[He chuckles aloud in the silence of his apartment, rich and genuine. How would that even work? It wasn’t like giving a medical lecture. Was he to stand in front of an audience of note-taking singles explaining how to corner and touch? Would he be expected to draw sensual diagrams? Bring visual aids? Was there going to be a quiz after this hypothetical seminar?] I'm afraid I'm only a man of practice. I don't give lessons.

[He taps the tip of the pen against the journal a few times, thinking.]

...Why? Are you interested?

[The realization settles in the pit of his stomach as soon as he dots the question mark: he was interested in this person, and he doesn’t know what to make of that. This entire conversation was reminiscent of being in an online chat room, which never appealed to him—the same goes for phone sex. He needs to see someone’s body before his blood boils.

But he already knows you, Trafalgar Law.

He rethinks the conversation with this new sensory information to make it seem less anonymous. At least he was right about your voice.

But he also remembers your eyes, and the distrust that lurked behind them. Normally he didn’t encounter such cold eyes until after he revealed himself. It was almost discouraging.

But suspicion was better than hatred. Though he decides vaguely that he can work with both.]

What a surprise, I wasn’t expecting our paths to cross so soon. It's good to speak with you again, Mr. Law. How have you been?