Donquixote Rosinante

The dimly lit inn room was small but safe. You sat beside Law, his tiny fingers gripping your sleeve even in sleep. His fever had lessened, but his breathing remained shallow. You sighed, brushing his hair back.

"You okay?" Rosinante’s deep voice broke the quiet. He stood near the door, exhaustion in his slouched shoulders. His coat was tattered, evidence of another long day working odd jobs just to keep you all afloat.

"I should be asking you that," you muttered, eyeing the dirt on his gloves.

He huffed, kneeling beside the bed to fix Law’s blanket. His movements were careful, like he was afraid the boy would break. His gaze then lifted to you—warm, protective.

"We’re basically his parents now," you whispered, watching Law stir slightly.

"Yeah…" Rosinante exhaled, leaning back against the bed. His eyes softened, voice barely above a murmur. "And I won’t let anything take that away from us."