worth collapsing over. You need stamina."
Law was too spent for words. Silently, he sat and picked up his chopsticks. The food was, as ever, delicious. Warmth spread from his core to his extremities,dispelling the simulation room’s sterile chill and the rigidity of prolonged concentration. He ate slowly. Shanks didn’t hurry him, simply kept quiet vigil, occasionally nudging favored dishes closer.
Watching Law’s exhausted yet peaceful form as he ate filled Shanks with ineffable tenderness and a peculiar sense of triumph. See. When he’s pushed this far, the one who offers solace and support is me. The satisfaction this brought surpassed any boardroom victory. He longed to smooth the fatigue from Law’s brow, to shoulder his burdens, to draw him into a protective sphere, safe from all external storms.
Finishing the last morsel, Law set down his utensils, released a long, weary sigh, and felt the last taut nerve finally uncoil. He lifted his gaze to Shanks, who was watching him with unwavering focus, his red eyes appeared extraordinarily warm in the lounge’s subdued light.
"…Thanks," Law rasped. "You really didn’t have to—"
"I wanted to come," Shanks cut in, his tone as natural as discussing the weather. "Seeing you drive yourself this hard, I couldn’t stay away. Besides," a faint smile touched his lips, "investing in a future top surgeon—basic logistical support is a given."
The word "investing" provoked a slight frown from Law, but the humor and genuine care in Shanks’s eyes were undeniable. Law averted his gaze, muttering under his breath, "…I’m not a project."
Shanks chuckled softly, reaching out to ruffle Law’s sweat-damp hair. "Right. Not a project." He paused, his voice dipping lower, carrying a rare gravity and a thread of nervous he himself didn’t fully recognize. "You’re… a very important person."
Law’s heart stuttered. He offered no verbal reply, but neither did he refute.
He didn’t refute. Shanks’s own heart skipped a beat in that suspended silence, then was flooded by a warmer, more overwhelming current. Law’s silence felt like tacit permission, a form of acknowledgment, giving Shanks’s crystallizing emotions within a vague yet precious form of validation. Beneath the icy carapace of this "obsidian," warm currents indeed flowed, perhaps even for him.
Exam week finally passed. Stepping out of his last test venue, though drained, Law felt a monumental weight lift. His phone buzzed—a message from Shanks: "Done? Waiting at the usual spot. Taking you for a proper meal to celebrate your liberation."
The "usual spot" was a ramen shop near campus they’d stumbled into once before, which Law had casually remarked was decent. Shanks had remembered.
When Law arrived, Shanks was already seated by the window, two glasses of ice water on the table. Spotting him, Shanks smiled and beckoned.
The meal was relaxed. Law found himself talking more than usual,grumbling about impossibly difficult questions, sharing amusing exam-hall anecdotes. Shanks listened for the most part, his gaze gentle, occasionally refilling Law’s tea. Watching Law’s more animated expressions, hearing his unguarded chatter, filled Shanks with a serene joy. This was what he wanted—to witness Law’s relaxed, authentic self, to partake in these ordinary, precious moments. This longing had long since transcended initial curiosity, settling into a deeper, more enduring aspiration for companionship.
After the meal, they walked slowly along the tree-lined path bordering the campus. The summer night breeze carried a welcome coolness, dispelling the day’s residual heat and exam tension.
"Plans for the break?" Shanks asked.
"A few weeks off. Might stay with Rosi for a bit. After that… undecided," Law replied, slowing his pace.
Shanks halted, turning to face him. Streetlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on his features.
"Law," Shanks’s voice was soft, yet distinct. "Exams are over. The pressure’s off for now. So… there’s something I need to say."
Law’s heartbeat quickened inexplicably. He looked at Shanks, silent.
Shanks’s own heart thudded steadily in his chest, carrying a trace of apprehension, but dominated by a sense of inevitable rightness.
"These past months, I’ve done a lot under the guise of ‘looking after a med student,’" Shanks said, his gaze open and deep. "Meals, drinks, reminders, fussing. It might have been annoying. It might have felt like a burden."
Law instinctively began to shake his head, but Shanks pressed on, his tone growing more earnest.
"But I didn’t do those things just because you’re a student who needs looking after." He took a small step forward, closing the distance between them. "I did them because you’re Law. The person who, from the moment I first saw you at that banquet, struck me as someone special. Someone I wanted to approach, to understand, to… cherish."
"I’m older. I’ve likely seen more. I know what a passing fancy is, and I know what seriousness feels like." Shanks’s voice held a profound gravity, each word carrying the weight of emotions accumulated, settled, and finally crystallized over months. "My feelings for you are serious, Law. This isn’t senior-junior mentorship. It’s not an investment in potential. It’s the kind of心动 one feels for someone they’re drawn to. It’s wanting to be part of your future, every day. It’s wanting to offer a shoulder when you’re weary, to share your joy when you’re happy."
He paused, watching the slight widening of Law’s golden eyes, his voice softening further, betraying a hint of nervous tension. "So, Law… would you be willing… to give me a chance? Not as a med student and his caretaker, but… as partners? To be with me?"
The night breeze was gentle, accompanied by the hum of summer insects and distant traffic. Law stood still, looking at Shanks. The usual easy confidence was absent from his face, replaced by a rare nervous and hopeful anticipation. Those red eyes held his own unblinkingly, shining with startling intensity.
Images from the past months flashed through his mind: morning greetings, late-night deliveries of congee, fruit tea in the library, the silent vigil outside the sim suite, and now, this person before him, laying bare his sincerity and affection.
The icy shell forged by past hardships and academic strain, already webbed with countless fine cracks from Shanks’s patient, persistent warmth, now gave way entirely under the direct, earnest force of this confession. With a soundless crack, it shattered, melted away.
Heat flooded Law’s cheeks. His heart pounded like a drum against his ribs. He avoided Shanks’s too intense gaze, looking down instead at their shadows cast long by the streetlamp, nearly merging into one.
Silence stretched. Shanks’s heart hovered in suspense, but he waited patiently, his eyes never leaving Law. Those few seconds felt impossibly elongated, brimming with anxious hope and silent entreaty.
Finally, Law raised his head again. The usual detachment and calm were gone from his golden eyes, replaced by a damp, soft luminescence. He pressed his lips together, seeming to marshal great resolve, before uttering in a voice so faint it was almost inaudible:
"…Mhm."
The soft sound dropped into Shanks’s consciousness like a pebble into a still pond, sending out vast, joyous ripples.
Shanks’s eyes lit up with dazzling brilliance. Disbelieving, yet cautiously hopeful, he pressed, his voice trembling slightly with emotion, "…‘Mhm’? Does that mean… yes?"
Law’s face flushed a deeper red and he shot Shanks a flustered glare, but it held no force, instead, it looked exceptionally vivid against his slightly reddened eyelids and moist golden eyes. He gave an almost imperceptible nod—a tiny motion, yet utterly unambiguous.
Exquisite joy, like the most brilliant fireworks, exploded within Shanks’s chest, quickly spreading to his entire being, as if he were submerged in a warm, buoyant tide. He couldn’t suppress a smile, one so radiant it seemed capable of lighting up the night sky, banishing all summer humidity. He stepped forward, opened his arms, and tentatively, gently drew Law into an embrace, his movements were as delicate as handling a rediscovered treasure.
Law stiffened for an instant. But soon, within that warm, solid, familiar hold, the tension melted away like thin ice under sunlight. He slowly, completely relaxed. Then, yielding to a deepest inner yearning, he turned his head, resting his cheek lightly against Shanks’s broad shoulder. He felt the strong, rapid pulse at Shanks’s neck, its rhythm gradually synchronizing with the frantic drumming of his own heart.
Shanks tightened his arms, encircling Law’s lean yet resilient form securely. The real, warm weight in his embrace filled that soft, growing space within his heart—first sparked at their meeting—with an unprecedented, overflowing sense of happiness, saturated to the point of nearly overflowing.He breathed in the faint scent of antiseptic and clean shampoo in Law’s hair, mingled with hints of paper and ink, and thought it the most comforting, perfect fragrance in the world.
"Thank you, Law," he whispered against Law’s ear, his voice laced with unrestrained delight, deep contentment, and a sigh of relief. "Thank you for giving me this chance."
A muffled "Mhm" came from where Law’s face was buried against his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, as if overcoming an ingrained habit, Law lifted his arms—clumsily, yet with firm resolve—and lightly circled Shanks’s waist, completing the embrace.
The streetlamp cast their entwined shadows long upon the ground,Intimate, as if they had always belonged that way, heralding the shared future they would now walk toward, hand in hand.