Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Franky, I’m gonna miss you, but if I have to lose you, let it be to our dear Robin,” Sanji smiled.

Franky — contradicting any first impression his ridiculously big muscles might give, with arms like pillars and a height that always made Sanji’s neck ache from looking up at him too long — wiped his teary eyes and tried to hold back the sobs.

“Oh, man, Sanji, you can’t just go around saying stuff like that, y’know? I’m gonna miss you too,” Franky sniffled. “Who’s gonna take care of you now?”

Sanji laughed. “I’m sure Nami will find someone. Never anyone quite like you, of course, but not all of us can be as lucky as Robin.” He winked at the woman standing beside Franky, who smiled. She was stunning, no doubt about it — tall, slim, with dark hair flowing down her back, piercing blue eyes, and a little smile that never left the corner of her mouth, as if she was always in on some secret. But Sanji adored her. He’d insisted on hiring her just over two years ago after the company she worked for went under, and she came personally asking for a job. Despite Nami’s protests, Robin was hired — and it turned out to be the best decision they’d made.

What nobody expected was for her and Franky to fall in love, get married, and take a year-long sabbatical to travel the world together.

“One year goes by fast; we’ll be back before you know it,” Robin said.

“Don’t worry, Sanji,” Franky straightened up, taking on a serious expression. “I’ve already talked to a dude I trust suuuuper much to cover for me.”

“You know the protocol, Franky,” Sanji sighed. “Anyone who wants to work here has to go through Nami first before getting to me.”

“Are you talking about who I think you are?” Robin asked, looking at Franky. They had one of those silent conversations that made Sanji jealous and made him wish he had someone he was that close to. He shook his head, pushing those thoughts away.

Franky grinned, looking at Robin with a mix of admiration and love. “Probably.”

Robin turned back to Sanji. “He’s competent, one of the best in security,” she smiled in a way that sent a shiver up Sanji’s arms. “You’ll like him.”

Sanji nodded, feeling a bit awkward. “Well, if he’s Franky’s recommendation, I’m sure he’ll get through Nami in no time.”

“We have to go now,” Robin said, glancing at her watch. “Our flight leaves in an hour.”

Sanji hated to see them go, but he was genuinely happy for his friends. It wasn’t easy living the life he had, much less forming genuine bonds with people, but Sanji considered himself lucky — he’d managed to find the best friends anyone could ask for in his team.

He sighed and looked out the massive window in his apartment. He’d be stuck there until a new head of security was hired to replace Franky because, according to Nami, “they couldn’t take any risks.”

Sanji had just achieved his third, most coveted, and most challenging Michelin star for his restaurant, the All Blue, after being voted the best chef under thirty in the world for three consecutive years.
He didn’t mind the pressure to deliver his best every day in the kitchen — that was what he was born to do; it was what made his soul sing and his heart beat faster. Maybe that’s why he didn’t see the awards as achievements but rather as acknowledgments of the obvious.

Sanji knew he was good at what he did, though he’d never felt better than anyone because of it. Having been born into a family where cooking was seen as a weakness, and later raised by a chef who taught him that food nourishes and should never be wasted or played with, Sanji knew better than anyone that the right thing to do was to be the best — but to stay humble about it.

He didn’t mind the attention; in fact, he enjoyed it. Being on TV as a judge on a hit cooking reality show that had just been renewed for a second season had given him a whole new level of visibility. People said Sanji was flying high, reaching places no chef had ever dreamed of, inspiring millions. But at the end of the day, he was just Sanji — a guy who liked sleeping in, making a huge buttery bowl of popcorn, curling up under soft blankets to watch a movie, walking around his place in socks, and imagining doing all that with someone beside him…

Sanji sighed, his gaze shifting back to the city below, the cars like ants in the chaotic traffic. With the life he led, it was already hard to make friends—let alone date. He let out a sad laugh, drowned out by the sound of the front door opening.

“Hey, how you holding up?” Nami — his top agent-slash-PR-rep-slash-secretary-slash-best-friend-in-the-world — asked as she entered. She looked amazing, as always: tablet in hand, shiny red hair cascading in waves, framing her perfect face, brown eyes bright and full of energy. The black dress she wore hugged her figure perfectly — a look Sanji could only describe as stunning. That was the word he’d used since he first met her and, let’s be honest, tried to flirt — which had turned into the friendship he cherished most in his life.

“Does it change anything if I say I’d love to be able to just walk around outside?” Sanji asked, flopping down onto the giant sofa.

Nami stuck her tongue out at him. “No, because you know it’s not safe for you to just go wandering around,” she made air quotes around “wandering around.”

“You’re being a little dramatic,” Sanji said.

“Sanji, fans are unpredictable. We don’t know what could happen if you go out alone,” Nami said, scrolling through her tablet. “Remember that Twitter fan?”

Sanji rolled his eyes. “He never did anything, Nami. Not much different from a paparazzi, if you ask me.”

“Paparazzi never bribed hotel staff to take their place and sneak into your room pretending to be room service,” she finally looked at him. “You were lucky Franky was with you that day. That’s the only reason that guy didn’t try anything.”

Sanji couldn’t argue with that. “How long until a new head of security is hired?”

Nami grinned and sat down beside him. “Glad you asked!” She tapped her tablet a few times. “What do you think about meeting a potential candidate tomorrow?”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “That soon?”

She shrugged. “The reality show filming doesn’t start for another two weeks, so I thought it’d be good if the new hire could get a few days to learn your routine before things get really crazy.”

“Smart,” Sanji smiled at her.

“I always am,” she replied, smug.

“Franky said he had someone to recommend, too…” Sanji remembered what Robin had mentioned.

Nami nodded. “I tried to reach the guy Franky recommended, but he didn’t answer. I’ll try again later, but I think we can close the deal with tomorrow’s candidate.”

“For him to get this far, you must really like him,” Sanji said. “How many did he beat out?”

“About fifteen,” she said, as if it were nothing.

“Wow!” Sanji whistled.

Nami crossed her legs and looked deep into his eyes. “Listen here, I’m not letting just anyone stick close to you, got it? I need to be absolutely sure that whoever this person is will protect you with their life if it comes to it.”

Sanji felt a surge of affection for her and held her hand for a moment. “Thanks for looking out for me, Nami.”

She smiled back. “Always, darling.” She leaned in, kissed his cheek, and stood. “How about the office tomorrow morning? That good for you?”

The sooner they sorted this out, the better. “Tomorrow morning works.”

“One more thing: you have that press conference tomorrow about the third Michelin star, remember?” she called over her shoulder.

“Yes, I remember. Will you do the candidate interview before or after?”

“After. I want him to get a sense of how things work right from day one,” she grinned devilishly as she reached the door.

He nodded. “Good. See you there.” Nami blew him a kiss and left, closing the door behind her.

Sanji found himself smiling. Meeting new people was always a challenge, and when it came to his security team, it was even more of a hassle, because Sanji didn’t want to be a burden. He tried to make his guards feel comfortable, to show them they could talk to him like a regular person and not like he was fragile.

That’s why, three times a week, Sanji hit up the city’s best gym to train in kickboxing. He wanted to know how to defend himself, but he couldn’t risk injuring his hands—they were his biggest treasure. That’s when he realized: his legs could do what his hands couldn’t and protect him. That’s how he met Monkey D. Luffy.
At first, Sanji hadn’t believed someone like Luffy could be his trainer, but Usopp, the receptionist, assured him he’d be in good feet — literally. Sanji thanked the heavens every day for trusting him, because Luffy more than lived up to the title of best in town. Training with him was like facing a machine gun of kicks flying from every direction. Sanji only felt that alive when he was cooking. It was cathartic.

With this thought, Sanji spent the rest of the day inspired, creating a new dish to debut in the next season at All Blue. He had a good feeling in the pit of his stomach — a little thrill, an odd excitement, like something great was on the horizon. Sanji laughed to himself. He had everything anyone could want — friends, talent, success… what else could he possibly need?

That tingle in his gut tightened his stomach, making his heart clench and his breath catch. There was only one thing missing. But Sanji had given up looking for it. His heart ached, and he forced himself to ignore it, slicing a beautiful cut of tuna into fillets as thin as they were perfect.

Everyone who’d promised him love had turned out to be after fame or money. And Sanji, ever the fool for romance, had dived in headfirst every time — only to find the pool filled with thorns instead of water. The last time, he’d really thought things would be different... Pudding made everything seem perfect; even her name seemed crafted to leave Sanji smitten, believing true love existed and his was with her. But she was too perfect, and that should have been his first clue that something was terribly wrong. He’d almost lost everything, his restaurant, his career, his life—because of her. If not for his friends’ quick intervention, he might not even be here to wallow in loneliness.

Maybe Sanji wasn’t made to be loved. Maybe he was made to love unconditionally, but not to be loved in return.

He sighed, coming back to reality.

He was learning to live with it.

-*-

Sanji was woken up by his phone ringing right beside his head. He reached out in the dark, fumbling for the damn thing, still groggy.

“Hello?” he answered, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Nami’s voice was barely audible over traffic. “Time to get up.”

Sanji rubbed his eyes and glanced at his bedside clock: 8 a.m. An hour before his alarm. He groaned. “You do know alarm clocks exist, right?”

“They’re just not reliable,” Nami shot back. “You should be thanking me because, on top of everything else, I still call to make sure you don’t oversleep.”

Sanji covered his eyes with his free arm. “I just lay down, Nami. Let me sleep a bit longer!”

He heard her talking to someone — probably the cab driver — before her voice came through again. “Blackleg Sanji, get that toned butt out of bed and get ready. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Her voice got muffled again for a few seconds. Then: “Don’t make me see you naked in the shower again!” And the line went dead.

Sanji groaned again but got up. Anything was better than facing an angry Nami. At least she’d complimented his butt. Kickboxing had worked wonders.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Nami walked into his spacious apartment, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that darkened at the press of a button. Sanji never worried about being seen in any compromising position — he was either out working or tucked away in his bedroom, where he’d insisted on putting old-fashioned curtains for extra privacy. Also, he was always alone, or with Nami, and the paparazzi had figured out ages ago that there was no romance there, so they’d stopped taking photos.

“I’m here!” she announced. “Brought your chai.”

Sanji came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. “Thanks,” he called from the bedroom. “I’ll get dressed and be right out.”

A few minutes later, he found Nami waiting with his chai latte — but the look on her face made him stop mid-step.

“What?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”

Nami stared at him, jaw dropped. “You look amazing.”

“Oh,” Sanji felt his face heat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

“You’ve never worn that suit before,” Nami said, stepping up to straighten his tie.

He’d thought about another one of his black suits — the kind everyone associated with him — but something had drawn him to a wine-colored one he’d left at the back of his closet. Why not? Paired with a white shirt, black tie, and black shoes, he actually liked what he saw in the mirror.

“I thought it might be a good day,” Sanji said.

Nami smiled. “They’re gonna flip when they see you in this. Here.” She handed him the to-go cup. “Drink it on the way.”

They took a cab to the building where both the press conference and the interview with the candidate for head of security would take place.

“Did you manage to get hold of Franky’s guy?” Sanji asked after he finished his chai.

Nami shook her head. “No. Tried every way I could, but he didn’t answer. Heard he’s from the army or something, so he must be really busy. I didn’t want to bother Franky with it, so I let it go.”

Sanji nodded, uneasy. Something about it didn’t sit right, but he didn’t say anything.

“We’re here,” Nami announced.

Sanji walked into the press room almost on autopilot, still thinking about why Franky’s guy silence bothered him so much.
He barely registered the reporters setting up cameras and mics. Nami was guiding him to his seat behind the table, fetching water and something else he didn’t catch.

“Mr. Blackleg?” Sanji heard someone call him. He blinked and focused on a tall, broad man in a sharp suit and fedora that somehow looked right on him. His caramel-colored eyes were intense, and Sanji had to blink again to focus on something else. It was like staring down a big cat.

“Yes, and you are?” Sanji asked, craning his neck to look up.

“Pedro,” the man smiled, teeth gleaming white. Sanji felt a pang of jealousy. His own would never look that good, thanks to a guilty pleasure that few people knew about: Sanji was a chain-smoker, though only at home. The rest of the time, he used nicotine patches to get through the cravings without lighting up in front of people.

Sanji shook his hand, surprised by the firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Pedro. Can I help you with something?” Sanji pulled his hand back.

“I hope it’s the other way around,” Pedro said, smiling wider.

Before Sanji could respond, Nami returned with bottles of water. “Oh, Pedro, you made it!” She set them down. “Sanji, this is the security candidate I told you about.”

Sanji blinked. “Oh, really?”

“Mr. Blackleg?” a familiar voice called. Sanji turned and smiled.

“Oh, Vivi! Good to see you. You’re organizing everything today?” He stood and hugged Nami’s girlfriend.

Vivi beamed as they pulled back. “Good to see you, too. Yep, I’m in charge,” she looked between Sanji, Nami, and Pedro before her gaze settled on Sanji. “Ready to start?”

Not really interested in continuing his conversation with Pedro, Sanji agreed. “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

“Let’s start with photos. Stay right here, as natural as possible, but don’t look directly at the flashes. Seriously,” she warned as he chuckled. “They can hurt your eyes. Look somewhere else — the cameras will find your eyes.”

“Alright,” Sanji said with a soft laugh.

“After that, we’ll move on to the questions. Nami and I will pick the reporters for you,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, we’ll pick only the cool ones.”

Sanji squeezed her hand gently. “You’re the best.”

He heard someone clapping and turned to see Nami walking over. “Alright, let’s get this over with, I still have to hire a bodyguard,” she said, glancing at Pedro, who looked like a wall in a fedora — and smiled.

Sanji wasn’t convinced. Pedro seemed nice and had passed all of Nami’s toughest checks before even getting to this point (and that was no small feat), but something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t explain why, even if his life depended on it.

He sighed. “Let’s go.”

Nami and Pedro moved aside. “Have you ever been to a press conference before?” Sanji heard Nami ask Pedro.

“Not as someone’s bodyguard, especially not for someone as important as Mr. Blackleg,” Pedro smiled at her.

“I’m sure you’ll do great.”

Sanji couldn’t hear them anymore. He sighed and turned to Vivi.

“Can we start?”

She nodded, leaning closer. “Who’s the big guy with Nami?” she whispered, pretending to check her papers.

“The candidate for the new bodyguard, to replace Franky while he and Robin travel the world living their married life,” Sanji checked his cufflinks. Perfect.

“Hmmm,” Vivi hummed. “He looks like he wants to eat you alive.”

Sanji turned to her so fast the world spun. “What?!”

She looked at him with a condescending smile. “Oh, Sanji, you never change, huh? Ever since you walked in, that guy hasn’t taken his eyes off you,” she flashed him a sad smile. “You never notice, do you?”

Sanji glanced at Pedro still chatting with Nami, a strange twist in his gut. Was he interested in him? He seemed so professional… Was Sanji really that oblivious? He looked back at Vivi.

“He was just being polite because he wants the job, Vivi, darling,” Sanji said with a shaky smile.

She patted his shoulder. “Keep telling yourself that until you believe it,” she turned the photographers. “Let’s get started!”

Sanji blinked, snapping out of it. He pushed the whole Pedro thing aside and took a deep breath, the way Luffy had taught him, calming his heart. He ran his hand through his hair, fixing the fringe that covered his right eye—another one of his trademarks—and put on his most charming, dazzling smile, the one that had earned him countless fancams and posts all around the world. He could do this. Then he’d go home, sulk, and think about how bad he was at spotting love while enjoying his cigarettes in peace.

He turned slowly, adding that dramatic flair the photographers loved and that the reporters would definitely include in their stories, and opened his eyes slow and carefully, avoiding the flashes just like Vivi had said. The effect was instant. All the cameras went off, flashing at him. He felt like he’d been dropped into the heart of a constellation — surrounded by so many lights he couldn’t see anymore. He felt like he was floating, hearing only his heartbeat in the chaos.

Until...

Badum.

Badum.

Badum.

In the whirlwind of lights and sound, he suddenly felt like he was seeing in color for the first time, a world of vibrance exploding into view. Sanji’s gaze found someone across the room, someone he’d never seen before — tall, green-haired, tanned skin, and a confident stance. The man looked at him with an expression both warm and steady. The world around them fell away, leaving only the two of them suspended in that moment.

Sanji didn’t know how or why, but he wanted to memorize that face, to know the feel of that tanned skin, to run his fingers through that jade-green hair and see if it brought goosebumps, to taste those lips that were slightly parted in surprise—mirroring his own. He needed to know who this man — the one who’d suddenly become the star in Sanji’s universe, around whom his heart wanted to orbit.

He swallowed hard and turned to Nami, who looked concerned. She rushed over.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, her voice urgent, her eyes scanning his face. “You’re pale.”

“Who’s that guy with the green hair in the back, behind the reporters?” Sanji asked, heartbeat racing.

Nami frowned at the unexpected question but followed his gaze, and her eyes lit up. “Oh! So he finally showed up,” she muttered, half-annoyed, half-amused.

“Who is he?” Sanji pressed, pulse quickening.

She turned back to him. “He’s Franky’s recommendation for the security position. Seems he decided to come in person rather than return my calls or go through the first interview,” she said, glancing at the man. “Though I have no clue how he found out we’d be here today.”

Sanji’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest. His gut feeling had been right, after all. Was that why he’d been so bothered when Nami had given up trying to reach him? Because he would change the whole orbit of his world with just one look?

“What’s his name?” Sanji asked, barely breathing.

She scrunched her face, thinking. “It was an unusual name… sounded kind of like a samurai. Ah! I remember — Zoro. Roronoa Zoro.”

Zoro.

Sanji’s heart melted, warmth spreading through his entire body at the sound of that name.

Zoro.

Sanji looked back through the crowd of photographers. There he was, standing in the same spot, still looking at Sanji with that warm, intense gaze. Sanji’s whole body felt electrified, like a Christmas tree lighting up, bright and buzzing with something new.

For the first time in his life, Sanji knew he was seeing that look because it was exactly how he looked at others when he flirted.

“Hire him,” Sanji said to Nami, not looking away from Zoro.

“What did you say?” Nami asked, incredulous.

“I said hire him.” He turned to her slowly, serious.

“You cannot be serious,” she said, half-laughing, half-panicking. “What about Pedro? And all the rounds of interviews I did? How do you know this guy isn’t a maniac, a serial killer, or just plain crazy?”

Sanji looked at her with a calm he hadn’t felt in years, and it made him smile. “I don’t want Pedro. I want Zoro,” he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “And Franky would never recommend someone dangerous. He’d take that person out himself before even apologizing for suggesting them. Besides, you’re forgetting one other person besides Franky who checked his background.”

“Who?” Nami pouted.

“Robin,” Sanji said simply, as if that ended the discussion.

Nami sighed, defeated. “You’re right. She’d never let a lunatic near you.”

“Hire him,” Sanji repeated, softer this time. “He’s the one I want.”

Sanji didn’t wait for her reply. He turned back, found Zoro’s gaze, and smiled — hoping to say we’ll talk soon without words.

Zoro smiled back.
And Sanji’s brain short-circuited.

He was done for.

Zoro already held him in the palm of his hand.

And Sanji couldn’t wait to let him know it.

- to be continued -

Chapter Text

The rest of the press conference passed in a blur.

Sanji answered every question with the kind of charm that made him a fan favorite, but his mind was elsewhere—more precisely, locked on a pair of moss-green eyes that had looked straight through him and made his heart skip several beats. He kept scanning the room between questions, searching past flashes and raised hands, desperate for another glimpse of that face.

At some point, Sanji caught sight of Nami escorting both Pedro and Zoro out of the room — discreetly, efficiently. It didn’t take a genius to figure out where she was taking them. Interviews, most likely. Or pre-interviews, or evaluations—whatever she wanted to call them to keep Sanji from simply pointing and shouting “Him! I want that one!” like he was shopping for shoes instead of hiring a professional charged with keeping him alive.

Which, technically, he was.
But still.

Sanji fielded the remaining questions on autopilot. When asked about his inspiration for the season’s menu, he spoke about emotional landscapes and culinary storytelling. When asked about future plans, he hinted at expansion. Someone even asked about his romantic life. He laughed it off with practiced ease, though the question stung more than usual. What could he say? I just fell head over heels for a green-haired stranger who might soon be contractually obligated to watch my back while I pretend not to think about his jawline didn’t sound like the appropriate answer.

Eventually, Vivi leaned over to him, a goddess of poise and schedule management. “We’re done here. You ready?”

Sanji stood smoothly. “Born ready.”

She walked him through the back hallway, her heels clicking smartly against the tile. “They’re in the glass conference room down the hall. Nami’s already started preliminary talks.”

“With both of them?”

“Mm-hmm. Pedro was the first. But the green-haired one got in there five minutes later and just waltzed in like he owned the place.”

Sanji chuckled softly. Of course he did.

As they approached the room, he adjusted his jacket, fingers lingering on the lapel a beat too long. Then he stepped inside with the kind of deliberate calm he’d perfected for television — chin up, posture loose but elegant, like nothing could faze him.

Nami stood behind the massive wooden desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Pedro sat straight, perfectly attentive. Zoro leaned against the table’s edge, arms folded over his chest, exuding something Sanji could only describe as latent chaos restrained by willpower.

When Sanji entered, Zoro’s eyes lifted — and though his expression barely shifted, something flickered there: recognition, curiosity… maybe even challenge. Sanji’s stomach flipped. “Gentlemen,” Sanji greeted, giving both candidates a polite nod before turning to Nami. “How’s it going?”

“Eventful,” she muttered. “Pedro’s been walking me through his qualifications: top-tier private security firms, experience with celebrities and politicians, multiple recommendations.” She said it like she hadn’t already memorized his résumé or put him through every test imaginable before this meeting. Sanji tried not to roll his eyes.

Pedro smiled modestly. “I’ve worked in high-pressure environments. I understand the discretion and speed your lifestyle requires, Mr. Blackleg.”

“Appreciated,” Sanji replied.

Then he turned to Zoro. “And you?”

“Military background. Special recon, then private contracts,” Zoro said evenly. “Mostly asset protection and extraction.”

Sanji’s breath caught at extraction. He could almost hear Nami’s mental calculator clicking, trying to decide whether that sound impressive or violent.

“References?” she asked, her arms tightening.

Zoro reached into his coat pocket and handed over a folded document. Nami unfolded it, scanning down — eyes narrowing, then widening fast. “Is this… a letter from Robin?” she asked, disbelief slipping through.

Zoro nodded once. “She gave me some days ago and said you’d need it.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. Robin didn’t hand out written recommendations lightly.

Nami turned to Sanji, flustered. “Still, Pedro has experience with public events. Zoro…”

“Handled counter-surveillance at world summits,” Zoro interrupted, calm as stone. “Different kind of public. Higher stakes.”

Pedro smiled again, refusing to flinch. “I specialize in blending in, being invisible.”

“So do I,” Zoro said simply.

Sanji coughed lightly into his hand to cover the sound of his heartbeat going berserk.

Nami pressed on. “Pedro knows how to navigate fan crowds. Zoro, how would you handle an aggressive fan breaching the perimeter?”

Zoro didn’t blink. “Efficiently. Non-lethal force first. If necessary, I end it before it escalates.”

Pedro nodded smoothly, “Of course, public image matters.”

“Not more than the client’s safety,” Zoro countered.

Sanji folded his arms, pretending to weigh his options — though he’d made up his mind long before stepping into that room. “And what if I decided to take a midnight walk through the city, just because I was feeling inspired?” he asked casually.

Pedro blinked. “We’d hardly discourage it.”

Zoro met Sanji's gaze. “I’d already be outside the door.”

Sanji couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. “Interesting.”

“Sanji…” Nami warned.

“I’ve heard enough,” he said calmly, turning to both men. “Pedro, thank you. Your record is stellar. Could you wait outside for a moment?”

Pedro stood, stiff but polite. “Of course. I’ll leave you to your decision.”

Once the door closed, Sanji turned back. Zoro hadn’t moved. “You’re not going to try to convince me you’re the best choice?”

Zoro’s lips curved, just slightly. “You already know I am.”

Sanji stepped closer. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” Zoro replied, still smiling.

Sanji tilted his head. “So I can assume you already knew who I was when you walked in, right?”

“Of course.”

“And yet no autograph request? No selfie? I’m hurt.”

“I knew I’d get closer to you very soon, so…” he shrugged.

Sanji’s brain short-circuited. He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that settles everything,” he extended a hand. “Welcome to the team, Roronoa Zoro.”

Zoro looked at offered hand. “Glad to be at your service.”

Their hands met. Firm. Steady. Electric.

Sanji didn’t let go for a long moment.
And Zoro didn’t pull away.

The second the handshake broke, Nami grabbed Sanji by the arm, not hard enough to hurt, but definitely hard enough to say you and I are about to talk. “Are you absolutely sure about this?” she hissed under her breath as they stepped aside, just far enough so Zoro wouldn’t overhear—though Sanji suspected that wouldn’t help.

He adjusted his cufflinks, composed. “Couldn’t be more certain.”

“Sanji, you saw him for all of ten minutes.”

“And in those ten minutes, he passed every test I care about,” Sanji said, leaning casually against the window. “Franky trusts him. Robin wrote a recommendation, for fucks sake. And I just saw the way he thinks, sharp, fast, calm. What else do you need?”

Nami groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just say it. Say you’re going with your gut.”

“Of course I am,” he said with a grin. “My gut’s made me a three-star chef, Nami darling.”

She threw her hands up. “Very well then. But you get to tell Pedro. I’m not being the bad guy.”

“Nami, you know I’m charming enough to make rejection feel like a promotion,” Sanji quipped, winking at her.

Nami snorted. “Fine. I’ll go smooth things over. He deserves that much.”

Sanji nodded, but his eyes had already drifted. Back to Zoro. Who hadn’t looked away. Not once. There was something in that gaze, fierce, focused, unyielding. Like he’d been watching a storm gather and had no intention of seeking shelter. Sanji’s breath hitched.

This wasn’t a crush. This was gravity.

Nami’s heels clicked out of the room and Sanji turned back slowly, hands in his pockets now, exuding a calm he absolutely did not feel. Zoro hadn’t moved. “You stare like it’s a challenge,” Sanji said lightly.

Zoro’s reply came without hesitation. “Only when I like the view.”

Sanji blinked, then laughed—a low, surprised sound. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Then I suppose it’s unwelcomed,” Zoro said.

Sanji’s smirk deepened. “Who said anything about unwelcome?”

Silence stretched, warm and charged. Sanji cleared his throat again. Professional. Be professional. “So. Do I get to ask you a few more questions?”

“You’re the boss now,” Zoro said. “Ask away.”

Sanji paced slowly, just to keep his balance. “How good are you in close quarters?”

“I don’t miss.”

“And hand-to-hand?”

“Better than anyone you’ve worked with.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold claim.”

Zoro didn’t blink. “Test me.”

Sanji stopped. “Tempting. But not today.”

Zoro’s mouth quirked. “Your call.”

“Do you always take orders this well?” Sanji asked, voice lower now.

Zoro’s gaze flickered. “Only from people I respect.”

The world narrowed to that single line and to the quiet between them that said far more. Sanji’s heart thudded once, loud in his chest. He looked away just to stop the spiral.
But it was too late. He knew was already falling.

Sanji left his daydreaming when he heard the sound of Nami’s heels echoing down the hallway, even before the door even opened. He barely had time to breathe before she crossed the threshold with a storm in her eyes and the flawless posture of someone who had already made a decision, and was prepared to defend it with words sharp enough to leave permanent damage.

“Pedro’s gone,” she announced, her voice as clean and cutting as a slap from a silk glove. “Now we’re going to talk about you.”

Zoro didn’t move. Arms crossed, body relaxed, eyes steady. He watched Nami fully aware he was standing in enemy territory.

“Roronoa Zoro,” she began, his name sounding like a sentence. “Let me be perfectly clear: I did not approve your entry here. You skipped the hiring process, ignored my calls, and showed up on your own.”

“Got here in time,” Zoro replied, voice low and neutral — respectful, but unyielding.

Nami took a step forward, never losing her grace. “You were recommended by people I trust with my life. But that doesn’t mean I trust you. Not yet.”

Zoro nodded once, eyes never leaving hers. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Sanji watched them like he was witnessing a duel. Every word, every movement carried weight, pride, loyalty, protection. His chest tightened as he realized that, at its core, that entire clash was about him.

Nami continued, “Here’s what you need to understand: I protect Sanji. The restaurant, the career, the image. I’m the shield between him and a world that would eat him alive. And if you interfere, disrupt, or, heaven forbid, hurt him in any way, I will personally deal with you. Impeccable recommendations or not.”

Silence.

Zoro stood still for a moment longer — maybe choosing his words. Then he uncrossed his arms, straightened up, and said firmly: “Then work with me.”

Nami frowned. “What?”

“You’re the shield between him and the world,” Zoro said, voice calm. “I’m the blade that cuts down whatever gets too close. We’re on the same side.”

It hit like a strike, subtle but precise. Nami stepped back half a pace, not out of fear, but because there was no rebuttal strong enough to counter that. Sanji had to fight the urge to smile. Zoro wasn’t defending himself. He was aligning himself.

“You care about him,” Zoro went on, his gaze locked with hers. “That’s obvious. Which means you’ll keep me accountable. Good, I want that. I need someone to watch me, to keep me in check, if you will. To stay alert if I can’t.”

Nami studied him for a moment longer in silence. Then her gaze softened — not much, but enough for Sanji to notice. It was the look she reserved for people who, despite every expectation, had earned a point in her book. “You’re smart,” she said finally. “And dangerous.”

Zoro shrugged. “Only to those who deserve it.”

She smiled, just a little, but genuinely. “I’ll be watching you, Roronoa,” she said, returning to her usual commanding tone. “If you ever fail him, I’ll know it before you do.”

“I don’t fail,” he replied.

“Good,” she nodded. “Then your trial begins now.”

She turned to Sanji, touching his shoulder lightly. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.” Then, lowering her voice, she added, “Try not to flirt with your bodyguard for the next twenty-four hours, please.”

“No promises,” Sanji murmured, the smile already tugging at his lips.

Nami left, her heels echoing again, this time slower, calmer, but still carrying that unmistakable authority.

Sanji and Zoro were left there. Alone.
Again.
And for the first time since all this started, Sanji didn’t know what to say.

Zoro had disarmed Nami, and he’d done it while being completely professional and respectful. Sanji watched that serious face, those sharp eyes, the steady shoulders. Maybe that was Zoro’s secret — he didn’t bow to anyone, but he always recognized who was worth standing beside.

Sanji opened his mouth, trying to think of something, anything, to say, but Zoro adjusted his stance and glanced toward the door. “I’ll go find Nami, finish the paperwork.”

Sanji bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want Zoro to leave, but he couldn’t say that. Not yet. “Of course,” he said, smoothing the sleeve of his suit. “Professional to the end, huh?”

Zoro stopped at the door and looked back over his shoulder. “It’s what you hired me for.” And then he was gone.

Sanji stayed there for a long time. The silence of the room didn’t help. Somehow, Zoro’s absence filled the space more than his presence ever could. He swallowed hard. And felt, stronger than ever, that maybe he hadn’t just brought in the right bodyguard. But the most delicious kind of danger his life had ever known.

-*-

It was past eight, and the apartment was dark except for the soft light spilling from the gourmet kitchen in the corner. Sanji, shirt half-unbuttoned and hair disheveled, stood by the balcony’s entrance with a glass of white wine in one hand and a notebook full of culinary sketches in the other.

He’d come home alone, leaving word only with Vivi on his way out of the building — knowing she’d pass the message along to Nami… and to Zoro.

Sanji sighed. The cigarette between his fingers burned slowly. He was now sitting on the balcony, where the railing was high and strategically designed to keep anyone there safe from prying eyes or paparazzi lenses. It was the only patch of open sky where he allowed his secret habit to breathe, along with the thoughts he couldn’t say out loud.

Herb sauce… watercress foam… lemon reduction carpaccio…

He scribbled ideas across the page, but every new concept somehow included something green — mint, sage, pistachio… moss.

Marimo.

Sanji froze. He stared at the page for several seconds.

Marimo.

The cigarette went out in the ashtray with a dry snap. He dragged a hand through his hair and cursed himself under his breath. He was obsessed. And that was dangerous. A discreet beep and a bright line of text on the home security panel broke his train of thought. Following the sounds, two rings of the bell. Swearing softly, he walked over and read the glowing display: “Authorized visitor: Roronoa Zoro.”

Sanji’s eyes widened. He cursed silently. He dashed to the balcony, where the half-smoked cigarette was still smoldering in the ashtray. He snuffed it out, shoved the ashtray into one of the kitchen drawers, and turned the exhaust fan on full blast, the roar filling the apartment like the flimsy excuse it was.

Calm down. He forced himself to breathe, took a long sip of wine, straightened his shirt as best he could, and ran his fingers through his hair until the blond strands fell naturally over his face, covering his right eye. That’ll have to do.

He hurried to the door and opened it with a rehearsed smile that almost hid how breathless he was. Zoro stepped in with the steady gait of someone who never doubted himself. Simple clothes — dark T-shirt, khaki pants, sturdy boots — and a tablet in hand. But he carried himself with that confidence bordering on arrogance. One sweep of his gaze was enough to make it feel like nothing in the apartment escaped his attention.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good indeed,” Sanji replied, gesturing toward the room. “Make yourself at home. I was just… relaxing.”

Zoro took two steps in and stopped. His gaze shifted toward the balcony. He inhaled, subtle but unmistakable. Then his eyes fell on the stone counter, where Sanji, in his rush, had left a faint trace of ash. “So you relax with filters and nicotine?” he asked, voice unreadable.

Sanji froze. “What? Of course not! I— it must be from… uh, the air freshener.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow and walked to the kitchen drawer, pulled it open with one finger, and looked at the still-warm ashtray inside.

Sanji let out a loud sigh and leaned against the counter. “Fine. But this stays between us, got it?”

Zoro closed the drawer calmly. “Not my job to judge.”

“Oh, really? I thought the judgmental stare came with the job.”

Zoro looked at him. “That look’s reserved for people who lie badly.”

Sanji huffed but couldn’t help smiling. “Didn’t expect to see you this soon,” he said, trying to sound casual. “What is it, surveillance duty? Or did you already miss me?”

“Reconnaissance,” Zoro replied simply. “If I’m protecting you, I need to know every inch of this place. Entry points, escape routes, blind spots. None of your previous guards left me a layout, so I decided to start on my own.”

Sanji bit his lower lip, arms crossing over his chest. “You’re… intense.”

“Efficient,” Zoro corrected. “I’d have started earlier, but you left before Nami and I finished my contract.”

Sanji felt his face warm. “I had to get back and finish working on the new All Blue menu.” Lies, plain and simple. He just needed space to process the insanity of the day. If Zoro noticed, he didn’t call him out. “Would you like a drink first?”

Zoro shook his head. “No, thanks. Can I start mapping?”

Sanji nodded, and Zoro moved through the apartment with quiet precision, taking discreet photos of key spots — doors, balcony access, cameras, control panels. There was something hypnotic about watching him work, the sharp focus, the contained energy. Sanji tried not to stare, but Zoro had the exact opposite polarity of his own eyes; looking away felt impossible.

“High-end penthouse,” Zoro said flatly, turning back to Sanji. “But the private elevator access is a risk. I’d recommend adding a secondary biometric panel. Someone with access to this floor could be bribed.” He moved toward the hallway, tapping twice on a drywall panel to test the density, checking the utility closet, studying the plumbing schematic with military precision.

“You’re meticulous,” Sanji commented.

“It’s my job,” Zoro said without looking back.

“You always do this alone?”

“I prefer it that way. Fewer distractions.”

When he reached Sanji’s bedroom, he didn’t ask permission, just announced, “I’ll need to check this space too. For safety.” He went straight to the windows. Sanji followed, hearing him mutter, “High altitude. Good vantage point, bad for a fast evacuation.”

“Could you climb down from here?” Sanji asked.

Zoro glanced at him, deadpan. “Only if you’ve got a death wish.”

Sanji shrugged. “Great. So no flying escape if a fan goes crazy.”

“You won’t have to. I’ll stop them first.”

Sanji stared a second too long. Zoro looked away first and kept moving. Sanji followed on pure reflex.

“Nami mentioned you actually go running at night,” Zoro said.

“Easier that way. Fewer people, fewer cameras, fewer fans,” Sanji replied, still a little tense.

Zoro nodded. “If you think about doing it, let me know, so I’ll come along. Fewer surprises.”

“You run?” Sanji asked, surprised.

“Faster than you think.”

“Let’s test that sometime,” Sanji said, grinning crookedly.

“You’ll be under constant watch from now on,” Zoro said, taking the hallway back to where they started. “Doesn’t mean you’ve lost your freedom. Just means I’ll always be one step behind.”

“And what if I’m the risk?” Sanji asked as they reached the living room.

Zoro stopped, turned, and met his gaze with dangerous calm. “Then things get a lot more interesting.”

Sanji swallowed. “W-what else do you do besides chasing stubborn chefs and finding hidden ashtrays?” I’m stuttering. Fantastic.

Zoro smiled, something small, rare, devastating. “I listen. I see. I protect.”

Sanji’s throat tightened. Zoro moved toward the main balcony, checked the lock, scanned the surrounding buildings, then came back into the kitchen, where Sanji leaned against the marble counter.

“You like green?” Zoro asked casually, stopping across from him.

“What?”

Zoro set a notebook on the counter — Sanji’s notebook — with colorful sketches, chaotic notes, and a double-page spread covered entirely in green ingredients.

Sanji froze, heat rising to his cheeks. “I was just testing recipes. In theory, of course.”

“Of course,” Zoro said lightly, circling the counter to continue his inspection. But there was a hint of amusement in his tone, clear enough to make Sanji bristle. He hated being doubted.

“Hey! You don’t believe me, Marimo?” he shot back, annoyed.

Silence.

Zoro stopped and turned slowly. Sanji froze as realization hit him. “Oh... I didn’t— I mean, I did, but not— it wasn’t supposed to— it was just a stupid comment, forget I said anything,” he said, dragging a hand down his face in surrender.

Zoro watched him for a long second. Then, for the first time that night, he really smiled. Big, open, spectacular. “Doesn’t bother me.”

Sanji blinked. “What?”

“You can call me that,” Zoro said, resuming his walk. “If you want.”

“You don’t mind?” Sanji asked carefully.

“Not if it’s you saying it,” Zoro replied, his smile turning almost predatory.

Sanji stood there, mouth half-open, trying to remember how to breathe.

Zoro checked the watch on his wrist. “I’ll send Nami my report. Then I’ll bring back some security upgrade suggestions.”

Sanji could only nod. Zoro turned toward the door, then looked over his shoulder one last time. “Good night, Chef.”

The door closed, leaving Sanji alone with the distinct feeling that the whole visit had been some kind of dream. In a daze, he circled the counter, pulled the ashtray from the drawer along with a fresh cigarette and his lighter. Mechanically, he lit it, took a slow drag, and his eyes landed on the notebook still open on the double-page spread of green.
He lifted it to eye level and smiled. “Guess green just became my favorite color.”

to be continued

Chapter Text

The doorbell rang once. Sanji didn’t move.
It rang again. Twice in a row.

He groaned, rolling onto his side under the comforter, mumbling into the pillow. “What the… hell…” he muttered, voice hoarse from sleep and annoyance.

The third ring came — loud and long.

Sanji finally sat up, eyes half-open, hair a mess. He shuffled down the hallway wearing nothing but black briefs and the wrinkled white shirt from the day before. One sleeve hung off his shoulder. His legs — long, toned from kickboxing — were completely bare. In the living room, the morning light filtered through the automatic blinds, outlining his silhouette without him realizing.

He unlocked the door and opened it without checking the panel. “If that’s you, Nami, I swear I’ll put chili in your coffee-”

But it wasn’t Nami.
It was Zoro standing there.

Black fitted T-shirt, training pants, small backpack slung over one shoulder. Perfectly still in the doorway. His sharp gaze flicked once down Sanji’s legs, painfully slow, and lingered half a second longer than professionalism should allow.

Sanji blinked, brain lagging. Zoro looked away, though his expression wasn’t quite as composed as usual. Maybe a hint of surprise had slipped through. “Oh. It’s you.” Sanji rubbed his eye. “Morning, Marimo.”

Zoro’s brow lifted slightly. “You always answer the door like that?”

Sanji crossed his arms, trying to look blasé even though he was half-naked. “I usually don’t get woken up before nine.”

“I figured it was better not to walk in unannounced,” Zoro said calmly. “Even with clearance.”

“You’ve had access since last night. Why not just come in?”

Zoro straightened. His voice was low but steady. “Because even with authorization, I only enter when you want me to. Consent’s part of security too. Your privacy stays yours, and unless you’re in danger or you tell me otherwise, I’ll always wait.”

Sanji froze for a beat. Blinked slowly. And for some reason he couldn’t name, his chest warmed. “I see,” he said, opening the door wider. “For the future, you can come in whenever you want, ok? Don't need to wait for me to answer." Zoro nodded once. "Then come in. Close it behind you.”

Zoro stepped inside without another word. He scanned the open space — a broad living room flowing seamlessly into a sleek gourmet kitchen, divided by a light marble counter. Clean lines, soft light, understated elegance. There was a formal dining table in the corner, but the heart of the apartment was clearly that counter between the two spaces.

Still half-asleep, Sanji turned back toward him. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll shower and brush my teeth. Or, if you’d rather, I’ll pretend you didn’t see my legs first thing in the morning.”

Zoro said nothing, only turned to study the city view from the balcony, giving Sanji the opportunity to retreat with what was left of his dignity.

Twenty minutes later, Sanji reappeared — and he was a different man. Light blue shirt crisp and perfect, damp hair brushed to the side, a faint trace of woody cologne in the air. Awake now, focused, and unmistakably charming.

Zoro turned when he heard footsteps.

“Sorry about earlier,” Sanji said, smiling softly. “I went to bed obscenely late. You just caught me off guard… in more ways than one.”

Zoro didn’t reply, just nodded, though there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“Now that I’m human again… breakfast?” Sanji asked, opening the refrigerator.

“Only if you want to.”

Sanji chuckled. “If you knew what I really want…” Zoro raised an eyebrow. Sanji cleared his throat. “I mean, you woke me up, so you’re eating with me. End of story.”

Zoro took a seat at the counter, facing him. The breakfast preparation was silent, but it was a performance. Cast-iron pan heating until it sang. Butter melting, fragrant. Spinach sautéed with purple garlic and a drizzle of olive oil. Eggs whisked with cream, nutmeg, and sea salt. Sourdough toasted in butter until the crust turned golden and crisp. Over the soft eggs, thin shavings of aged parmesan, cracked black pepper, a ribbon of truffle honey. Strong black coffee. Fresh orange, carrot, and ginger juice.

Sanji placed the dishes on the counter with the ease of someone who’d earned Michelin stars in his sleep. “Bon appétit.”

Zoro tasted a bite. Paused. “This is… impressive.”

Sanji smiled. “Glad you liked it.”

Zoro looked around. “You should open a restaurant.”

Sanji smirked. “Joke’s on you, Marimo. I did it already.”

“Yeah, the All Blue, huh…” Zoro took a sip of juice. “The impossible place where all the flavors of the world meet.”

Sanji froze. His heart thudded once, loud enough to hear. Not many people understood the name. Most just thought it sounded pretty. But Zoro… Zoro did.

“You know what it means,” Sanji said quietly.

“Of course I do.” Zoro met his eyes. “And judging by this plate, I think you’ve already found it.”

Sanji looked away, smiling — genuine, a little shy. “Thanks.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, until Zoro pulled out his phone. “Now. Your schedule.”

Sanji blinked. “You have my schedule?”

“Since yesterday, Nami's sharing it with me.” Zoro rotated the screen toward him. “Remote interview at eight-thirty about the reality show. Pause for lunch, then a investor meeting at two, and a technical visit to the set at five. No public events tonight.”

“So, you’re following me to all of those huh?”

“Yes. Discreetly. Nami recommended maintaining the image of independence.”

“Okay,” Sanji nodded. “Oh, by the way,” Sanji said, picking up his cup of coffee, “this is officially a tradition now.”

Zoro blinked, confusion all over his face. “This what is a tradition now?”

“Breakfast together. To go over the schedule. And to make sure you eat properly.” Sanji smiled. “Can’t have my bodyguard protecting me on an empty stomach.”

Zoro considered for a moment, then said, “Fair.”

Sanji’s grin widened. “Besides, you see me first thing — no perfect smiles, no suits, dark circles and all. If that’s not trust, I don’t know what is.”

Zoro looked at him. “You look good in the morning.”

Sanji went quiet for a second, then glanced away, hiding the faint color rising in his cheeks. Maybe it was the beginning of something. And maybe… this new routine would be more dangerous than any threat waiting outside.

-*-

Bartolomeo arrived early.

He was leaning against the door of the matte-black car parked neatly in front of Sanji’s building, wearing oversized sunglasses and hair spiked with far too much gel. The moment he spotted the blond stepping out of the lobby, his face lit up in pure joy. “Chef Sanji!!!” he yelled, waving both arms wildly. “I’ve been counting the seconds to see you again, sir!”

Sanji laughed, straightening the collar of his navy jacket. Beside him, Zoro only raised an eyebrow, sizing up the driver like he was calculating whether the man was a potential threat or just… eccentric.

“Morning, Barto.”

“Morning? It’s more than that, it’s a privilege! A rebirth!”

“Right." Sanji pointed to Zoro. "Barto, this is Roronoa Zoro, my new bodyguard."

Bartolomeo offered a hand to Zoro. "Oh, yes! Miss Nami told me about you. Welcome aboard, Mr. Roronoa."

"Thanks," Zoro said simply, shaking Bartolomeo's hand.

"Great!" Sanji clapped his hands once. "Let’s go, then.”

Once in the back seat, as Barto sped toward the business district, Sanji leaned his head against the leather seat with a sigh. “I can’t believe I agreed to a live interview at eight-thirty in the morning.”

Zoro glanced at him from the side. “You did well. Looked almost rested.”

Sanji huffed. “I was resting until you rang my doorbell and made me get up without knowing where I’d left my pants.”

Zoro bit the inside of his cheek but didn’t comment. Sanji could swear he was fighting a smile.

“So, was the interview worth it?” Zoro asked, trying to sound professional.

Sanji nodded, more awake now. “Live broadcast from my kitchen. Three languages, the same questions over and over, not one about actual food… but I sold the new season of the show. And I managed to slip in a few jabs about the overuse of foam in fine dining.”

Zoro had no idea what “foam” meant in food, but Sanji’s indignation was… charming.

They arrived at the glass tower where the investor meeting would take place. Nami was already waiting at the entrance punctually, flawless. She handed Sanji a tablet with the quarterly numbers, then exchanged a quick glance with Zoro — the kind that silently asked, everything under control? to which Zoro gave a subtle nod.

Inside the conference room, Sanji delivered his presentation with practiced grace, talking about expansion, sustainability, and innovation in tasting menus. Nami managed the tactical side with precision, while Zoro stood in the background like a silent shadow, tracking the long stares, the lukewarm handshakes, and the hands that lingered too close.

Later, Nami said goodbye to them, promising to call later and leaving to take care of her own personal businesses. Sanji and Zoro headed to the studio where the culinary reality show would be filmed — not to shoot yet, but to tour the new set, meet the other judges, and discuss the upcoming season’s challenges.

Sanji stepped out of the car, eyes shining. The set was a monument to extravagance: mirrored counters, colorful tiled walls, cinematic lighting, and the faint scent of new wood.
Brook appeared before Sanji could finish spinning on his heels. “Yohohoho! Sanji, my three-star superstar! You’ve arrived, and so has inspiration!”

The show’s director — tall and lean, with his amazing black power hair and a royal blue velvet blazer — looked like he’d just stepped off a red carpet. He swept Sanji into a theatrical hug, which Sanji returned with an amused smile, long used to his friend’s flair. “Brook, the set looks incredible.”

“Thank my divine talent and Jinbe’s saintly patience!” Brook laughed, snapping his fingers. “Speaking of which…”

Jinbe appeared like a quiet ship gliding into port — dark suit, calm expression. He was the show’s owner and final voice in all creative and commercial matters, respected not because he shouted, but because he listened.

“Sanji. And you must be the new bodyguard, Zoro, isn’t it? Welcome.”

Zoro inclined his head respectfully, and Jinbe shook his hand firmly.

“If Robin and Franky trust you, I don’t need more proof.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Brook clapped his hands dramatically. “Ah! And of course, the rest of our culinary constellation!”

Bonney appeared from behind one of the counters, her pale pink coat flowing behind her, oversized sunglasses covering half her face. She held a glass of white wine in one hand and a slice of cheesecake in the other. “Sanji, darling! Long time no see! Ah, I can’t wait to taste every dish this season and judge them all with brutal honesty.”

“Bonney. Always a pleasure.” Sanji kissed her hand gallantly.

“If you didn’t cook so well, I’d hate you for being this pretty.” She winked — then looked at Zoro. “And this one? He’s new. Can I take a bite?”

Zoro coughed. Sanji burst out laughing.

Right behind her came Capone Bege, wearing a gray pinstriped suit and an expression of mild boredom. His wife, Chiffon, followed beside him, already inspecting the counters with a critical eye.

“Bege handles the practical side,” Sanji explained quietly to Zoro. “He owns a luxury restaurant chain, two Michelin stars last year. Chiffon’s the real genius in the kitchen.”

“Guess that’s why she’s the one talking,” Zoro muttered.

Sanji grinned. He was starting to enjoy their exchanges more than he should. The visit continued with brief meetings, lighting tests, equipment demonstrations, and logistics adjustments. Amid the creative chaos, Zoro remained alert, monitoring the hallways, the crew, the rhythm of the environment. Every so often, his gaze would find Sanji, and there was something in it — subtle, unspoken — that burned quietly, invisible to everyone else.

By the time they got back in the car, the sun was already sliding down the sky. Sanji stretched in the back seat, arms over his head, wearing a tired smile. “You know you don’t have to follow me onto the set, right?”

Zoro didn’t answer immediately. He looked out the window instead — at the reflection of Sanji’s face in the glass, soft and golden in the sunset.

“It's just that...” he said finally, “...that if anything happens… I want to be close.”

Sanji turned his face away to hide his big smile.

-*-

The promise had come casually, during a break on set.

Brook, eyes gleaming beneath his sunglasses, had suggested that the new season needed a replication challenge — and that it would only hold true value if it came from an original recipe, one created exclusively by Sanji. Jinbe, in his deep and gentle voice, nodded with conviction. “You’re the best, Sanji-kun. Let’s give these contestants something worthy of you.”

Sanji had laughed at the time, confident. He’d just created a new dish for the All Blue that week — coming up with another one couldn’t be that hard. Creativity was his sharpest spice, after all.

But the next morning, after sending Nami and Zoro a message saying he'd stay in for the day, when he tied his favorite pink Doskoi Panda apron and set to work, nothing happened. That first day, he tested combinations. Nothing worked. It was fine — it was only the first day. He was just a little tired, that was all. Tomorrow would be better.

On the second day, he decided to throw away everything that reminded him of his previous work. A clean slate. But the flavors clashed, refusing to blend. Nothing was appetizing, nothing beautiful. Around lunchtime, the doorbell rang twice, quick and polite. Sanji dragged himself to the door and found Zoro standing there. “Marimo, I’m not going out today. You can rest.”

And without waiting for an answer, he closed the door and went back to the kitchen.

On the third day, Sanji woke up early, restless. But every attempt turned out worse than the last — flatter, duller, lifeless. He was unraveling. Why isn’t it working? Around three in the afternoon, the bell rang twice.

“Come in!” Sanji shouted toward the door, too distracted to leave the kitchen.

Zoro’s head appeared through the crack. “Everything okay?”

“Uh-huh.” Sanji barely looked up, moving frantically between stove and counter, piling up pans and plates and bowls everywhere. He didn’t even notice when Zoro quietly closed the door again, leaving him alone with his failed creations.

On the fourth day, Sanji stopped answering messages. Nami came by late in the afternoon but left minutes later, rolling her eyes after hearing the words “exclusive creation” for the tenth time. Zoro came not long after. Two bell rings. This time, he didn’t wait. He opened the door slowly, scanning the apartment for Sanji. He found him behind a precarious tower of pots, messy hair sticking out in every direction, apron stained, eyes glassy. He looked like a man who hadn’t seen sleep in days.

Zoro didn’t say a word. Didn’t announce himself. And just as quietly, he left.

On the fifth day, Sanji hadn’t left the kitchen at all. He’d been there almost twenty-four hours straight, lost in the loop of chopping, mixing, discarding, trying again. His mind had no space for anything but failure. And failure was not an option. Zoro arrived at dusk. Two bell rings. Then he entered.

Sanji was barefoot, wearing sweatpants, sleeves rolled up, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes were red — and not from the smoke.

“All this… because of a recipe?” Zoro asked, approaching slowly, as if Sanji were some wild creature he didn’t want to startle. His tone held no judgment. Just quiet amazement.

“It’s not a recipe, Marimo,” Sanji muttered, pouring wine into his glass without looking. “It’s the recipe. The one they’ll have to replicate. The one that’s supposed to show the best I can do. And nothing, nothing I try is worth a damn.”

“But you’re the best, aren’t you?” Zoro asked.

“That only makes it worse.” Sanji groaned into his glass, taking a long swallow. “The expectations. The pressure. The idea of failing — of being predictable, of disappointing people. I wasn’t made for this, Marimo.”

Zoro leaned against the kitchen wall, silent.

“When I opened the All Blue,” Sanji continued, “I came up with a dish in two hours. A week ago, I finished the new season’s menu without even trying. But now... nothing. No texture, no flavor, no soul. It’s like my brain evaporated. All that’s left is smoke.” He gestured toward the overflowing ashtray with a bitter laugh.

“Maybe you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Maybe you don’t understand what it’s like to live off this. To create something that’s supposed to touch people. When nothing comes, what’s left of you?”

Zoro didn’t answer. Just stayed there. His silence wasn’t comforting, but it was respectful. Sanji felt it and, for once, he stopped talking. The quiet stretched long after Zoro had left, the echo of his presence still heavy in the room.

The next day, two bell rings again. The apartment was quieter. Fewer broken plates, more crumpled papers. Sanji wasn’t in the kitchen. From the sound of running water, he was in the shower. Zoro didn’t wait. But that night, he came back.

It was past ten when the bell rang twice, and the door opened.

Sanji sat on the kitchen counter, staring at an onion as if it had personally offended him.

Zoro stepped inside without a word, turned right, and disappeared into Sanji’s bedroom. When he came back, he dropped something at Sanji’s feet.

“Put these on. You’re coming with me.”

Sanji looked down. Sneakers. “Where to?”

“Running.”

Sanji looked up, exhausted. His stubble was rough, dark circles deep, hair tied back in a loose knot. There was something vulnerable in his stillness — a rare surrender. He slid off the counter, slipped on the shoes, and didn’t bother changing clothes. When he was ready, he just stood there, waiting. Zoro opened the door and gestured for him to go first.

Outside, the city buzzed — neon, horns, laughter, the hum of night traffic. They started slow, without words. Footsteps on concrete, uneven breathing, the rhythm slowly syncing. Twenty minutes. Thirty. Streetlights passing. Bar chatter fading behind them. The world existed, but far away.

Sanji sped up. Zoro matched his pace. And when Sanji stepped off the curb distractedly — light still red — the car came.

No time to think. Only to act.

Zoro grabbed Sanji’s arm, pulling hard, lifting him almost off the ground, spinning him back just as the car swept past with a blaring horn. Sanji lost balance but didn’t fall. Because Zoro was holding him. One hand on his lower back — firm, hot, grounding. The other gripping Sanji’s wrist close to his chest. Their bodies were pressed together. Their breaths mixed, shallow and sharp. Eyes wide, faces inches apart.

Sanji held on too, gripping tight, too close. Heat flared where skin met skin — bright, consuming, remaking the air around them. For a heartbeat, the world dissolved to that single point of contact, to their eyes wide open, looking deep into each other. Then, slowly, the hold loosened. Touch by touch, until only the space between them remained.

Sanji started running again first. No words. But something new was bubbling inside him. The ideas were back. Textures, flavors, scents — waves of inspiration crashing in his mind. His thoughts, once clouded, now surged alive.

And in the middle of that storm, he realized.

It was Zoro.

Not just as a bodyguard — but as a presence. Quiet, constant, steady when Sanji couldn’t be. Zoro had been there, grounding him through each unraveling day, always after two soft bell rings that somehow reset his heartbeat, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. Even when Zoro wasn’t needed, he came. Two bell rings. Every single day.

Sanji bit his lip, still running. His chest tight not with exhaustion, but something sweeter. Something far more dangerous.

That night, Sanji went home and wrote. And cooked. And smiled for the first time in endless days.

By morning, the draft of the new recipe sat by the sink, scribbled between lines and stains of wine and oil. In the bottom corner, one small note stood out, hastily written but clear: Z.

-*-

Zoro came back the next morning, after making sure Sanji got home safely. Neither of them had said a word about the almost-accident. No one mentioned how perfectly Zoro’s hand had fit around Sanji’s waist, or how they had breathed the same air for seconds that felt both endless and painfully short.

Two soft bell rings later, Zoro entered the penthouse, ready to face the same chaos as the previous days — dim lights, overflowing ashtrays, the lingering scent of smoke and wine, dishes piled high, and a disheveled, exhausted Sanji hunched over scribbled notebooks and abandoned pans.

But that wasn’t what he found.

The apartment was spotless. Morning light spilled through open windows without asking permission. Counters gleamed, floors shone, and the plants were freshly watered. And at the center of it all — the open kitchen that connected to the living room like a bright, well-lit stage — stood Sanji.

Clean-shaven, hair perfectly styled, light blue shirt, black fitted pants, and an energy Zoro hadn’t seen in days. He looked radiant. When he saw Zoro in the doorway, a smile spread across his face, as if the day had just fallen into place. “Good morning, Marimo,” he said, his voice warm, eyes sparkling with something that had nothing to do with sunlight.

Zoro stopped for a beat, almost surprised. The difference between last night and this morning was staggering. He hadn’t expected such a sudden change — but he had to admit, Sanji looked devastating when he smiled.

Sanji tilted his chin toward the counter, where a covered plate waited beneath a gleaming silver cloche. “Sit down. I want you to be the first to taste it.”

Zoro obeyed without argument, eyes fixed on the plate. Sanji moved gracefully, placing a set of silverware beside it with a flourish. “Ready?”

“I wouldn't dare say no.”

Sanji smirked and lifted the cloche in one smooth motion.

At first glance, the dish looked simple — but only at first. A thin, golden sheet of puff pastry concealed a creamy filling of truffled mushrooms, perfectly seared fish, and a whisper of caramelized ginger. Beside it, a light sake reduction, sprinkled with finely chopped herbs, floated like mist over smoked purple-potato purée. It all rested on a matte black plate — a small constellation meant to be devoured.

Zoro couldn’t hide the way his expression softened in wonder. “Does it have a name?”

“Not yet.” Sanji shrugged. “Haven’t thought of one. I’m just glad it finally left my head sometime before dawn.”

Zoro raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the night before. Sanji, meanwhile, looked like a man seconds from a cardiac arrest.
The first bite. A pause. Silence.

Sanji held his breath. Zoro chewed slowly, eyes half-closed, analyzing. Just as Sanji braced for criticism, Zoro’s eyes shut completely and a low sound slipped from his lips — almost a groan. “…This is incredible,” he said at last, opening his eyes to meet Sanji’s anxious gaze.

“Seriously?” Sanji leaned closer across the counter, his eyes bright.

“Absolutely delicious.” Another bite. “Better than anything you’ve made for breakfast.”

Sanji laughed, relieved — but inside, he was dying, each small sound Zoro made echoing through his head. Those quiet, approving noises were almost… indecent. His mouth watered.

“I missed this, by the way,” Zoro added casually between bites.

Sanji blinked. “Missed what?”

“The breakfasts,” Zoro said. “Thought you’d given up on that promise.”

Sanji swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck. “I… got a little carried away,” he muttered, voice lower than intended. His eyes lingered somewhere near Zoro’s fingers on the counter. “Lost myself these past few days. I’m sorry, Marimo. You just got here, and I already made a mess of things. That wasn’t fair to you.”

Zoro shrugged. “I can handle myself. Still... it felt weird not coming up. Nami told me to give you space, said you’d come around.” A small, knowing smile. “I get where you had to go these last few days. Still… I missed it.”

Sanji looked at him, warmth rising in his chest. Sitting there, hearing something as simple as I missed it, hit deeper than any Michelin star ever could. Feeding people was how Sanji cared and he’d failed Zoro. “I’ll make it up to you,” Sanji said softly. “Every morning. You can choose whatever you want to eat. Consider it my apology.”

Zoro lifted his eyes, and something flickered between them — brief but potent enough to twist Sanji’s stomach into knots.

“Deal,” Zoro said, taking another bite.

“By the way,” Sanji began, regaining his composure, “since when do you live downstairs?”

“Since the press conference. Thought it’d be smarter to stay close. Nami arranged it. But if you’d rather I move—”

“Too late for that,” Sanji interrupted, grinning faintly. “I’m already used to having you around.”

Zoro finished the last bite. Sanji watched, captivated and slightly undone — there was something deeply intimate about the way Zoro ate his food. Devoted. Reverent. Sexy. He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until Zoro spoke again. “If this dish ends up in the competition, no one’s going to replicate it.”

“That’s the plan,” Sanji said, smiling.

Then he noticed it — a small streak of sake reduction at the corner of Zoro’s mouth. He leaned forward before he even realized he was moving, reaching out to wipe it away with his thumb.

Zoro froze, eyes locking on Sanji’s face. Sanji should have stopped. He should’ve stepped back. But instead, he found himself marveling at the contrast — his pale skin against Zoro’s sun-browned complexion.

Realizing what he’d done, Sanji blinked, pulling his hand back — but not fast enough.

Zoro caught his wrist, firm but careful, keeping him in place. He turned Sanji’s hand slightly, examining it, his gaze following the movement of those long fingers — until they hovered inches from his face.

Sanji could feel Zoro’s breath against his fingertips. Heat rushed through him, tingling everywhere that invisible contact touched. He didn’t dare move, breathe, or blink. Then Zoro leaned in — and closed his mouth around Sanji’s fingers.

Their eyes met, Zoro waiting just long enough for Sanji to pull away if he wanted to. He didn’t. Zoro’s tongue traced along Sanji’s fingers — slow, deliberate — before sucking lightly where the sweet sake had been moments before.

Somewhere far away, Sanji’s brain turned inside out. His breath came out ragged, open-mouthed. He might have been drooling — who could tell?

Too soon, Zoro drew back, letting Sanji’s fingers slip from his lips with a soft, wet pop that landed low in Sanji’s stomach — hot and devastating. “Absolutely delicious,” Zoro murmured, voice low and rough.

He stood, still pinning Sanji with that storm-gray gaze. “I’ll be back in a bit. Need to grab my things so we can go over your schedule. I’m assuming you’re ready to head out again, right?”

Sanji didn’t answer. His mouth was open, words nowhere to be found.

“Right?” Zoro repeated, louder this time — enough to jolt him. Sanji nodded quickly.

Trying to gather what remained of his dignity, Sanji straightened, cleared his throat, and forced out, “I need to bring this dish to Jinbe and Brook. Filming starts today.”

Zoro nodded. “Good. I’ll be back in five.”

When the door closed, Sanji exhaled all the air he’d been holding. He stared at his hand — one of his most treasured tools, his livelihood — and at the same time, the hand that had just been inside Roronoa Zoro’s mouth.

“What the hell just happened?” he whispered, eyes still fixed on his damp, trembling fingers.

Whatever it was, Sanji — like any true lover of good food — already wanted a second serving.

- to be continued -

Chapter Text

The parking lot was already packed when Bartolomeo stopped the car by the studio’s side entrance. Sanji was still adjusting the cufflinks on his navy-blue shirt when a producer opened the door before he even had the chance to thank the driver.

“Chef! So glad you’re here. You need to go straight to makeup, now. Wardrobe is laid out in dressing room three, the writing team wants to go over a few tweaks, and the director needs to align your entrance shot on the main set.” She spoke without commas, already tugging Sanji by the arm.

Zoro, walking right behind them, stepped half a pace forward. Pure reflex.

Sanji, still smiling, raised an eyebrow. “Relax, Marimo. I promise I’ll be fine,” he said, before being swept away by the avalanche of tasks waiting for him on the other side of the door.

The chaos of the studio was almost orchestral — hundreds of people moving constantly, a back-and-forth of voices, phones, cameras being adjusted, cables being dragged, technical shouts between sound and image tests. The floor gleamed under artificial light, spotlights forming a kind of halo around the main set, where the show’s logo shone in golden letters: “Battle Royale: Culinary Stars.”

Zoro took a deep breath. Walking into familiar territory, even when crowded, was one thing. But this… this was different. Very different. The number of people had more than doubled since the initial visit. Cameras everywhere, tech crews, producers, contestants in pristine kitchen whites trying to look less nervous than they actually were — though half of them were craning their necks like anxious giraffes, searching for something. Or someone. And he knew exactly who everyone was waiting to see.

Sanji.

Zoro spotted Brook about twenty meters ahead, in the middle of the chaos, tossing out orders and greetings with the effortless grace of a maestro conducting a symphony of madness. “More light on that secondary set! Where’s Bonney? The influencer needs to appear before the first shot or we’ll have problems with her contract! Ah, Capone, good morning! Your tie is crooked,” he rattled off, never stopping for a second.

Zoro followed Brook’s path with his eyes, then the contestants, and finally, Sanji.

The chef emerged from the back of the studio, stepping out of a dressing room. He looked immaculate. Hair styled with gel but still with that golden fringe covering his right eye, a luxurious shirt under a tailored blazer, eyes subtly defined with discreet makeup. One button on his collar was still being fastened when the makeup artist dusted him with one last touch of translucent powder, then stepped away with a quick “you’re good” and vanished like smoke.

Zoro felt his jaw tense. It was him, but… it wasn’t. Sanji’s posture had changed. His shoulders squared, his walk controlled, every gesture measured to the millimeter. He was smiling, sure — but it wasn’t a smile Zoro recognized. Not the one that showed up when Sanji laughed at his teasing, or when he’d presented the new dish that morning, waiting for Zoro’s reaction like a kid on Christmas. No. This was a professional smile. Elegant. Polite. And distant. “He doesn’t need that,” Zoro muttered under his breath.

He stood alone at the edge of the set, wedged between cables, security staff, and assistants rushing past with clipboards and headsets. One producer almost bumped into him. Another asked him to move just a bit. Zoro held his ground, but his eyes swept every corner, every blind spot. And the discomfort kept growing.

He couldn’t stop the stylist from adjusting Sanji’s blazer, or Brook from stepping close to fix his lapel mic. He couldn’t stop Bonney from appearing with a, “Sweetheart, that look is deadly,” and kissing Sanji’s cheek like they were old friends. He couldn’t stop the flirtatious laugh Sanji gave her in response.

He doesn’t smile like that when it’s just the two of you... An annoying little voice whispered in the back of his mind.

Zoro tried to focus. Camera positions, emergency exits, average time to move from one end of the studio to the other. His brain was a constant flow of tactics and mental maps — and that was all that should matter. That was why he was there: to keep Sanji safe.

And yet, between one assessment and the next, the image of Sanji barefoot, unshaven, hair a mess, slipping through his mind: that Sanji from the half-open door, sleepy eyes, long muscular legs on display, stumbling over words while clinging to what little dignity he had.

That Sanji wasn’t here now. And Zoro… missed him.
Maybe more than he should.

-*-

The first take of the day was a recording without the contestants — just the judges and the official introduction to the new season. Brook gave last-minute instructions while Jinbe — imposing, arms crossed, expression serene — watched quietly.

Capone Bege was already in place, his gray-and-white striped suit immaculate, a red pocket square adding a sharp contrast. Bonney arrived adjusting her earrings, pink hair pulled back into an elegant updo.

And then Sanji stepped onto the stage.

The stage lights cast soft shadows along his silhouette. He stopped exactly on his mark, smiled at the camera, smoothed his blazer, and greeted his fellow judges with a graceful nod.

“Ready?” Brook asked, smiling behind the monitor.

Sanji nodded. And when the main lights came on and the little red recording light blinked to life, it was like something flipped inside him. He became someone else. “Hello, and welcome to a new season of Battle Royale: Culinary Stars. I’m Sanji Blackleg. And this kitchen is where dreams come true,” he said, voice clear, presence magnetic.

Zoro, standing behind the cameras next to a tripod, crossed his arm, but couldn’t look away from Sanji’s glow. The talent was clearly natural; he was made for the spotlight, for the pedestal. But the image of the soft, quiet Sanji who’d gone out running with him without a single complaint kept pushing itself in front of the polished version the studio was seeing.

The opening was wrapped to restrained applause from the crew. Sanji left the set with his blazer still perfectly straight, eyes calm, giving Jinbe and Brook a small nod. But the moment he turned the first corner and slipped out of the cameras’ view, his blazer sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a sigh that felt heavier than the spotlights.

Zoro was already waiting for him at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall like he’d always been part of the scenery.

“You okay, Marimo?” Sanji asked, squinting with a half-smile.

“I’m fine. You, on the other hand…” Zoro replied, blunt as ever, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Sanji just shook his head with a short smile. “Nonsense. What’s the worst that could happen to me in a studio?”

Before Zoro could answer, a producer rushed over, calling Sanji back to the main stage. The next scene would include the contestants. The studio came alive again. The uniformed participants were lined up on the main set. Fifteen cooks with different backgrounds, styles, and temperaments; some younger, others with time carved around their eyes, but all of them visibly anxious. A few were sweating. Most of them tried to look more confident than they felt.

Brook raised his hand. “Camera two, ready? Key light? Clean set? Judges, positions. Sanji, whenever you’re ready.”

Sanji walked to the central station, pausing for a second beside Bonney and Bege. He slipped his hands into his dark pants’ pockets, crossed his legs with natural ease, and smiled at the contestants. “Welcome to the first challenge of the new season,” he said, voice firm and smooth, serious but inviting. The camera closed in. “You all have talent, that’s why you’re here. You also have the courage it takes to face this competition.” He met each contestant’s eyes in turn, warm and reassuring. “But today we’re going to test something just as important inside a kitchen: precision." He pointed to the stations. “On your stations, you’ll find everything you need. You’ll slice, chop, and fillet three ingredients that demand absolute technique: fresh tuna, crystallized scallions, and Japanese purple sweet potatoes. Thickness, cut, and your control of the blade will be measured and judged by the three of us.” He gestured to Bonney and Bege standing on either side of him. A murmur rippled through the line. “Oh, and of course,” Sanji added, smiling with knife-sharp sweetness, “you only have thirty minutes. So make every second count. And try not to cut your fingers.”

The music swelled. The giant timers on the screens started counting down: 00:30:00. The challenge began.

Zoro watched everything from his corner of the studio, arms crossed, eyes sharper than ever. During the press conference, the tech visit, even the opening shoot… he’d stayed focused and calm. Now? Now it was different. All his senses were on high alert, tuned to every detail. Muscles coiled, ready to intervene at the slightest sign of trouble, his gaze sweeping like a hawk’s.

Fifteen sharp knives cutting different things, fifteen pairs of nervous hands moving at frantic speed. Zoro noticed the slight tremor in some contestants’ grips. One or two cast quick glances across the studio, searching for the blond judge who watched their every move with clinical eyes.

Sanji moved from station to station, elegant as always, but utterly focused. He made a comment here, a subtle suggestion there, sidestepped stray scallion pieces flying off a cutting board. The mic picked up his words, but Zoro heard more than that. He heard the sound of a knife clattering to the floor, making Sanji step back a fraction. The too-fast glide of a blade larger than necessary in inexperienced hands.

Zoro clenched his fists. No one else seemed to notice, but to him, this was a nightmare. Too much movement, too many sharp surfaces, interns bumping into each other, judges moving in parallel, one of the cameras almost blocking his line of sight. And in the middle of it all… Sanji. Explaining textures, evaluating blades, giving instructions with a voice that was both firm and warm.

“Keep your shoulder steady,” Sanji demonstrated with absurd precision how to slice scallions into hair-thin strips. “Your control comes from here,” he said, touching the contestant’s wrist lightly.

The contact lasted less than a second. He moved on to the next station just as another contestant sliced their finger in their rush to finish. She raised her hand, signaling for the medics on standby, but Sanji grabbed a clean cloth from her bench and wrapped it around the cut. “It’s okay, don’t worry,” he murmured, smiling reassuringly as he saw the medic rush onto the set.

Zoro took an immediate step forward. And stopped. Nothing had actually happened to Sanji. There was no need to step in. It was part of the show, part of the chaos of a timed challenge. He took a deep breath. He was the one needing to control himself.

And then the timer hit zero.

The contestants stepped back from their stations, hands raised, knives down. Their trays of perfectly cut slices were lined up in front of them. The lights shifted to a more neutral tone for judging. Sanji walked to the first station, slow and measured.

Zoro just observed. He’d found a spot in the shadows where he could watch Sanji head-on, unobstructed.

Sanji examined the first set of cuts. Tilted his head, thought for a moment, then moved to the second tray. Then the third. When he lifted his gaze, his smile appeared — small, almost imperceptible, but different from the one he flashed at the cameras. Subtle. Directed at one specific point.

Sanji’s eyes met Zoro’s, and the bodyguard felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Sanji gave him a quick wink, so brief that maybe no one else had seen. But Zoro saw that smile, the one that wasn't for the camera, or the audience, or the competitors. The one that, somehow, was already his alone, even though they had only known each other for a few days.

The shoot wrapped under polite applause. Cameras switched off, lights began to come down, and the closing theme played faintly as the contestants left the set. Sanji nodded in thanks to each one who passed him, even the ones who’d failed miserably. His eyes were tired, but his smile stayed perfectly in place.

Zoro still hadn’t moved.

My smile.

The thought thundered through his head, loud and uninvited. And he immediately wanted to tear it out by the roots. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

He shook his head, as if he could physically fling the thought away. Sanji hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. Just a wink. A smile. The kind he gave everyone on set. Except… it wasn’t.

Zoro was sure that one had been different. It was for him.
And the fact that he knew that scared him more than any trembling hand holding a knife in that studio.

-*-

Sanji was washing his face in the dressing room, fingertips pressing against his temples. The water ran slowly, rinsing off the last traces of the on-camera persona that clung to his skin. The mask slipped away bit by bit, until only he remained — the man who’d quietly sweated over a new dish for days, who’d almost cried over a recipe, and who now, finally, could breathe.

“Sanji!” Brook’s voice burst into the room, as vibrant as ever. “Yohohoho, mon dieu, you were magnificent! That scallion cut was art!”

Sanji smiled, still toweling his face. “Thanks, Brook. It wouldn’t work without your direction.”

“Oh, please. Without your palate, we wouldn’t have made it past the pilot,” Brook replied, theatrical as always. Then his tone softened. “By the way, Jinbe sends word that the new recipe is more than approved. He says he’s already got the perfect challenge for it.”

Sanji nodded, a warm, quiet pride spreading through his chest. “Good.”

Brook pulled him into a quick hug, then drifted back into the hallway like an exhausted maestro. Sanji grabbed his jacket and, before leaving the dressing room, glanced at himself in the mirror. His eyes were red, but there was a light there. One he hadn’t seen in a long time.

The tech crew had started breaking down cables and structures, and Sanji made a point of stopping by everyone he could. Honest compliments, quick thanks, promises to see them again next time. He shook hands, smiled, patted shoulders. Without saying a word, Zoro followed a few steps behind.

Outside, night had already fallen. Bartolomeo held the car door open like a royal guard. “All clear on this front, Chef,” Barto said, eyes shining the moment he saw Sanji.

Zoro started toward the front seat, but a warm hand closed around his wrist, gentle, firm. “Sit with me in the back,” Sanji asked softly, like he didn’t want the night itself to overhear.

Zoro didn’t argue.

Once everyone was in, Bartolomeo pulled out into the busy city streets. The lights blurred against the windows, smears of color on glass. Inside the car, the silence was almost comfortable. Sanji leaned back, eyes half-closed, head tilted to the side. The exhaustion of someone who had given everything. Zoro watched him from the corner of his eye. He thought about saying something but didn’t. He just… stayed. Beside him.

“It was a good first day, right?” Sanji murmured, breaking the silence with a voice hoarse from fatigue.

“It was. You’re good at this. A little full of yourself, maybe, but good,” Zoro smirked.

Sanji laughed. A sound that was crystal clear and real — very real. Zoro felt his chest tighten. The feeling stayed with him all the way back to Sanji’s building. After saying goodbye to Bartolomeo, they rode the elevator in silence up to the penthouse. Sanji punched his access code into the panel by the door and walked in slowly. The place was dark but not like it had been in the past few days. Everything was clean and organized. The counter gleamed.

“Stay a while?” Sanji asked over his shoulder.

Zoro hesitated, then took one step inside. Then another. And stayed.

Sanji grabbed a bottle of red wine, poured two glasses, and sat on the counter, legs stretched out across another stool, eyes already a little heavy. Zoro took the seat across from him. “To more days like this,” Sanji said, raising his glass.

Zoro lifted his too. “And to fewer knives slicing fingers.”

Sanji laughed again, that easy, intimate laugh, like only Zoro was allowed to hear it. “Did you see the contestant who almost hit me with the cleaver when he tried to show me what he was doing?”

“I almost tackled him,” Zoro said, teeth clenched.

“Oooh, I noticed it,” Sanji replied, smiling into his wine. “It was… kinda sexy, if you wanna know.”

Zoro choked on his drink, and Sanji took a long, satisfied sip, savoring the chaos he’d just dropped in the air. The wine was full-bodied, with a hint of spice that lingered on the tongue a bit longer than necessary. A comfortable silence settled between them as they watched the city lights through the penthouse windows.

“You did well today,” Zoro said at last, breaking the pause. “On set, I mean. Professional. All… polished.”

Sanji let out a muffled laugh. “Polished, huh? And what does that mean, exactly, Marimo?”

“It means you were all perfect and controlled, ready for TV. That’s it. Not a compliment or a criticism. Just… an observation.” Zoro shrugged, pretending not to care.

Sanji took another sip. “And which Sanji do you prefer? The one on TV or the one who opens the door in a shirt and underwear?”

Zoro coughed, trying to buy time. Sanji pretended not to notice, swirling his wine like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

“You ask like I actually have an answer,” Zoro murmured, eyes fixed on his glass. “But with the second one, the smiles aren't rehearsed.”

Sanji turned his head slowly, resting his chin in his hand. “So you pay attention to my smiles?”

“You hired me to pay attention to everything,” he replied, dodging the very answer they both knew Sanji wanted, as if that settled the matter.

Obviously, it didn’t. Sanji smiled wider, playful. “Funny what sticks in your memory, Marimo, with so many things I have to offer.”

“As I said, I pay attention to everything,” Zoro looked at him, tone calm but steady. “The tension in your shoulders when Brook praises you too much. The way you twist your ring when you’re trying to hide how tired you are… and even—” He cut himself off. He’d gone too far.

Sanji frowned slightly, leaning closer over the counter toward him. “Even what?”

Zoro searched his face for something — anything — that might help him understand what was going on in Sanji’s head. Maybe then he’d understand what was happening on his own. But Sanji’s gaze glowed in the dim kitchen light, turning that deep blue into something like sea and sky and freedom and want. With a long exhale, Zoro gave in. “Even the way you smile at me when you think I’m not looking.”

Sanji froze for a second. The smile slipped a little, but he recovered quickly. “Oh… so you noticed that too?”

Zoro nodded silently.

“And what do you think of that?” Sanji topped off both their glasses.

Zoro thought for a while. Too long, maybe. Then he shrugged. “I think you’re a lot more human than everyone there realizes.”

Sanji went quiet. He swirled the wine, eyes lowered, then spoke more lightly. “Hmmm. I’ll be honest, that’s not exactly the answer I was expecting, but I’d say it was just as satisfying.” He smiled, that little smile Zoro already knew he loved. “Most people only see the fame, the awards, and think they know everything about me. But you… in such a short time, you already understand that it’s not like that.”

Zoro watched him, letting his gaze travel over Sanji’s features without rushing. “Does that bother you?”

Sanji thought for a bit, then his smile widened. “No. I like that you see me.” Another sip. He leaned back, eyes heavier now, his voice dropping, looser around the edges. His gaze stayed on Zoro, tracing from his eyes to his mouth and back again. “I’d love to know what’s going on in that head of yours when you look at me like that,” he whispered.

Zoro didn’t answer immediately. “Not a good idea.”

Sanji let out a soft, breathy laugh, closing his eyes for a moment. “And why not?”

This time, Zoro leaned in. “Because I’m trying to be professional here.”

The silence that followed was loud. Zoro knew Sanji was smart — too smart — and he had to choose every word carefully, because he was certain Sanji would understand even the things Zoro was trying to hide between the lines.

Sanji had this beautiful red in his cheeks, from the wine or something else, and a little smile tugged the corner of his mouth. He set his glass down and stood, one hand braced on the counter. “Is this wine strong, or did I just drink it too fast?”

“A bit of both, probably,” Zoro replied, standing as well and following him over to the big couch a few meters away.

Sanji sat and patted the seat beside him, calling Zoro over. Then he turned sideways, tucking his legs up, facing Zoro with a familiarity that was new, but solidifying. “You know what I like about you?” Sanji asked suddenly, pointing at him with his glass.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to hear that,” Zoro said, heart pounding.

“I think we can call it your professionalism,” Sanji said, gesturing at him again with the glass. “You have no idea how good it feels to look to the side and know you’ll be there. Serious, focused, always watching. But I’ve seen you smile. I know you have a sense of humor. And I like to think it’s all hidden there, just waiting for us to get home.”

Zoro held his gaze, but the words reverberated in his head. Waiting for us to get home. Home. Home. He cleared his throat. “Maybe I just think not everyone deserves to know how funny I am.”

Sanji laughed and slid down the couch, resting his head against the backrest. “So I’m one of the deserving ones, then?”

Zoro needed every ounce of self-control not to reach out and run his fingers over Sanji’s cheek, not to lean in and kiss those sleepy eyes framed by impossible lashes, not to do something stupid. But he allowed himself one more honest answer. “Yeah. You are.”

Sanji blinked slowly, his smile unfurling, lighting up the room. For a moment, it looked like he was going to reply, but the words never came. His body gave out first. With a tired sigh, he slid further into the couch, the glass tilting slightly until it rested against his stomach. Zoro caught it before it fell and set it gently on the coffee table. Then he walked down the hall to the closet, grabbed the nearest blanket, and draped it over Sanji with care. Blond strands fell over his forehead, cheeks flushed from the wine, lips parted in a peaceful expression Zoro wished would never leave his face.

He stayed there for a moment. Just watching.

I’d love to know what’s going on in that head of yours when you look at me like that.

Zoro sighed. One day he’d tell him. One day he’d tell Sanji he’d always admired him — Sanji, the culinary prodigy — not just for his obvious talent, but because he never settled, always pushing to become the best version of himself. One day he’d admit that his heart had started relying on Franky’s stories about the real Sanji: kind, funny, brilliant, the best person Franky had ever met. He’d tell him how he’d spent years insisting Franky put his name forward for the job, and how Franky, politely, always brushed him off.

One day. But not today.

With another quiet sigh, Zoro stepped away and walked to the door, closing it carefully leaving only silence, and maybe a little part of himself, behind him.

-*-

Sanji woke up with no idea where he was.

This wasn’t his room, and he wasn’t in his bed. Looking around, he realized he was on the living-room couch, wrapped in a warm blanket he definitely didn’t remember grabbing for himself. He did remember the previous night, though. And he remembered giving in to the pull of sleep even though he’d wanted to stay awake longer. The last few days had been brutal, and the exhaustion had finally caught up with him. And through all of that, someone had stopped and covered him.

And there was only one person he could imagine doing that.

Sanji felt his face heat. The idea of Zoro there, standing in silence, watching him sleep with that quiet, focused gaze, made his stomach twist in a way so indecent he had to sit up. He needed to get a grip. He needed air. He needed… not to have bed hair and sleep creases on his face when the doorbell rang in that familiar two-chime pattern that made his heart leap.

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.

“Of course it had to be now,” he muttered, clutching the blanket around him like a shield.

Zoro walked in, as he had been doing for the past few days. This morning, he wore a fitted gray shirt stretched over his shoulders, sunglasses hanging from the collar, black jeans, and boots. Sanji allowed himself the audacity of thinking that the shirt made his shoulders look even broader, making him very invit- very professional. He forced himself to look at something else.

“Morning,” Zoro said, without much emphasis, but his gaze lingered on Sanji’s face for a second longer, as if checking he was really okay. His eyes dropped to the blanket around Sanji’s shoulders, and he swallowed.

Sanji took a breath and stood. “Good morning, Marimo,” he said with a small smile, the very one Zoro had mentioned the night before, the one he noticed, the one Sanji dared to hope Zoro liked. “You mind waiting a few minutes? I promise I’ll be quick.”

Zoro shrugged, lips twitching faintly. “Take all the time you need.”

Sanji matched the smile and disappeared into his room to get ready. He showered, brushed his teeth, and changed clothes. If anyone asked about the green shirt he chose, he’d have to say it was… pure coincidence.

“What do you want for breakfast today, Marimo?” he asked as he returned to the living room.

Zoro was perched on one of the stools by the counter, typing something on his ever-present tablet. He looked up, and Sanji caught the quick flare of his eyebrows, the barely-there widening of his eyes. It lasted only a second before Zoro composed himself, but Sanji saw it. That split-second look traveling down his body made his skin tingle everywhere it passed.

“Everything okay, Marimo?” Sanji asked innocently, heading for the fridge. Maybe he bent a little more than necessary, but he’d be unforgivable if he didn’t make full use of the pants he’d chosen that morning, the ones that really showed off his best… assets.

He heard Zoro clear his throat and smiled to himself. “Yeah. Just checking your schedule,” Zoro answered finally.

“Ah.” Sanji glanced at him over his shoulder. “You still haven’t told me what you want to eat.”

The number of answers Zoro could have given to that question… Professional, Roronoa. Be professional. “Whatever you feel like making.”

Sanji huffed, still buried in the fridge, still bent in that awful position that was destroying Zoro’s concentration in ways he hadn’t prepared for. “I told you I was gonna make it up to you for all those breakfasts I skipped. You can ask for anything you want, and I’ll make it,” Sanji said, grabbing a few basic ingredients.

Zoro felt the blood drain from his face and rush straight to places that did nothing to help his professionalism. Who says something like that, bent like that, wearing those pants that clung exactly where they shouldn’t and leaving very little work for anyone’s imagination? He shut his eyes and took a slow breath. Once. Twice. Three times. He needed to calm down. He was Sanji’s head of security, he couldn’t crumble this easily. What kind of protection could he offer if he couldn’t even handle... how perfect Sanji’s ass was? Sanji’s ass, for gods sake!

“So?” Sanji had straightened up and was watching him with open curiosity. “What do you want today?”

Zoro knew exactly what he wanted. But he would never say it out loud. That wasn’t why he was there. All he’d ever really wanted was to be near Sanji, to admire him quietly, to take care of him when others couldn’t. Zoro wanted to help make sure Sanji never had to worry about anything except doing what he loved. That was his job. And he couldn’t forget that. “I want…” Zoro started, meeting his eyes again. “I want you to surprise me. Like you did that first day, and again with the new dish you created.” His mouth curled into a half-smirk. “Do what you do best, Chef Blackleg.”

The flush that rose on Sanji’s cheeks at hearing him called that didn’t escape Zoro. But Sanji recovered quickly, eyes lighting up as they darted between the fridge, the cupboards, and the discreet door that hid the pantry. Zoro could almost see the ideas beginning to flow. “I’m going to make your mouth very happy,” Sanji said with a slightly manic smile, already moving around the kitchen.

Zoro was certain Sanji had no idea how his choice of words that morning was affecting him. He had to hope he didn’t, or his self-control was doomed. Zoro didn’t try to answer; Sanji had already slipped into his element, that other universe where he was the best at what he did and completely at home. But Sanji still caught, in the reflection on the marble countertop, the way Zoro watched him like a hawk. His movements, the flow of his fingers, the way his shoulders dropped into ease as soon as he started working with ingredients, fire, and tools.

The silence between them was comfortable. Only broken by the sizzle of the pan, the scent of browning butter, and bread toasting with parmesan and garlic. Sanji made scrambled eggs with heavy cream, smoked salt, and a hint of lemon zest. He plated them with seasoned avocado, freshly ground black pepper, and thin slices of cured ham over warm artisan bread. For that morning, he chose a special coffee roast — strong and full-bodied, with a caramel finish — and served it with just the right amount of steamed milk.

Zoro stared at the plate Sanji slid in front of him like he’d momentarily forgotten where he was. All he could see were the colors and the waves of aroma rising from the dish. When he finally picked up his fork and took a bite, he made no effort to hide the low “hmmm” of approval.

Sanji barely hid his grin as he sat down to eat as well. From there, breakfast went on without more surprises or intentional innuendo — or at least, none spoken out loud. To Sanji, eating was as sacred as cooking. It was time to honor all the effort behind the dish and savor every flavor on the plate. That took time, and he refused to rush it.

They finished in silence, but their eyes met here and there, brief glances that seemed desperate to say something neither of them dared to voice. A thousand unsaid things sat between them, suspended like steam over hot coffee.

Sanji stood first, gathering plates and silverware. “What do we have on the schedule today?” he asked, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and stepping toward the sink.

Suddenly, Zoro was right beside him. Sanji hadn’t even heard him get up. He froze, hands still holding a soapy plate under the running water. “I can handle that,” Zoro said, nodding toward the sink.

Sanji gave a crooked smile. “You don’t have to.”

Zoro stepped closer, and Sanji felt his warmth brush against his bare forearm, his whole body going on high alert at the proximity. “You cooked. So the dishes should be on me.”

It was impossible to look away from that face. Sanji realized his mouth was slightly open, but his body refused to cooperate. All he could think about was Zoro’s skin, whether it was soft, how warm it would be, whether it would shiver when he touched it. His mouth watered at the thought, and he shut it quickly, terrified he’d actually drool.

“You’re not paid for this, Marimo,” he said, laughing nervously.

“This has nothing to do with my job. I’m offering because I want to.” And to prove his point, Zoro reached for Sanji’s left hand — still covered in soap, still holding the plate — and, without breaking eye contact, slid his own hand over it.

Sanji stopped breathing. Every part of him narrowed to that single sensation: Zoro’s hand closing around his. A moment later, Zoro’s fingers threaded through his, fitting perfectly between them. The inhale that slipped out of Sanji was impossible to smother. The way their hands fit together was too right — like a piece he didn’t know he’d been missing.

“Let me help you,” Zoro said quietly, close enough that Sanji could see little flecks of green in his storm-gray eyes. It was spectacular.

Sanji nodded faintly, but neither of them moved. Time stopped making sense. He had no idea how long they stayed like that — fingers intertwined, sharing the same warm pocket of air like the rest of the world had receded. Soap bubbles slid down their fingers, the plate forgotten. Sanji’s gaze dropped to Zoro’s mouth, so close, so perfectly shaped, so—

Zoro was the first to look away, blinking quickly like a man realizing he’d stepped too close to the edge of a cliff. He pulled back slowly, easing his hand away from Sanji’s, but staying close enough that Sanji could still feel his heat along his side. Sanji blinked too, chest still pounding, his hands suddenly far too empty.

“You… wash, I dry?” Zoro asked, voice lower than usual, faking a calm they both knew was hanging by a thread.

Sanji could have pushed. He could have teased or thrown a dozen lines at him. But he recognized the care in the gesture, the polite retreat, the effort to hold onto professionalism. He had to admit; he admired that strength. So, he chose not to push what Zoro was clearly still fighting to contain. “Fine by me,” he said. The sound of the plate landing on the drying rack felt loud in the thick silence that followed.

They washed the dishes side by side. Zoro had rolled up his own sleeves now, and Sanji tried his best not to bump into him — and failed miserably. The brush of elbows, the soft knocks of shoulders when they stepped at the same time, their fingers grazing while passing dishes back and forth. Small collisions that made the air feel heavier.

When they were done, Zoro turned, leaned his hip against the counter, and dried his hands with a dish towel. “All done. Mission accomplished,” he said.

Sanji braced his hands on the edge of the sink, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and allowed himself to look at Zoro properly. He was still close, but something else caught his eye. Gently, Sanji lifted his hand and touched the three gold earrings hanging from Zoro’s left ear. His fingers slid lightly over the small pendants, completely ignoring the way Zoro’s breath hitched. “How did I never notice these?” Sanji asked, voice low and full of honest wonder.

Zoro swallowed, trying to sound casual. “They’ve always been there.”

Sanji chuckled softly, thumb brushing one of the hoops. “And I’m only noticing now. I really am distracted…”

Zoro stayed quiet. He didn’t trust his own voice, but he clung to Sanji’s like a lifeline.

“Three earrings… is there a reason for that number?” Sanji asked, making the metal chime faintly between his fingers.

Zoro forced his breathing under control, his face easing back into that professional calm that didn’t fool anyone. “Three’s my lucky number.”

“Oh… really?” Sanji whispered.

Zoro nodded. “Since I learned how to fight with three swords.”

“Swords?” Sanji pulled back a little, raising his visible eyebrow, curious.

“I don’t use them on duty, obviously,” Zoro explained. “But I train whenever I can. Keeps my mind and body in check.”

Sanji pictured it — and the image hit him hard. Zoro, sweat-slicked and focused, moving with three swords like the blades were extensions of his own will. The imagined smell of steel mixed with the woodsy warmth of Zoro’s skin, and Sanji barely stifled a sound. “Three swords, three earrings…” he murmured, smiling slowly. “You know what’s funny? My name also has a three in it.” When Zoro looked at him, he went on, utterly pleased with himself. “Sanji. San is ‘three’ in Japanese.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, caught on to that detail. The coincidence felt a little too intimate to be just coincidence. Zoro let out a quiet laugh — low, genuine — warming the space between them. “Then I guess you’re good luck for me too.”

Sanji’s heart skipped, heat pouring through him. His smile softened. “Or maybe I’m going to be trouble.”

Zoro tilted his head, eyes narrowing faintly. “Depends on the kind of trouble.”

Sanji’s gaze sparkled. “The kind that’s worth the effort, I can promise you that.”

The silence that followed filled itself, heavy with invisible promises that both of them pretended not to notice. Then, in a lighter tone, Sanji added, “I’d like to see you with the swords someday, if you’ll let me.”

Zoro blinked, taken aback. “You wanna watch me training?”

“I want to see you being… you,” Sanji corrected, the smile back on his lips. “I’ve a feeling it’d be… very interesting.” The earlier image surged back into his mind, almost too vivid. He wanted to see that power in person.

Zoro looked away, but the faint flush creeping up his left ear betrayed him. He cleared his throat. “Might be a little dangerous for your safety.”

Sanji smile grew. “I trust my bodyguard. He’s the best, y’know?”

The look Zoro gave him then wasn’t the look of a hired professional. It was the look of a man who knew he had to hide whatever lay under the uniform.

“You know I train kickboxing at least once a week,” Sanji said, eyes shining. “You’re obviously coming with me anyway, so you could bring your swords and train there too. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Zoro took a deep breath, sorting his thoughts. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad idea. But he also knew what happened when he trained — he got lost in it. It would be too easy to forget everything else, and that was the one thing he couldn’t do around Sanji. “I’ll think about it,” he said, glancing sideways at Sanji, who was smiling in that way that made saying “no” impossible. Maybe he’d end up distracted no matter what. And the swords wouldn’t be to blame.

Time stretched between them until the air seemed to vibrate. Zoro ended up chuckling under his breath, to Sanji’s obvious delight, but then he drew in one last steadying breath and stepped away from the sink with a small nod — not out of disinterest, but sheer survival instinct. Being that close to such a soft and warm and open Sanji, was dangerous. He picked up the tablet from the counter and, with a visible effort to shift back into work mode, said, “Speaking of that… your schedule.”

Sanji turned toward him, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the sink, like he also needed a second to pull himself together. “Right. Hit me.”

Zoro nodded. “Today is All Blue, the official first night of the new season. You’ll be there all day, right?”

Sanji nodded. “I need to get there early, check stock, the menu, make sure the opening dinner goes perfectly.”

Zoro slid his finger down the tablet screen. “I’ve already gone over security with the team and sent written instructions. Once we arrive, I’ll walk everyone through it again in person. Oh, and Nami asked me to let you know all the VIP reservations are full.”

“As always,” Sanji said, pride tugging at his lips.

“So, the plan is simple,” Zoro concluded. “You cook. I make sure no one bothers you. At all.”

Sanji watched him — the practical tone, the steady eyes, the disciplined posture — and thought, just for a second, that he might be absurdly lucky to have someone like Zoro show up in his life and decide to protect him. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Are we leaving now?”

“I’ll check if Barto’s already here,” Zoro said, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing.

Sanji slipped away toward his bedroom to splash water on his face. The memory of the touch, the earrings, the laugh, everything he didn’t dare name, hummed under his skin.

Then I guess you’re good luck for me too.

Sanji was going to explode. That much felt certain. It wasn’t a matter of if anymore — just when. Especially if he couldn’t wipe that stupid smile off his face, if his eyes couldn’t stop shining, if he couldn’t get himself under control. Zoro was clearly trying to be professional. Sanji could do no less. With a long exhale, he put on a tie, grabbed his jacket, and headed back to the living room, where Zoro was waiting, already holding the door open as soon as he heard Sanji’s footsteps.

Sanji followed him out, but before leaving, he cast one last look at the counter and the sink, thinking about everything that had already happened that morning, a morning that should’ve been ordinary and boring, and had instead turned into an explosion that knocked his axis off-center.

And as he stepped through the door, he couldn’t help thinking that three really might be a lucky number.

-to be continued-

Chapter Text

The All Blue rose before them like a promise. Zoro stopped on the sidewalk and took a few seconds just to look at it. The façade was wide, made of tinted glass and brushed steel, modern and elegant without feeling cold. The restaurant’s name stood out in discreet golden letters above the archway lit by a soft glow that caught the first light of dawn. The sign seemed to breathe, almost alive.

There was something welcoming in that contained grandeur, and Zoro, who had never been a man to appreciate architectural details, found himself thinking that this was exactly the kind of place that matched Sanji: sophisticated and refined, but also warm and full of soul.

From the street, he could already see the security cameras positioned with precision — one at every strategic point of the façade, two facing the private parking lot, and others discreetly placed above the sign. A small smile formed. Good. Eyes everywhere. The place was challenging, but he had always liked challenges.

When Sanji unlocked the glass door and stepped inside, Zoro followed in silence, absorbing every detail. The interior of the All Blue was even more impressive: the main dining hall opened into a wide space, lit by diffuse daylight streaming in through the tall windows. The tables were arranged in perfect harmony — light wood, white tablecloths, and subtle arrangements of fresh herbs in the center, the scent of basil and rosemary blending with the smell of fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. At the back, a glass panel revealed the pulsing heart of the restaurant: the open kitchen, where guests could watch the chefs at work. Zoro measured the distance, the angles, the lines of sight… and the vulnerability. That kind of transparency put any security on high alert. But he knew complaining wasn’t an option. His job was to adapt and protect Sanji inside that setup, not in spite of it.

Cleaning staff moved through the dining room with quiet efficiency, polishing surfaces, adjusting chairs, shining glasses. The moment Sanji walked in, the air seemed to shift. Eyes turned toward him, and a series of spontaneous smiles appeared. He returned each one with that same natural charm, a touch of elegance that never felt rehearsed. Zoro watched the exchange and realized how much Sanji was loved there. Respect wasn’t demanded, it was earned.

Before heading to the kitchen, Sanji called to a woman who was organizing the reservations counter. “Hancock, my dear, good morning,” he greeted, voice warm.

The hostess turned with the flawless posture of someone who knows the value of a good first impression. Tall, elegant, black hair gleaming in the soft light, and lips painted a perfect red, she looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine cover. “Good morning, Chef,” she replied, with a smile that mixed pride and a hint of condescension. “We’re already lining up the dinner reservations. The phone hasn’t stopped since yesterday.”

“Excellent,” Sanji said. “But first, I need to introduce someone important.” He turned to the side, and Zoro took a step forward. “Hancock, this is Roronoa Zoro, my new head of security.”

Hancock arched a brow, assessing the man in front of her with the sharp gaze of someone who doesn’t impress easily. Zoro, impassive, only gave a polite nod. “Welcome to the All Blue,” she said, tone aiming for cordial but letting a veiled distrust slip through. “I hope you have good reflexes. The Chef attracts attention… of all kinds.”

Sanji smiled lightly. “Mr. Roronoa here is very good at what he does. You can trust him, Hancock.”

“If the Chef says so, I believe it,” she answered, casting one last analyzing look towards Zoro. “I’ll gather the staff.”

Within minutes, the dining room filled up. Chefs in white jackets, security in dark suits, waiters, cleaning staff — all forming a semicircle in front of Sanji. Zoro stood a little behind, watching everything. Sanji’s presence dominated the space, but in a calm, magnetic way.

“Good morning, everyone,” he began. The surrounding chatter died instantly. “Today marks the start of a new season at the All Blue, and that means every detail, every move, needs to reflect who we are. You all know how much I trust each one of you, and I know tonight’s service is going to be flawless.” As he spoke, Sanji walked slowly through the group, looking every employee in the eye. Zoro noticed the care and weight in each word. “Remember: we work together. The All Blue is the result of everyone’s dedication, and I’m proud of every plate, every service, every satisfied guest who walks out that door.”

A murmur of approval ran through the group. Sanji smiled. “Before we start, I want to officially introduce our new head of security.” He gestured to the side. “Roronoa Zoro. From now on, he and the security team will work directly with me. Trust him the way you trust me.”

Zoro stepped forward, inclining his head in respect. “You can count on me.”

Among the security staff, a young man with pink hair and an enthusiastic expression stepped ahead. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Mr. Roronoa,” he said, full of energy. “I’m Koby, in charge of local security. I’ve read a lot about your work and also all the reports you’ve already sent us.”

Zoro shook his hand. “Good to work with people who know what they’re doing.”

Koby smiled, almost boyish. “I hope I can learn a lot.”

Sanji watched the exchange with clear satisfaction. “Perfect. Koby, I want you and Zoro to align protocols with the rest of the team, all right?”

“Yes, Chef!”

“Great.” Sanji then turned back to the group. “Kitchen, take inventory for the morning. Carrot, you’re with me to review the pantry.”

The young sous-chef bounced on her toes, her excitement almost contagious. “Yes, Chef!”

As the staff broke away, Zoro kept observing for a little longer. Sanji moved with a natural authority, gave clear instructions that were never harsh; he asked questions, listened to answers, and laughed sincerely when someone made a joke. He was a leader who inspired, not imposed. And maybe that was why everyone there seemed ready to give their best.

When Sanji turned toward the kitchen, he met Zoro’s firm gaze. "Make yourself at home, Marimo. We'll take a lunch break in a little while, and then we'll continue at full speed until service begins," Sanji smiled. “I’m going to start the mise-en-place. Good luck with the team, Mr. Head of Security.” Then, he added, a little more quietly, almost sheepshly. “See you later."

Zoro let a subtle smile slip. “Good luck with service, Chef Blackleg.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The All Blue’s routine began pulsing around them — pans clanking, voices crossing, laughter, orders, the smell of spices being opened for the first time that day. And in the middle of all that orchestrated chaos, Zoro thought of the restaurant’s name and smiled. This was where sea, sky, and fire met. And Sanji was at the center of it all.

As soon as the staff scattered through the dining room, Koby came up to Zoro with a tablet in hand and a bright, eager look. “If you’d like, I can show you the monitoring room first,” he said. “We usually start the day there.”

“Sounds good. Lead the way,” Zoro replied.

They walked down a side hallway, where the bar was still dark and the clean glasses rested in perfect rows. At the end of the corridor, a discreet door with no sign. Koby tapped his badge against the reader, and the lock clicked softly. Inside, the room was small but functional. A desk, two chairs, and a panel with four large monitors divided into multiple smaller screens. Entrances, parking lot, service corridor, main dining room, kitchen, back access. Everything there.

“Here,” Koby hand Zoro a badge with his name and the title “Head of Security” under it and an earpice. “It’s your access to everything around here and your own communicator.”

Zoro put the badge around his neck, adjusted the earpiece, and stepped closer. “Good system,” he commented, taking a good look at all the monitors in front of him.

“The Chef’s a fan of tech,” Koby said, sounding almost proud. “We just…” He searched for the right words. “…needed someone to coordinate all this properly.”

Zoro didn’t respond to that. He simply moved in, letting his eyes sweep over each screen quadrant. Camera numbers, angles, blind spots. There weren’t many, but he found a few. “How many security guards work here?”

“Tonight, six in total.” Koby counted on his fingers. “Two in the parking lot, two in the dining room, one at the entrance, and I float between the front door, the monitors, and the kitchen. When the pace picks up, we call in one more from the backup team.”

Zoro nodded. “Any history of trouble?”

Koby let out an awkward laugh. “Nothing serious, thank heavens. But… the Chef has a lot of fans.” He glanced quickly at the kitchen camera, where Sanji’s white jacket was already visible among the others. “Sometimes people try to get in without a reservation, people who try to sneak into the kitchen to take pictures, people who wait outside just to ask for an autograph, a selfie, a hug…”

“Has anyone tried to touch him without permission?” Zoro asked, eyes fixed on the monitors showing Sanji.

“A few times.” Koby sighed. “These days we try to filter things better, but some people really push it. The floor staff warns us, we step in. So far, it’s worked out.”

Zoro was silent for a few seconds. His eyes ran over every screen, like he was assembling a puzzle. “I want to see everyone,” he said at last. “The whole team. Can we get them here?”

“We can, yes. I’ll call them.”

A little later, five security guards came in. Three men, two women. All standing straight, alert, dark uniforms perfectly fitted, earpieces clipped discreetly to their collars. Koby made quick introductions, one by one. Zoro listened, memorizing names, faces, heights. Then he crossed his arms. “I’m not going to change everything overnight,” he began. “I know Franky taught you right. But everyone here has eyes and a brain. If you see something off, don’t wait for me to tell you what to do. Report it, act, call for backup.”

One of the taller men nodded with conviction. “We’ll centralize information in me,” Zoro continued. “But your primary target is the Chef. Anyone who gets closer than they should, who insists too much, who tries to touch him, you cut that access. Polite, but firm. If that’s not enough, you call me and we take it from there.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the women replied, adjusting her earpiece.

“Schedules?” Zoro asked, turning back to Koby.

“Tonight we open at six and go until eleven,” Koby explained. “Most reservations are between seven and nine. VIPs usually arrive closer to eight. There are a few regulars the Chef insists on greeting personally. They give us a heads-up, we clear the way. No one goes backstage without an ID.”

Zoro nodded again. “The open kitchen is our biggest weak spot,” he concluded, looking at the corresponding screen. “Lots of people, full view of the Chef. I want one of you constantly circulating nearby. Stay discreet but keep a clear line of sight at all times. Understood?”

“Understood,” they echoed.

Koby smiled, half relieved, half excited. “I think All Blue just got an upgrade today.”

Zoro shrugged. “We’ll see at the end of the night.”

When Zoro left the monitoring room, the restaurant was already coming to life. Junior chefs crossed the corridor carrying crates of fresh vegetables. Two waiters were testing the ideal distance between chairs and tables. The ice machine hummed in the bar. He walked through the dining room at an unhurried pace, eyes on everything. He checked the distance between the tables and the walls, the visibility around columns, the spots where someone might hide or approach without being seen. Every couple of minutes, his gaze drifted back to the kitchen’s glass panel.

Inside, Sanji was already in full swing, wearing his famous white jacket, moving from station to station, tasting sauces, checking doneness, pointing out improvements. His rolled-up sleeves revealed strong forearms. Carrot worked beside him, hair pulled into a high bun, eyes sharp, chopping carrots and herbs at impressive speed.

Zoro stopped a safe distance from the glass, close enough to see but far enough not to interfere. He didn’t need to hear the words to know Sanji was in control. His energy was different in there. Denser. Sharper.

Koby came to stand beside him. “Impressive, huh?” he commented, smiling almost reverently.

“Yeah,” Zoro agreed, somewhat distracted, his eyes fixed on the scene.

“When the doors open, things get pretty chaotic, but we handle it. The dining room fills up fast. There are nights it feels like the whole world decided to eat here at the same time.”

“And the Chef handles all that okay?”

Koby laughed. “He doesn’t just handle it, he asks for more. He’s the kind who only seems to really breathe when the place is packed. Especially now, with the show blowing up on TV. He was famous before, but now he’s an ultimate celebrity. Some people come just to see him up close. Even without a reservation, they’ll stand out on the sidewalk staring through the window.”

Zoro filed that away. Sidewalk. Window. People from outside. More points to watch. But as Koby talked, he caught himself looking into the kitchen again. Sanji was laughing at something Carrot had said. The way he tilted his head, the quick, encouraging touch on her shoulder. The care with which he corrected the slicing motion of a younger cook. The way he tasted a spoonful of sauce, closing his eyes for a second, like he was listening to music.

Zoro thought it would be way too easy to forget the rest of the world watching that.
And that was exactly why he couldn’t.

-*-

Hours slipped by almost without him noticing. The sun dropped behind the buildings, swallowed by concrete, and the All Blue’s lights flicked on, one by one. The sign glowed brighter. The background music started — low, inviting. The dining room was ready.

At exactly six o’clock, the doors opened. The first guests walked in with measured steps, some curious, others clearly excited. Elegant couples, small groups, people alone with the look of someone who’d waited a long time for that reservation. Hancock greeted them with a flawless smile and a slight tilt of the head. “Welcome to the All Blue. Do you have a reservation?”

Waiters moved with fluidity, guiding guests to their tables, offering water, bringing out the first baskets of bread and herbed butter. From where he stood, near one of the central columns, Zoro had a wide view of the dining room and a good angle on the kitchen glass. Koby moved between the front door and the corridor, trading quick signals with the other guards. For now, everything was running like clockwork.

Sanji appeared at the edge of the glass now and then, taking a second to scan the dining room before stepping back to the stove. At one point, he left the kitchen briefly to greet an older couple who had reserved weeks in advance. He bowed slightly, shook hands, and listened to their praise. The smile he wore was his professional one, but there was warmth in it.

Zoro tracked each of his steps. When Sanji walked back behind the bar, returning to the kitchen, their eyes met for an instant. He didn’t stop, service didn’t allow it after all, but the corner of his mouth curved up, quick. Zoro’s stomach reacted like he’d taken a hit.

“Everything’s calm so far,” Koby murmured, coming up close so as not to disturb the dining room’s atmosphere. “If it keeps like this, this is gonna be one of those nights we actually like working.”

“Yeah, but let’s not get cocky,” Zoro replied. “We’ll see what it’s like when we hit the peak.”

Koby chuckled. “Ah, the rush… You’ll see. The Chef turns into someone else when service really kicks in. He gets even more…” He searched for the word, gesturing. “…alive. It’s amazing.”

Zoro didn’t answer. He’d already seen the look in Sanji’s eyes when he was at his best, fully focused on the ingredients in front of him. He knew exactly what Koby meant.

For now, everything was calm. Wine flowed, plates started leaving the kitchen one after another like edible works of art. Outside, the city moved to its own rhythm, oblivious to that little universe of warm light and the smell of browned butter.

Zoro felt his body relax just a little. Enough to think, for a brief moment, that maybe the night really would end well.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

By half past nine, the All Blue’s dining room had started to slow down. Main courses had already gone out; the sweet perfume of desserts was beginning to spread through the air, with Sanji still at the helm of the kitchen, firm as ever, a serene glow shaping his movements. He was satisfied. Everything was going according to plan.
From his usual position near the kitchen, Zoro swept the dining room with his trained eye. Everything seemed in perfect harmony — guests talking in low voices, silverware chiming, soft music in the background. From time to time, his gaze met Sanji’s through the glass. Brief moments of recognition, just long enough for both their hearts to trip over themselves.

It was Hancock who broke the calm. She approached the kitchen, calling the Chef with that tone that mixed efficiency and arrogance. “Chef Sanji? A guest asked to speak with you. He said he came from far away just to try your food.”

Sanji dried his hands on the towel hanging from his waist and smiled. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

Zoro watched Hancock walk over to the guest at table one, the closest to the door. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with a thick scarf covering half his face. He looked out of place among the expensive suits and elegant dresses around him, but nothing about him was blatantly suspicious — rich people and their eccentricities.

Sanji crossed the dining room with that steady, courteous stride, posture as flawless as if he’d been born for the part. Guests at nearby tables followed him with their eyes, some smiling, others discreetly lifting their phones. The man with the scarf stood when Sanji approached.

“Good evening,” the Chef greeted politely. “I’m glad you enjoyed the food. I heard you came from far away to experience the flavors of All Blue.”

The stranger’s voice came muffled from behind the scarf. “Saying I enjoyed it is an understatement.” He extended a hand. “It’s an honor to meet you in person.”

Sanji smiled and returned the gesture. “The honor is mine.”

But the handshake didn’t end.

In an instant, the man yanked him forward, Sanji’s body leaving the ground as the table crashed over with a deafening clatter, plates and glasses breaking all over the floor. The dining room erupted in screams.

“SANJI!” Zoro roared, already moving.

The aisle between tables turned into a sea of bodies. Guests jumping up, chairs tipping, glasses shattering. Shouts blending into the clatter of dishes smashing to the floor.

Zoro pushed forward, but every step was a fight; panicked bodies blocked his path, the space closing in. For a brief moment, he saw Sanji trying to break free, kicking, twisting his hips, probably reflexes learned from kickboxing, but the man lifted him as if he weighed nothing, trapping the Chef’s legs under one massive forearm. Sanji’s face vanished as he was thrown over the attacker’s shoulder.

The All Blue’s glass doors burst open and the kidnapper bolted outside. The cold night air rushed into the dining room.

Zoro vaulted over a fallen chair and forced his way between two tables, shoving a man in a suit out of his path. When he hit the sidewalk, the world seemed to slide into slow motion. The kidnapper was running, Sanji’s body bouncing over his shoulder, the towel he had in his waist falling down on the sidewalk.

It made no sense. Nobody that size should move that fast.

The man carrying Sanji turned the corner into the side street of the restaurant, almost deserted. The distant sound of traffic contrasted with the sharp echo of footsteps on asphalt. Sanji’s muffled protests vanished into the cold air. Zoro reached the corner and saw him: the man in a dark coat, Sanji still slung over his shoulder, the Chef’s golden hair flashing in the streetlights with every step. Zoro didn’t hesitate. The distance between them vanished in a blink.

His first strike came clean, a side kick to the attacker’s knee.

The man stumbled but didn’t fall. He twisted, throwing a heavy punch — fast, too fast for someone that big. Zoro blocked with his forearm, feeling the impact vibrate up to his shoulder. As the attacker lost balance from the block, Sanji slipped from his grip, dropping to his knees and rolling on the ground, coming to a stop with his back against a tree. His breathing was ragged, but he was conscious.

Zoro had no time to check on him. The man lunged again, and now something glinted in his hand. A blade.

Zoro dodged by a breath, the knife cutting through the air where his face had just been. The second swing came down in a vertical arc. Zoro twisted his torso out of the way but felt metal scrape across his left eye.

The pain was instant. Hot. Searing. A grunt tore from his throat. Blood spilled fast, trailing down his face. His eye slammed shut on instinct, but he didn’t stop. One step forward, a spin. A straight punch to the attacker’s jaw, followed up by a hook to the gut.

“Zoro!” Sanji shouted.

“Stay where you are!!!” Zoro managed to answer, not turning around. He couldn’t afford to take his focus off the opponent. The man staggered, but came back swinging with brutal force, hammering a strike into the same side of Zoro’s face, driving the blade deeper into already torn flesh. Zoro tasted blood, his pulse pounding along the wound, absurd pain all over. But if there was one thing he didn’t know how to do, it was back down. Not when he was the only thing between Sanji and that man.

With a low growl, he lunged, slamming his shoulder into the attacker’s arm, catching the wrist that held the knife. The crack sounded loud, the bones in the man’s forearm giving way. The blade clattered to the asphalt. Zoro grabbed him by the collar, spun, and threw him against the wall of the building’s side, hard enough to crack the plaster. He saw the bricks smear red — blood streaming from the kidnapper’s broken nose.

The man groaned but stayed upright. He lifted his head, and the scarf slipped from his face. What Zoro saw was something between human and inhuman. Steel-gray eyes sunk deep, a square jaw marked by old scars. Harsh features, a threatening air, wine-colored hair that looked almost black under the streetlights.

“Katakuri?” Sanji breathed from where he was, disbelief written into his face.

The man grunted, still pinned to the wall by Zoro. “We finally meet, Blackleg,” he sneered, his voice coming out nasal because of his broken nose. “I came to collect what you took from my sister.”

Sanji, still panting, rifled through his memories. Pudding had mentioned him, the older brother who handled the family’s business, the man who made problems disappear. “I didn’t take anything from her. She’s the one who tried to kill me!” Sanji snapped, his voice steady despite the hitch in his breath. “I don’t owe you people anything. Least of all her!”

“My sister cried because of you,” Katakuri growled, straining against Zoro’s hold, to no avail. “I’ll show you what it feels like to be shattered and powerless when I’m done with you.” Katakuri wrenched his body, trying to lunge again, but Zoro was faster. With his left eye half-open, blood still dripping down his jaw and soaking his clothes, he met the charge with a clean strike to the chest. Air whooshed out of Katakuri in a ragged groan. Zoro pressed his forearm into the man’s sternum, pivoted, and took him down with a leg sweep that sent his shoulder crashing into the pavement.

Zoro planted his knee between Katakuri’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground. He leaned closer, voice low, dark, and lethal. “You’re never laying a hand on him ever again.”

Katakuri tried to push up, but headlights flooded the alley — a private patrol car. Footsteps pounded the asphalt; the security team sprinted over. Koby was in front. “Chef Sanji!” he shouted, two guards rushing ahead to take over from Zoro and hold Katakuri down.

Zoro stood, swallowing back a groan, his breathing heavy, blood running down his face. Sanji was still on the ground, one knee scraped, but otherwise unhurt. Zoro walked toward him slowly. The pain in his eye was sharp, but it barely registered. All he could see was Sanji. Zoro knelt in front of him, resting a hand on the Chef’s shoulder, which was still trembling. “You’re safe. It’s over.” His voice came out rough, but gentle.

Sanji lifted his head, eyes shining with relief, and froze at the sight of the blood. “You’re hurt!” he whispered, horrified, dropping to his knees to be at Zoro’s eye level. His hands shook as he cupped Zoro’s face, fingers brushing the skin just below the deep cut that still wept blood, staining his own fingertips red. “Zoro, your eye…”

Zoro caught his hands, firm but careful. “It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.”

“It is serious! You need a doctor,” Sanji’s gaze ran frantically over Zoro’s face, panicked and wild. “You need a doctor right now!” Sanji glanced at Katakuri being restrained by the other guards. "I'm gonna kill him!" He tried to stand up, blinded by rage. How dare that imbecile blame Sanji for taking something from Pudding and hurting Zoro like that? Who did he think he was? Sanji felt his blood boil.

Zoro stopped him from getting up, not without some difficulty, holding Sanji in place. "Don't do it. It's not worth it."

"He hurt you!" Sanji tried to get up again, but Zoro continued holding him in place, forcing Sanji to stay there with him.

"Better me than you. That's why I'm here."

Zoro shook his head and regretted it instantly but didn’t let a sound slip. He didn’t want Sanji to worry more. Sanji was the priority now. He was always the priority. For a few seconds, they stayed that way, too close, the silence dense with everything they couldn’t say. Zoro let go of his hand and raised the other to Sanji’s face, fingers sliding along his jaw to his chin. “Are you okay?”

Sanji nodded. “Yeah.” His voice almost broke. “Thanks to you, Marimo.”

Zoro gave him a weak smile that disappeared quickly, because smiling made the wound throb like hell. Their eyes locked for a second that felt like a lifetime.

Koby shattered the moment. “Chef!” he called, running over. “Are you all right, sir?”

Zoro got to his feet quickly, taking a step back. Koby helped Sanji stand and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “The police and an ambulance are on their way.” Behind them, the two guards had Katakuri fully restrained, the man spitting blood and curses between his teeth.

“I don’t need an ambulance, Koby!” Sanji protested. “Zoro does!”

Koby turned to Zoro, worry finally clear in his face now that he was close enough to see the damage. “Mr. Roronoa, the paramedics are almost here, please don’t strain yourself any further.”

“Take care of the Chef, Koby. I’ll stay here and wait for the police,” Zoro instructed.

Koby nodded without arguing and led Sanji toward the All Blue’s security car. Sanji looked back one last time over his shoulder. Zoro was still standing there, blood running down his face, his left eye half-open and dark as wine.

Zoro stayed until the police arrived, chest heaving, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. Later, as Katakuri was loaded into a squad car and paramedics eased Zoro into an ambulance, a brutal truth hit him like a hammer.

He would do anything for Sanji.

-*-

The night crawled on, slow and cruel. The clock on the wall said it was past one in the morning, and the apartment smelled like cigarette smoke. Sanji paced back and forth, the dark blanket around his shoulders swaying behind him like a cape, hair still damp from the shower Nami had practically shoved him into when they’d returned from the All Blue. Every lap around the living room, he lit another cigarette, even though the previous one was still burning in the ashtray.

“Sanji, you need to rest,” Nami insisted from the couch, worry clouding her eyes. “Zoro’s being well taken care of. You know he’s strong. He’s going to be fine.”

Sanji snorted, dragging deeply on the cigarette, the ember flaring like a beacon in the dim light. “I should be there.” His voice came out hoarse, heavy with guilt. “He bled because of me, Nami. For me.”

“And I’m sure he’d do it again,” she shot back firmly. “But do you really think he’d want you wandering into a hospital in the middle of the night, alone, knowing the guy who tried to kidnap you might not have been acting alone?”

Sanji didn’t answer, because as much as he hated it, she was right. That didn’t make the knot in his chest loosen one bit. He exhaled slowly, as if the smoke could carry away even a little of what was crushing him inside.

The headlines still echoed in his mind. The night’s top trending topic was “Kidnapping attempt at All Blue’s season opening.” The footage guests had recorded on their phones had already spread online. Nobody knew the name of the green-haired security guard with golden earrings who’d left the scene in an ambulance, nor whether he was all right.

Even Zeff had called, his voice rough with worry. “You okay, eggplant?”

Sanji almost fell apart at the old nickname. “Yeah, old man… I’m fine.” A blatant lie. He was not fine, and he knew Zeff knew it too, but he was grateful the old chef didn’t press. Sanji was terrified he’d fall apart if he had to say out loud what he was feeling. When the call ended, the echo of Zoro shouting his name in the restaurant was still lodged somewhere inside him, refusing to leave.

The following hours dragged. Nami tried again to convince him to rest, to eat something, to at least lie down, but eventually gave up. Sanji kept pacing, eyes fixed on the floor, chest burning with guilt and fear. Until two soft bell rings broke the silence.

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.

Sanji froze. Then, on impulse, he dashed across the living room, vaulting over the back of the couch, desperate to reach the door. He got there just as it opened.

And he choked out a sound, releasing the breath he’d been holding for hours.

Zoro was there.

His dark blazer hung over one arm, his black shirt still stained with blood and half open at the collar, a huge white bandage covering his left eye, his face etched with exhaustion and pain, shoulders heavy, but standing. Right there.

Sanji’s knees nearly buckled, relief hitting him so hard it felt violent. The blanket slipped from his arms, and, in a heartbeat, he sent common sense straight to hell and threw himself at Zoro, hugging him tightly. He buried his face in the curve of Zoro’s neck, breathing in hospital, blood, and something that was inherently him. The smell that meant he was alive.

Zoro hesitated for an instant, then hugged him back. Strong arms wrapped around Sanji, holding him close, fingers sinking into his hair, breathing him in. Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to.

Nami cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “I’m glad to see you here, Zoro,” she said, stepping closer with a small smile. “I thought the hospital would keep you longer.”

Zoro pulled back just enough to look at her. “I’m fine. The doctors couldn’t keep me longer than necessary. But you might get a call about that in the morning,” he added, suddenly sheepish.

Nami sighed, narrowing her eyes. “We’ll talk about that later. What about your eye? What did they say? How long do you need to rest?”

Sanji’s eyes were glued to Zoro, soaking in every detail. Zoro glanced briefly at him, then shifted his gaze to Nami. He took a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Doctor said it’s going to leave a scar and that I should take it easy for a few days so it can heal properly.” He hesitated, feeling Sanji’s stare burning into his skin. Zoro sighed, surrendering. “And… the left eye won’t open or close normally anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Sanji took a step back, slipping out of Zoro’s arms. The smile still clinging to his face fell away. His eyes became dull. He walked back to the couch on autopilot and slumped down, elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling from his fingers. His gaze was empty, chest heavy.

Zoro moved to go to him, but Nami stopped him with a gesture. “Get some rest, Roronoa. Take the time you need.”

“I’m going back to work as normal,” Zoro answered immediately.

“Don’t be stubborn,” Nami scolded. “You need to be at your best if you’re going to keep protecting him.” She jerked her chin toward Sanji, still miserable on the couch.

Zoro huffed but didn’t argue. Nami smiled faintly. “You need rest. Wait here a second,” she said, heading to Sanji’s bedroom and returning a moment later with a green T-shirt that she held it out to Zoro. “It might be a bit tight, but it’s better than staying in that blood-soaked thing. Stay as long as you need.” She turned away, patting his shoulder and opening the door. “I’m sure it’ll do both of you some good.”

Zoro nodded. Sanji didn’t register any of it — not Nami leaving, not Zoro changing shirts. All he felt was the silence growing heavier and more alive around him. The cushion beside him dipped as Zoro sat down. Sanji didn’t look up. He couldn’t.

“Hey,” Zoro said softly, reaching for his hand, lacing their fingers together. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Sanji let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Of course it was. I’m a walking target. I attract people like that like a magnet.”

Zoro turned his face fully toward him, steady gaze locking onto his. “And I was there with you. To protect you.” His tone was simple, no drama. “Sanji.”

The Chef snapped his head up. He remembered the security guard shouting his name in the restaurant, but it was the first time he’d called him Sanji like this — so close, so quietly, just for him.

Zoro smiled. “Sanji, if I had to choose, I’d do it all over again.” Sanji’s eyes rose slowly to meet his. Zoro went on. “I’d lose the other eye, an arm, whatever it took, for you. If it meant you were safe… it’d be worth it.”

Sanji’s throat closed. The words echoed inside him, hot and painful. His eyes burned. He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

Zoro squeezed his fingers, and Sanji glanced down at their entwined hands before raising his gaze back to Zoro’s face, taking in the big white bandage covering the wound that would leave a scar, so neither of them would ever forget that night.

Without thinking, Sanji lifted his free hand and touched his face. His fingers traced the line of Zoro’s jaw, sliding up to the bandage over his injured eye. Zoro didn’t move. Sanji let his touch fall, slowly, to his neck and then to the short hairs at his nape, playing with the soft strands. Their breathing stuttered.

Zoro closed his good eye for a moment, like he was trying to hold back something on the verge of overflowing. But Sanji didn’t want to hold anything back anymore. He tugged Zoro closer, and Zoro didn’t resist.

Sanji kissed him. Heat and relief, guilt and gratitude tangled together. It took Zoro a second to respond, but then he did, with the same contained hunger Sanji had been carrying for days.

Their mouths met again, firmer, more desperate. Sanji pulled him in even closer, bodies pressed together. Zoro’s hand slid to Sanji’s waist, hesitating before finally settling there. Sanji let out a low moan, and Zoro parted his lips, inviting him in — and Sanji almost blacked out at the sound Zoro made when their tongues finally met.

Zoro’s hand found Sanji’s hair and buried itself in the blond strands, hauling him closer, impossibly close, devouring every inch of that mouth that devoured him just as eagerly. It wasn’t only Sanji’s food that was delicious — the chef’s mouth officially became Zoro’s new favorite flavor in the world.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sanji remembered that Zoro was badly injured and that that kiss might not be the best idea. He grudgingly slowed down, even though Zoro didn’t seem remotely interested in doing the same. When they finally pulled apart, panting, lips swollen and eyes wild, Sanji rested his forehead against Zoro’s, the touch soft and gentle. “You’re an idiot,” he murmured.

Zoro smiled, voice low. “I know. But I told you I’d protect you, remember?”

Sanji smiled back, eyes wet. “I remember,” he whispered. “I just didn’t think it would cost you an eye.”

Zoro answered by brushing his thumb over the back of Sanji’s hand. “Then don’t underestimate how much you’re worth, Sanji.”

Sanji couldn’t swallow the little sob that slipped through the smile that mirrored Zoro’s. “Thank you for choosing me, Marimo.”

-*-

The night had ended slowly, as if the entire world had forgotten how to breathe. For hours, the apartment was wrapped in an almost sacred silence, broken only by the sound of intertwined breaths on the couch. What had begun as a hesitant touch, a kiss heavy with fear and longing, turned into a series of uncertain, exploratory caresses, as though they were testing the boundary between what was right and what was inevitable.

Sanji remembered every second of it, the warmth of Zoro’s skin under his fingers, the texture of the bandage covering the injured eye, the way the security guard held his face with hands that were strong yet painfully gentle, as if Sanji were something fragile. The kisses had grown deeper, slower, until exhaustion overtook them. With their bodies pressed together, legs tangled, and the relief of having the other close, they fell asleep in each other’s arms on the couch.

When the first traces of morning light slipped through the curtains, Sanji opened his eyes and took a moment to understand where he was. The warm breath brushing against his collarbone made him smile before he even had time to think. He turned carefully and found Zoro still asleep. The white bandage over his left eye caught the soft light of dawn, reminding Sanji of everything, the fear, the fight, the blood. Guilt tightened his chest, but at the same time, the overwhelming relief of seeing Zoro safe overshadowed every other thought.

Sanji watched him for long seconds, the gentle rise and fall of Zoro’s chest, the messy green strands falling over his forehead, the tension of his jaw softened by sleep. He looked so… human like that, disarmed, handsome in a way that made Sanji’s heart beat harder and ache just a little. Moving slowly, afraid of waking him, Sanji slipped out of Zoro’s embrace and headed to the bedroom.

The hot shower washed away the fog of the night but did nothing to erase what he felt. The memories of kisses, hands, whispered words all returned in flashes that made him smile without noticing. He brushed his teeth, dressed with care, choosing a light blue shirt and linen pants.

When he returned to the living room, Zoro was still asleep, his face turned toward the back of the couch, breathing steady. Sanji stopped there, watching. He couldn’t help the smile. For a moment, he imagined what it would be like to wake up like that every day, with that silence, that man, that feeling growing out of his control. With a sigh, he walked into the kitchen. It was time to do what he did best: cook to care.

He lit the stove and began his ritual. He sliced brioche with precision, toasting it in butter until perfectly golden. He prepared eggs Benedict with freshly made hollandaise, thick and silky, seasoned with lemon and nutmeg. In the oven, portobello mushrooms stuffed with spinach cream and aged parmesan were roasting. The smell filled the apartment, blending with the aroma of freshly ground coffee — strong and full-bodied, with hints of caramel and almond. In a small pan, thin slices of cured ham crisped until they crackled.

Sanji plated everything with the care of someone building a piece of art: the perfectly poached egg atop the brioche, the golden sauce dripping down the sides, a touch of freshly cracked pepper. Everything needed to be perfect — because this breakfast was meant to help Zoro recover.

He was finishing the plate when he heard slow footsteps, the soft drag of socked feet on the wooden floor. Turning around, he found Zoro standing there, rubbing his good eye with the back of his hand, hair sticking up in impossible directions, shirt wrinkled, expression still lost in sleep.

Sanji lost his breath. For a moment, he forgot everything — the coffee, the plate, the world. The sunlight cut across Zoro’s face, highlighting the stark contrast between the white bandage and the warm tone of his skin. He looked impossibly real and somehow ethereal, as though he’d stepped out of a dream. Sanji thought, with painful clarity, that he could live to see this every day.

Zoro offered a half-smile when he noticed Sanji staring and murmured, voice rough with sleep, “Morning. Smells good.”

Sanji answered with a slow smile and walked toward him. Without thinking, he wrapped his arms around Zoro, feeling the solid warmth of him, the safety, the heat. Sanji’s face found its place against Zoro’s neck, where the scent of him and the warmth of his skin wrapped around Sanji like a blanket. For a moment, the world stopped. His heart beat so loudly he feared Zoro would feel it.

Zoro returned the embrace, pulling him closer, his fingers sliding firmly down Sanji’s back. The gesture was full of an impossible mix of sensations and feelings that made Sanji shiver. He pulled away slightly, just enough to look at Zoro, and with the greatest care, held his face in his hands, thumbs brushing along the faint roughness of Zoro’s stubble, taking care not to touch the injury. Sanji leaned in and kissed him. It was a slow, gentle kiss, the kind that spoke louder than any words. Zoro’s hands traveled up Sanji’s back, steady and tender, one of them reaching Sanji's hair, rediscovering familiarity without needing permission.

When they parted, still looking at each other, Zoro exhaled softly, voice low. “I should go downstairs to take a shower. And… change clothes.”

Sanji smiled, reluctance and affection mingling in his expression. “Alright. But don’t take too long. Breakfast’ll get cold.”

Zoro nodded, touching Sanji’s chin before stepping away. “I won’t be long, Chef. Promise.”

Sanji watched him leave, his heart still hammering in his chest. Only when the door closed did he turn back to the stove. A short time later, Zoro returned. His hair was still damp, his face freshly shaved, wearing a simple white T-shirt and dark jeans, and a new bandage covering his left eye. Sanji was finishing the coffee, and the sight of him made Zoro pause at the kitchen entrance just to take it in — Sanji’s fluid, confident movements, the kind of quiet elegance that felt like gravity.

Sanji looked up and smiled. “You’re back. And right on time. Sit down, Marimo.”

Zoro obeyed. When Sanji served the plate, the aroma wrapped around both of them. For a few minutes, they ate in silence, savoring the food, the clink of cutlery harmonizing with the distant sounds of the awakening city. Zoro was the first to speak, voice calm but serious. “About last night…”

Sanji froze mid-movement, lifting his gaze. He wasn’t ready to relive the terrifying moment of seeing Zoro bleeding while he could do nothing. But he waited. If Zoro needed to talk, he’d listen.

Zoro took a deep breath. “We crossed a line last night. And I’m not sorry. Far from it.” His eyes dropped to his hands clasped on the counter. “But I’m still your head of security. And I need to keep doing my job well. If I get distracted, if someone notices…”

Sanji listened quietly, and opened an understanding smile. So this wasn’t about Katakuri. It was about them. Sanji’s heart raced. “I know, Zoro. I’m not sorry either. Honestly… I should’ve kissed you sooner.” He saw the flush creep up Zoro’s cheeks and his smile widened. “But I also don’t want anyone to know. Not yet.” Zoro lifted his eyes, surprised. “I don’t ever want to hide you,” Sanji continued softly. “But I want to keep this…” He touched Zoro’s hand. “…just ours, for now.”

Zoro smiled at him, and the silence that settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a promise.

Sanji smiled, his face bright once again. And in that moment, while the steam from the coffee curled between them, Zoro realized that smile — that smile, the one that was already his — was worth any scar.

-to be continued-

Chapter Text

The following days dragged on, but not in a painful way. It was a kind of slowness Sanji had never experienced before, forcing himself to slow down, his heart trying to get used to the idea that Zoro was there, whole, right next to him.

They got visits from Doctor Chopper every day at the end of the afternoon, a young but very competent guy who took care of Zoro’s wound with the skill of someone who had already done it many times. Sanji had insisted that Zoro stay in the apartment with him, especially after the doctor recommended rest, minimal effort and a balanced diet with the nutrients needed to help with the recovery and healing of the wound. Sanji was the perfect choice when it came to food, so he took it upon himself to make sure Zoro ate well at every meal of the day, not just breakfast.

Doctor Chopper had also been very clear, on the very first day after Zoro came back from the hospital: no strain, no work for at least a week. Zoro listened with his arms crossed, lips pressed tight in obvious reluctance. Sanji, on the other hand, agreed without a second thought. If the doctor said Zoro needed to rest, then that was what was going to happen.

The world out there could wait.

The second day of filming for the reality show would happen that week, but Sanji had Brook and Jinbe informed that he wouldn’t be there. Brook sent kind messages full of exclamation points and emojis saying everyone would understand his absence. Jinbe, on the other hand, answered that they would postpone the recording to the following week, because what mattered most was that Sanji was okay.

At the All Blue, Carrot, Hancock and Koby kept the restaurant alive. Hancock reported back through short messages: “Business is still intense, Chef. The customers ask about you every day.” Sanji read and felt grateful to have a team as formidable as the one he’d built at the restaurant. He had promised to return the following week and everyone assured him that the All Blue was running smoothly, that Sanji should rest and recover from the scare.

Everyone thought Sanji was too traumatized by the kidnapping attempt, but Sanji had already endured his fair share of attacks enough times to be used to it. The reason he stayed home now had a name and was stealing hugs and kisses from him, leaving him on the verge of floating.

In those days, Sanji’s apartment became a quiet refuge. Zoro slept with Sanji in the bedroom, but spent most of the day between the couch and the kitchen. Even though it went against all his instincts, he tried to convince Sanji to go out, saying that Koby could fill in for him, that Sanji needed to get some air, but the Chef refused.

“You’ll be fine with the other guards,” Zoro tried to argue in one of several attempts at persuasion.

“And leave you here alone? No way,” Sanji replied, face closing up.

“I’m not dying,” Zoro shot back.

“I don’t want to leave this place without you. When it’s time, we’ll go back together,” Sanji said seriously.

Zoro couldn’t find an answer to that.

So the days repeated themselves in an intimate, unexpected rhythm. Sanji cooked, Zoro watched. And sometimes, Sanji was surprised by an embrace from behind while he was chopping ingredients, earning kisses on his neck and bites on his ear that made him flush from head to toe.

At first, the kisses came with care and hesitation. A hand on a shoulder here, a touch on his face there. But with time, hesitation gave way to hunger. Sanji no longer tried to hide the sighs and soft moans when Zoro’s fingers found an opening between layers of fabric and slid against the Chef’s warm, soft skin, tracing the muscles of his abdomen, the curves of his back.

There with Sanji, Zoro was nowhere near the serious, lethal security guard everyone else saw. Especially when Sanji sat in his lap, legs trapping Zoro in place, his mouth swallowing every delicious sound Zoro made, while hips moved slowly, guided by Zoro’s hands on that ass that had been haunting his dreams for a long time.

When things heated up like that, Zoro was always the first to slow the pace, to Sanji's frustration. He was sure that was Zoro trying to be professional. “Doctor Chopper said to avoid excessive physical exertion,” was what he always said.

“He meant heavy exercise and chasing after bastards who try to kidnap me,” Sanji argued, trying to capture Zoro’s lips again.

Laughing, lips swollen and pink, face flushed and breathing faster than usual, Zoro tried to slip out of Sanji's arms. “This feels pretty heavy to me.”

But Sanji always managed to pull him back for one last kiss, long and full of desire, that made Zoro's head spin, all his thoughts vanish until that one point of contact was all that mattered.

Sanji already knew he would never be able to live without Zoro. Not ever again.

Sometimes Sanji cooked just to watch him eat. Other times, he sat in silence while Zoro slept, studying the bandage over his left eye and wondering what the scar underneath would look like when it was finally revealed. Other nights, he woke up in the middle of the night, heart tight, and found himself lying next to Zoro, feeling his warmth and the gentle weight of the arm draped across his waist. In those moments, he convinced himself that everything was worth it.

Sanji’s favorite moments were when he nestled into Zoro’s arms, the two of them sitting on the huge living room couch, watching countless things on TV. Sanji introduced him to his favorite comedy series, making a point of commenting on every episode.

“I thought your favorite shows would be about food,” Zoro commented during yet another Brooklyn Nine-Nine marathon.

Sanji laughed. “I think everyone assumes that. But I don’t need a food show when I already make the best food there is.”

“I love how humble you are,” Zoro teased.

“Why pretend to be modest when it’s true?” Sanji gave a crooked smile.

“Please never change,” Zoro smiled back, and Sanji forgot everything when Zoro kissed him mid-smile.

When the week ended, Doctor Chopper cleared Zoro to get back to work, wearing only a small bandage. “The wound is closing up nicely,” the doctor said. “But the healing process isn’t finished. The wound still needs care, but you can stop the full rest, as long as you don’t overdo it, understood? No heavy lifting, no running, nothing too intense.” Chopper warned, looking at the two of them.

Zoro muttered a not-very-convincing “yes,” and Sanji answered for him. “He’ll behave, doctor.”

“Why do I doubt that?” Chopper replied, smiling.

That night, after dinner, the apartment felt calmer than usual. Sanji leaned against the counter, watching Zoro adjust the adhesive bandage on his face. The scar forming underneath was still pink and peeked out beyond the edges of the bandage, crossing the line of his eyebrow on top and reaching halfway down his cheek below. Zoro still hadn’t let Sanji see his eye without the bandage.

“Ready to go back to the battlefield?” Sanji asked, voice light but heart tight.

“Always.” Zoro straightened his shirt and stepped closer. “And you?”

Sanji closed the distance, wrapping his arms around Zoro’s waist. “I am.”

Zoro raised his good eyebrow. “Are you really?”

Sanji chuckled softly. “Maybe I’ll miss a few things...”

“What could you possibly miss?” Zoro tightened his arms around him.

“This,” Sanji indicated their embrace, the wonderful closeness, their bodies pressed together. “And maybe this too,” the Chef tilted his head up and bit Zoro’s lower lip.

Zoro didn’t answer right away. For a moment, his gaze lingered on Sanji, intense and warm. And then, faster than Sanji could process, Zoro sat him on the edge of the counter and stepped between his legs, the Chef’s face wearing pleasantly surprised. Without giving Sanji a chance to say anything, Zoro slid one hand up to the back of his neck, the other to that waist that drove him crazy, and pulled him closer, their mouths meeting halfway.

Sanji moaned and his arms wrapped around Zoro’s neck, trapping him there, bringing him closer and closer, as if it were physically possible for them to occupy the same space. Zoro left Sanji’s mouth and began kissing along his jawline, stopping at his ear to bite lightly, then continuing down his neck, which Sanji tilted to give him full access.

“You’re incredible,” Zoro said in Sanji’s ear.

The Chef moaned and, with his fingers buried in green hair, pulled Zoro back up to his mouth. The bodyguard let out a low growl when their tongues met and Sanji’s hand found the button of his pants and opened it.

“Sanji...” Zoro said against the Chef’s lips. “The doctor said... I’m not sure we should...”

Hearing his name in Zoro’s voice only made the fire inside Sanji burn hotter. “We should and we want to,” he smiled as he finished pulling down the zipper and felt Zoro’s erection right there. Sanji squeezed lightly and Zoro hissed through his teeth. “Please, Marimo.”

Zoro wanted to be professional, he wanted to stay in control of his own emotions, but having Sanji in his arms, so warm and soft and full of desire for him, threw everything to the ground. It was the ultimate low blow. A nod of his head and Sanji was already in motion, pushing Zoro's pants and underwear down, revealing his hard cock.

Zoro's brain melted when he saw Sanji slowly and sensually lick his palm, never taking his eyes off Zoro. But the bodyguard almost combusted when Sanji closed that hand around his hard cock and started to move.

"Sanji..." Zoro said softly, letting his head fall on the other's shoulder.

"Talk to me, darling," Sanji smiled, satisfied to make Zoro melt under his hands.

"This is... ah! It's so good," Zoro saw stars when Sanji wrapped his hand around the head and stayed there, massaging it, spreading precum to help make everything better.

“I’m gonna make you feel really good, Zoro,” Sanji whispered in the security guard’s ear, then moved down to kiss and suck on Zoro’s neck.

Zoro grunted in response, and his hands found the elastic of Sanji’s sweatpants, which did a terrible job of hiding his erection. “Get up,” Zoro commanded, and Sanji pulled his hands away just long enough to lean on them so Zoro could pull down his pants and underwear.

He wasted no time and grabbed Sanji’s cock, pumping slowly, reveling in the obscene sounds coming from the Chef’s mouth. Zoro captured Sanji in a frenzied kiss and moved even closer, close enough to cover Sanji’s hand and hold both erections together with his other hand. They both groaned into each other’s mouths at the extraordinary sensation, their breaths ragged with each new movement.

“Don’t stop, Marimo, please, don’t stop,” Sanji gasped, and Zoro felt his erection grow and heat up. He was close.

“Come for me. Let me see what it’s like,” Zoro said against Sanji’s lips, looking deep into the Chef’s eyes.

“Keep moving your hands like that… ugh… so good, so good, sooo good!” Sanji felt a heat concentrating in his lower abdomen, his hands now gripping Zoro’s shoulders, letting him guide them both to paradise.

“Sanji… I—” Zoro choked as he ran his finger over their heads, increasing the pace immediately afterward, seeking relief for both of them.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s iiiit!” Sanji chanted like a prayer. “Just like that, Marimo, just like that and I’m gonna come.”

Exactly three seconds later, Sanji came. His face twisted in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut with tears pooling in the corners, mouth open in a perfect “O,” head thrown back. His whole body trembled under Zoro’s hands, and the security guard felt his own climax crash down on him when he saw that sinful expression. He would never forget it. That image was permanently burned into his memory.

Slowly, the two of them came back to themselves, panting, sweaty and clinging to each other as if their lives depended on that touch. Sanji took Zoro’s hand and, without warning, licked and sucked every bit of it clean. Zoro felt hypnotized by the sight, by the sensation of Sanji’s tongue running slowly over his fingers, the vibration inside that mouth with every little “hmmm.”

Once the job was done, Sanji pulled back and smiled. “I hate waste.”

Zoro shook his head and smiled. It shouldn’t be possible for a man like that to exist, staring back at him with eyes full of a feeling Zoro was sure mirrored his own.

Sanji leaned in and kissed him like never before and, right there, Zoro came to the realization that he would never again be able to stay away from this amazing man, perfect in every way. Zoro belonged to Sanji now.

“How am I supposed to pretend nothing’s different when I look at you and remember this?” Sanji asked, his forehead pressed to Zoro’s, both of them catching their breath. “How am I supposed to pretend you’re just my bodyguard when, in reality, you’re so much more than that?”

Zoro felt his heart expand in his chest and smiled. “I dreamt about this before I even met you.”

“What?” Sanji studied his face, a new light in his eyes.

So Zoro told him how Franky’s stories about Chef Sanji had made him want to know more, made him like Sanji before they ever met in person, how Robin talked about how Sanji was sharp and ruthless, but also the kindest person she’d ever known. How Zoro knew he had to meet him, how something inside him began to want to be close, just to witness all of that in person and know his admiration would only grow if and when he ever got the chance.

“I just never imagined you’d be so much more than what they said and what I read about you. I never imagined you’d be perfect,” Zoro said, feeling his face heat up but refusing to look away from Sanji. “And I didn’t expect that I would...”

Sanji leaned toward him when Zoro stopped, eyes burning and heart racing. “That you would what?”

Zoro raised his hand and placed it over Sanji’s chest, right where his heart was beating hard and anxious. He searched for something in Sanji’s face and must have found it, because his smile widened. “I didn’t expect that I’d fall in love with you so fast.”

Sanji’s smile could have replaced the sun. “I knew what I felt that day at the press conference couldn’t just be in my head,” he said softly. “I wanted to doubt it, because we only see this kind of thing in books and movies, and my life has never been anything like that,” Sanji frowned, thinking of the road that had brought him there. “But my heart always knew you’d shown up to change my life for the better, Marimo.”

Zoro kissed him, sealing an unspoken promise that shouted louder than anything. He had no idea what would happen from here on out, how people would react when they found out, but for now, he was too happy, thinking about how everything had converged on that moment. Pulling back, Zoro held Sanji’s chin, his touch firm and tender. “As long as you want me, I’ll be here.”

“Forever is a reasonable time frame for you?” Sanji pretended to think, and Zoro’s heart almost exploded. Sanji’s humor, the way he cooked like the true artist he was, the way he treated people, the way he looked at Zoro, how he trusted him... all of it made Zoro love him.

“Sounds like a good start,” Zoro smiled, and Sanji hugged him tight, tucking his face right there in the curve of Zoro’s neck, that little spot that had been made to fit him.

-*-

The next morning, Bartolomeo’s car was waiting for them in front of the building. The sun was already climbing between the tall buildings, reflecting on the windows like tiny blades of light. Sanji wore a light gray suit and sunglasses; Zoro, a black blazer, sunglasses to protect the bandage that would still be there for a while, his access badge to the restaurant in one hand, his expression impassive. At first glance, they were just a chef and his bodyguard going back to their routine. No one would guess that just a few hours earlier they had confessed their love to each other.

Sanji looked out the window on the way, his heart calm in a way he couldn’t explain. He was afraid, yes. Afraid something might happen again, that Zoro might get hurt all over. But above all, he felt proud. Proud of the man at his side, who had risked everything for him, who had waited for him—even without knowing if the wait would be worth it—and who now went back to his post, silent and watchful as ever.

As they headed for the All Blue, Sanji straightened his tie and let out a small sigh. Everything would go back to normal. But now with something else burning beneath the surface, reigniting with every glance; something Sanji would tend to and protect until the end of time.

The All Blue appeared in front of them, its façade gleaming in the sun, the metallic sign shining as if nothing had happened there. But the memory of the screams, of his body being dragged, of Zoro’s voice calling his name still burned inside Sanji. For a moment, he hesitated. The hand resting on his thigh trembled, imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

Zoro, however, was always paying attention. Without saying anything, he reached out and laced their fingers together, squeezing firmly. The touch was warm, solid, real; a silent promise that everything was okay. Sanji turned his head, meeting Zoro’s gaze despite the sunglasses and the bandage over his injured eye: the corner of his mouth curved in a half-smile that warmed Sanji’s heart.

The fear receded. Sanji smiled back. One of those smiles that had become rare, but that, since the previous night, seemed to come a little easier.

Bartolomeo pulled up at the curb in front of the restaurant. “Chef, Mr. Roronoa,” he said, in his usual excited tone. “It’s good to see you both back.”

“Thank you, Barto. You’re always very kind,” Sanji thanked him with a discreet smile. The air outside was colder than he remembered, carrying the familiar smell drifting from the All Blue. Zoro went around the car and stopped next to him, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

Sanji took a deep breath, straightening his jacket. “Shall we?”

Zoro nodded. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Side by side, they crossed the short stone path to the main entrance. Sanji kept his chin up, but felt his heart beat faster as he stepped into the restaurant. The sound of approaching footsteps, Hancock’s voice echoing from the hall, the familiar melody of glasses being stacked and cutlery being arranged on tables.

The All Blue was alive.

The smell hit him first: butter, garlic, white wine, sautéed onions. It was the scent of the house, the aroma he himself had created, and for a moment, Sanji felt like crying.

“Chef Sanji!” Hancock’s voice rang out. She approached quickly, her heels clicking on the polished floor. She was stunning, as always: hair pulled up in an elegant bun, flawless red lipstick, her eyes showing something between worry and relief. “It’s so good to see you well.”

Sanji smiled, his natural charm sliding back into place. “I couldn’t stay away from you all for long.”

Hancock turned to Zoro and, in a graceful gesture, inclined her head slightly. “And it’s good to see you back as well. I hope your recovery is going smoothly.”

“It is, thank you,” Zoro replied, voice low and firm. He kept his tone professional, but his gaze lingered on Sanji a second longer before returning to neutral.

Carrot appeared from the kitchen, hair in a messy bun, eyes shining. “Chef! We were missing you so much!”

Sanji laughed, hugging his sous chef. “I heard you all handled things very well without me.”

“Hancock ran everything with an iron fist,” Carrot said excitedly. “Koby and the security team stayed sharp, and the whole kitchen worked together,” she glanced between Sanji and Zoro. “But it’s not the same without you, Chef.”

Zoro, discreet as ever, watched everything. The dining room was impeccable: tables aligned, cutlery perfectly placed, soft lights reflecting off the crystal glasses. He allowed himself a quick assessment and, indeed, everything appeared in order. But his eyes always drifted back to Sanji, who now moved among the staff with natural ease, a kind of elegance that seemed to draw everyone in. He spoke with authority but always with a smile. The All Blue breathed through him.

When the staff meeting ended, Sanji walked over to Zoro. The smile he gave him was discreet, but there was something extra there. “Everything in order, Marimo?” he murmured, light enough that no one else would hear.

“Perfect,” Zoro answered, and the way he said the word made Sanji certain he wasn’t just talking about the restaurant.

For a brief instant, Sanji thought of touching his arm, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture, but he held himself back. The self-control he’d sworn to have wouldn’t last a week, and he knew it. Still, in that moment, he kept his composure.

Koby approached, eyes alert and a wide smile on his face. “Mr. Roronoa, it’s good to have you back. The team was impressed with what you did that night.”

“I just did my job,” Zoro replied simply.

Sanji looked away, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. Just his job, he thought, but he bled for me.

When Koby stepped away, Zoro leaned in slightly and murmured, “Keep smiling like that and it’s gonna be hard to keep up appearances, Chef.”

Sanji answered without turning his head, still wearing his professional smile for the staff. “Then don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Zoro leaned in just enough for their bodies to share warmth.

“Like you want to kiss me in the middle of the dining room,” Sanji fluttered his lashes, pretending innocence.

Zoro sighed and straightened up, the corner of his mouth betraying a suppressed smile. “You don’t make it easy, Chef.”

“I never said I would,” Sanji laughed and walked away, looking back over his shoulder with a playful wink.

They went on, each to their own post, pretending everything was normal—the Chef and his security guard, unbeatable in the eyes of the world. But only they knew how much each glance, each reined-in touch, each hidden smile carried the sweet weight of what they had promised to protect.

-*-

Dinner was at its peak. The entire dining room was full of laughter, clinking glasses, perfume and steaming dishes crossing the air. The All Blue lived and breathed to the rhythm of Chef Blackleg. And amid the noise and the heat, Sanji’s gaze always found Zoro’s.

The bodyguard was stationed near the entrance to the kitchen, watching everything with his predatory calm. The sunglasses hid his injured eye, but the other one—sharp, gray—seemed to see straight through the steam and flames. Sanji pretended not to notice, but he could feel his body being cut through by that gaze.

The Chef moved through the space with elegance and command, sleeves rolled up, apron tied neatly at his waist, his body bending in sync with the rhythm of the pans. And Zoro, standing there, taking in the way Sanji moved his hips every time he bent to reach something lower, all the little sounds of approval he drew, looked like he was about to lose his mind.

Then one of the waiters approached, holding a tray of empty glasses and wearing a mischievous smile. “Chef,” he said in the tone of someone trying to disguise gossip. “The customer at table eight wants to know if the security guard with the green hair and golden earrings is always that serious...”

“It’s his natural charm,” Sanji replied, pretending not to make much of it.

The waiter glanced sideways at Zoro. “She also asked if she could, uh, get to know him better.”

Sanji froze. Carrot, who was nearby, let out a giggle. “Who’d have thought, huh, Zoro. Already charming the customers!”

Zoro raised an eyebrow, the barest hint of a smile appearing. “I’m just doing my job here, Carrot,” he said, dry but with the corners of his lips giving away his amusement.

Sanji, for his part, stole a good look at the “customer at table eight”: tall, curvy, jet-black cropped hair, glossy lips and a low-cut dress that showed off every curve. She was beautiful, Sanji couldn’t deny it. But something inside him burned, poisonous and cruel.

He kept the polite smile he used for cameras, critics and the most annoying journalists before answering. “Is that so?” he said, voice sweet with an edge. “Then please inform the lady that the security guard is committed... to his work.”

Carrot smiled wickedly. “Oh, Chef, give the guy a break. He deserves to have a little fun, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think that’s viable at the moment, Carrot, darling.” Sanji blew out a breath between his teeth and grabbed a pair of tweezers to adjust a sprig of herbs on a plate. “Mr. Roronoa needs to stay focused and I don’t want him distracted with indecent proposals.”

Zoro felt the sarcasm, the possessive sparkle beneath the words. And his blood boiled. When the waiter and Carrot walked away laughing, he waited for the right moment to approach the counter, speaking low, just for Sanji to hear: “Charming, huh?”

Sanji shrugged. “In a rough kind of way, maybe.”

“Are you jealous, Chef?” Zoro asked, still whispering.

Sanji didn’t look up right away. “Jealous? Me?” He turned his face slightly, his smile growing. “Please, Marimo. Do you really think I’d waste time worrying about a woman with such terrible taste in men?”

Zoro tilted his head, the sunglasses reflecting the warm light of the lamps. “So you think she has bad taste...”

“If she didn’t, she’d be in the wrong line,” Sanji pretended to focus on the dish in front of him.

Zoro huffed a quiet laugh. “And what line is the right one, then?”

Sanji glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “The one where I’m first.”

The silence between them stretched, charged with intention. The sound of dishes, conversations and cutlery faded into the background. Zoro couldn’t help but smile. He had already seen several sides of Sanji, but a jealous Sanji was threatening all of his self-control.

Sanji turned his back, bending slightly to get a pan from the cabinet below. His posture, the natural swaying of his hips, the curve of his waist under the apron... and Zoro forgot, for a moment, what the word “professional” meant.

“Don’t look at me like that, Marimo,” Sanji’s voice came low, almost a purr. “People will think you’re hungry.”

Zoro stepped in as close as decency allowed, without raising suspicion, to whisper in Sanji’s ear. “Who says I’m not?”

Sanji smiled. “Lucky you I love to cook,” he lifted his chin, eyes shining with something dangerous.

Zoro’s whole body was tense, but he didn’t move. He no longer trusted himself. His hands, folded, tightened into fists. The space between them dissolved for a moment; one step more and there would be no going back. Sanji felt Zoro’s warmth and, by reflex, bit his own lower lip, slow and deliberate.

Zoro closed his eyes for a second, jaw clenching. “You’re gonna kill me like this.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet, Marimo,” Sanji chuckled softly, voice a whisper.

And then someone called his name from the kitchen. They both stepped apart on reflex, as if just being close burned.

Sanji took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and looked at Zoro with that same sideways smile. “Back to work, Mr. Roronoa.”

Zoro ran a hand through his hair, exhaled almost laughing. “Yes, Chef Blackleg.”

The rest of the night was delicious torture. Sanji moved between pans and stations, casting glances toward the kitchen entrance, and Zoro stayed there, keeping an impassive posture, avoiding looking in Sanji’s direction because his professional façade depended on not letting himself be dragged under by the Chef’s curves, by the idea that he was jealous for him, that he was so close Zoro could touch him at any time. Knowing all of that was there, but that he couldn’t have it, made Zoro dizzy. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. He couldn’t.

The main courses were being served and service was halfway through. The customer at table eight didn’t send any more messages and, if Sanji checked on her a couple of times through the kitchen glass and saw her throwing quick glances at Zoro and whispering to her friend, well, there was no way to avoid seeing things through glass, right? The third time Sanji saw the woman look at Zoro and whisper to the friend beside her, he realized he couldn’t take it anymore.

Sanji asked Carrot to handle everything for a few minutes and headed toward the hallway leading to the back of the restaurant. “Come with me, Mr. Roronoa,” he said, serious, leaving no room for anyone to doubt the professional nature of the request.

Zoro followed him, heart pounding too loud.

The hallway was dim, the noise from the dining room distant. Sanji’s office was at the end. As soon as they went in, the Chef shut the door behind them and turned the key, the click echoing in the silence.

Zoro crossed his arms, forcing air into his lungs. “Is there a problem, Chef?”

Sanji approached slowly, shrugging. “Nothing major. I just thought you deserved a little… clarification.”

“Clarification?” Zoro frowned, confused. “About what?”

“About what’s mine.” Zoro didn’t have time to react. Sanji shoved him against the door, body pressed to his, warm breath at his ear. “When I heard that comment...” Sanji whispered, fingers brushing the fabric of Zoro’s shirt. “All I could think about was that she’ll never know what it’s like...”

Zoro held his breath. “What it’s like what?” he provoked.

Sanji lifted his face, their lips a breath apart. “What your moans sound like, what your kisses taste like, what it’s like to have you shaking.”

Zoro grabbed him by the waist, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. The look they shared was almost feral. “All of that is yours,” he murmured. “I’m all yours.”

Sanji let out a low moan, the sound vibrating in the air between them. Zoro, undone, scooped him up and sat him on the desk, their bodies colliding, the world dissolving into a single impulse.

The kisses came in short, urgent bursts, broken by heavy breathing and “mine” and “yours” whispered against each other’s lips.

Sanji wedged his knee between Zoro’s legs and pressed, tearing a groan from the bodyguard, sending all of Sanji’s blood rushing downward. “Show me how much you’re mine, Marimo.”

Zoro’s hips moved over Sanji’s leg, seeking friction, contact, heat, while his hands roamed the Chef’s body without direction, just grabbing and pulling him closer. “Sanji... if someone comes...”

Sanji pressed his forehead to Zoro’s. “Then we’ll just be quiet.”

“You’re going to be the end of me,” Zoro said, but he couldn’t hide a smile.

“That’s the idea, my love,” Sanji ran his fingers through Zoro’s soft hair. “Take whatever you want.”

Zoro pulled back, lowering Sanji’s leg, and his hands slid to the Chef’s belt. Without a word, he unbuckled the belt, opened button and zipper and hooked his fingers into his pants. Sanji pushed himself up on his hands and Zoro pulled everything down, leaving Sanji exposed, ankles tangled in his clothes. He leaned in, burying his face in Sanji’s neck, while the Chef braced himself on his hands, arching backwards, giving Zoro unrestricted access to kiss, suck and lick every patch of warm, soft skin he could find.

“Zoro...” Sanji sighed when he got a love bite just below his ear.

Encouraged by that delightful voice, Zoro knelt down and spread Sanji's legs, keeping his ankles pinned.

Sanji was big, and his cock curved slightly toward his stomach, flushed and heavy. Zoro’s mouth watered and he didn’t look away. Not once. He couldn't.

He leaned in and kissed the crease of Sanji’s thigh, then the base of him. Zoro felt him tense, a soft inhale stuttering out of his chest. The bodyguard’s lips moved higher, trailing kisses along the side of the Chef’s shaft, his tongue flicking just beneath the head. Sanji tasted clean, warm, slightly salty from the heat of his skin.

Zoro wrapped his hand around Sanji’s cock, slow and careful. And then he opened his mouth.

He started with a soft kiss to the tip of the Chef’s cock. A gentle press of lips to the shaft. Then Zoro slid his tongue over it, circling the head, feeling the way Sanji’s thighs twitched beneath him. His hips flexed forward, just a little, but he stayed patient, letting Zoro take his time.

Then, Zoro wrapped his lips around the tip and slowly slid down. Just an inch. Then another.

“Fuuuck,” Sanji whispered, one hand slipping into Zoro’s hair, fingers light, trembling. “Zoro…”

Zoro moaned softly around him, the sound vibrating in his throat, and that made Sanji exhale, deep and ragged. He sucked him in deeper, pulling more of him into his mouth, his hand stroking the rest in smooth, slow motions.

Sanji was so hard. Zoro could feel him get harder by the second, heavy on his tongue. Every time Zoro bobbed down a little further, he felt Sanji pulse.

Sanji’s hand tightened in Zoro’s hair—not to control, not to push. Just to feel. To ground himself. “Babe,” he groaned. “Your lips feel so fucking good.”

Zoro moaned and kept going, working him slowly, his jaw stretching to take more and deeper. Every few strokes, Zoro came up to swirl his tongue over the tip again, then sank back down with a long, slow breath. Zoro could taste the first drops of his precum now—salty, hot, making his chest ache with want.

And the sounds Sanji made… Zoro was getting crazy by those. Low grunts, soft moans, shaky breaths. Every time he hollowed his cheeks or gave him a slow stroke from base to tip, he swore under his breath and said his name like it was a prayer. “Zoro… fuck… just like that…”

The bodyguard looked up, eyes glassy, lips swollen, saliva glistening on his chin. Sanji was beyond himself, chest rising in uneven breaths, his whole body strung taut like a live wire.

“Do you want me to stop?” Zoro asked, breathless.

He stared down at his bodyguard, eyes wide, voice caught. “No. Don’t stop. Please, don’t fucking stop.”

That was all Zoro needed. He took Sanji’s cock deeper in his throat. Faster. Still slow enough to savor, but with more rhythm now, more need. He moved his hand in time with his mouth, twisting gently at the base. Zoro sucked Sanji with heat and care and just enough pressure to make him curse again.

Sanji’s powerful and strong thighs started to tremble. “I’m close,” he said, voice breaking. “Zoro… babe—”

Zoro kept going. He didn’t stop.

He wanted to wreck him.

Zoro wanted to feel him fall apart in his mouth. For me, he thought. To show Sanji that he was the man Zoro loved and would love till his end.

And then he felt it—the way Sanji’s hips jerked, the way his hand flexed hard in Zoro’s hair, the way he gasped and moaned out Zoro’s name like it hurt to say it—

He came.

Hot, fast, pulsing across Zoro’s tongue.

Zoro swallowed without thinking. All of it. And when he finally pulled off, breathing hard, lips wet, eyes still locked on Sanji’s, he watched the Chef fall back onto the table, ignoring the papers and pens, chest heaving, skin flushed.

“Dear heavens,” Sanji whispered.

Zoro stood up and leaned over, kissing the side of Sanji’s jaw, who was still catching his breath.

“That was…” Sanji began, then shook his head, smiling like he didn’t even have the words.

Zoro grinned against his neck. “You taste incredible, Chef Blackleg.”

Sanji’s laugh was low and broken. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He sat up with difficulty, arms and legs still trembling, while Zoro laughed. He held onto Zoro and pulled him closer, kissing him, gripping the green strands, letting out a moan when he tasted himself in Zoro’s mouth. “That skill wasn’t on your résumé, Marimo,” Sanji said against his lips.

Zoro smiled, his gray eye meeting Sanji’s blue. “Let’s say it’s not public knowledge. It’s exclusive to my boss.”

“Is that so?” Sanji let out a soft moan at being called “boss,” but mirrored his smile, sliding a hand to the front of Zoro’s pants, rubbing the bulge there. Zoro inhaled sharply. “It’s something impressive that definitely deserves some special payback.”

Zoro felt his own cock throb and strain against his pants. The image of Sanji taking him in was almost too much. But this wasn’t the time for that. Zoro wanted to show Sanji he’d never have to worry, because Zoro only had eyes for him. Zoro’s heart belonged to Sanji. “We need to get back, Chef.”

“I can’t leave you like this, Marimo!” Sanji stepped in closer, fingers reaching for the button of Zoro’s pants.

“Yes, you can,” Zoro gave him a quick kiss and pulled back to pull up Sanji’s clothes while the Chef huffed, indignant. Zoro smiled, thinking how it was absolutely possible to love him more every minute. “Now listen to me,” Zoro cupped Sanji’s face gently, making him give him his full attention. The pout he made was adorable. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Sanji said.

“I’m yours for as long as you want me. No one makes my heart happier, my life more incredible. With you, Sanji, everything makes sense, everything falls into place. I’m a better person because of you. You inspire me, you make me want to always be better so I can stand by your side and make you trust me, make you proud to have me around,” Zoro caressed Sanji’s cheek, feeling how soft it was. “You’re the one I love and the only one I will kneel for, and before.”

Sanji’s eyes were brimming and he let out a tiny sob. He was always the one behind the grand declarations of love, so hearing one was disconcerting and very, very good. In that moment, Sanji realized that none of the declarations he’d made before had ever truly been real, because he’d never felt anything even remotely close to what he felt for Zoro.

“I love you, Zoro. You’ve impressed me from the first moment I saw you and I never want to stop feeling everything I’m feeling with you right now.”

“Good,” Zoro took his hand. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

“But you didn’t get to come,” Sanji pouted as he fixed his pants and jacket.

Zoro stroked Sanji’s visible eyebrow, which had a peculiar shape that, Sanji once said when they were sitting on the couch and the topic came up, was genetic. “We’ll have other chances, Curly. I’m fine.”

Sanji stared at him in silence. “Curly?”

Zoro shrugged. “If I’m your Marimo, you’re my Curly.”

Sanji pushed his shoulder, without really hurting him. “You’re way too handsome for my own good... and your mouth is way too skilled, you even sucked away my ability to stay mad.”

Zoro laughed. “Remind me to do that more often, then.”

Sanji loved making him laugh and that sound was contagious. “Just you wait, Marimo. I’ll have my revenge,” Sanji said, but his smile ruined any attempt at sounding threatening.

Zoro opened the office door. “Can’t wait, Chef Curly.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Sanji gave him one last quick kiss and left the office, leaving the bodyguard’s skin tingling with promise.

They walked side by side back to the kitchen, both looking like they desperately needed fresh air. Carrot passed them on her way back from the dining room and almost bumped into Sanji. “Is everything okay, Chef? Your face is red.”

“I’m just hot, sweetheart,” Sanji answered with a professional smile that would fool anyone… except Zoro.

Zoro straightened his back and moved closer to Koby to give the last instructions of the night, pretending his body wasn’t on fire, pretending to be the professional he needed to be.

Their time in the office had felt endless and also way too fast, not nearly enough. But when they returned, dessert orders were already starting to come into the kitchen. Sanji went back to cooking as if he hadn’t just melted under Zoro’s hands and Zoro could do no less. The two of them didn’t look at each other again. Not even Sanji remembered the customer at table eight, now just a drop in the ocean of that night.

Service went on until tables emptied, dishes were stacked, pots washed, and the “goodnight” smiles echoed until the dining room was almost completely silent.

Almost.

Because Sanji was still there.

Alone.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

He was finishing checking the orders for the next morning, leaning over the counter, the dim lights illuminating the perfectly organized kitchen. Sanji always said the kitchen was his sanctuary, the place where his soul breathed. The place where he existed most truly.

And maybe that was why he felt his body immediately relax when firm arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

Zoro’s scent reached him even before the voice. Sandalwood, salt, and something that was just… him. Zoro rested his forehead in the curve of Sanji’s neck and breathed in deeply.
Like someone who’s just found home.

Sanji melted completely. His hands slid back to loop around Zoro’s neck, pulling him closer. Zoro’s body pressed fully against his with no hesitation, large hands spanning his waist.

“You took your time,” Sanji murmured, in the voice only Zoro had the privilege of hearing.

“Had to make sure everyone was gone,” Zoro answered against his skin, voice rough and warm. “I didn’t want witnesses.”

Sanji shivered. “Witnesses to what?” he teased, leaning back, his ass nestling between Zoro’s thighs, already knowing the answer well before Zoro spun him around by the waist.

He turned in the bodyguard's arms, rose up on his toes, and their lips met in a slow, deep kiss, the kind that reverberates in your chest. A kiss that said everything they couldn’t say during the day.

A kiss that said: here, in my arms, you’re mine.

The whole kitchen seemed to tilt around them. It was Sanji’s sanctuary, and there he was, being kissed exactly where his life felt most sacred.

Maybe that was what made him dizzy.
Or maybe it was Zoro holding his waist like nothing in the world could take him away from there.

The kiss only ended when their breathing turned too short.

“Let’s go home,” Sanji whispered against Zoro’s lips, still not fully pulling away.

“Let’s,” Zoro held his hand a second longer than he should have before letting go.

They left the All Blue like two men trying to look normal, even with their whole bodies burning for the continuation of what they’d started in the office.

Neither of them spoke on the way back to the apartment, but Sanji laced their fingers together, his hand resting on Zoro’s thigh. When they reached the building, they let go and walked as usual, with Zoro a few steps behind, putting on the kind of normalcy that no longer existed.

When the elevator opened onto the hallway leading to Sanji’s apartment, Zoro stopped. “I’m going down to my apartment,” he said, too firmly to sound natural. “We need to keep things under control.”

Sanji crossed his arms, eyebrow arching. “Here? Now? What control, Marimo?”

“Someone might see. The neighbors or...” he cleared his throat. “...you know.” Even he didn’t really believe his own words, but Zoro forced himself to say them anyway.

“Zoro…” Sanji took a step toward him, voice low and heavy. “Since when are you afraid of someone seeing you walk into my apartment?”

“It’s not fear. It’s… precaution.”

Sanji cupped his face with a tenderness that could have disarmed a god. “You don’t have to be responsible with me right now. Not here.” His smile was small and honest. “Here's the safest place in the world for both of us.”

“Sanji…” Zoro’s gaze flicked from Sanji’s visible, bright blue eye to his mouth, full and inviting.

“Stay,” Sanji said, no beating around the bush. “Please.”

That was the word that shattered Zoro’s last wall. The soft plea. The “please.”

Looks like I've got a weakness after all.

Zoro took a deep breath, his eyes locked on the Chef’s as if the whole universe were shrinking around them. “Okay, Curly. I’ll stay.”

Sanji smiled, and that smile was worth every fight Zoro had ever fought in his life. He opened the door, took a step inside and turned back to him. “Then come in, Marimo,” he held out his hand, voice low enough to promise entire worlds.

And, taking the hand Sanji offered, Zoro stepped inside.

- to be continued -

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet. Sanji pulled Zoro with him toward the bedroom, not turning on any lights, relying only on the moonlight streaming through the large windows to guide him. The bedroom, in turn, was plunged in darkness, the curtains drawn shut. They didn’t speak; they didn’t need to. Their bodies already knew the way to each other.

Sanji let go of Zoro, kicked off his shoes, and went into the bathroom to wash up. When he finished, he paused to brush his teeth, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. In the mirror, he watched as Zoro pulled off his shirt in a slow, unhurried motion, fully aware of Sanji’s eyes tracking every inch of newly exposed skin. The bandage over his left eye looked even bigger without the frame of the shirt collar, the pink edge of the healing scar cutting across his eyebrow and trailing down his cheek.

Slowly, Zoro came closer, stopping behind Sanji, who was rinsing the last of the toothpaste from his mouth. Sanji felt his skin prickle at the sense of Zoro’s presence and the heat radiating from his body. Still leaning over the sink, Sanji spat out the water and pressed both hands to the cold marble, feeling the contrast with the warmth that was starting to spread through his body. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. Every inch of skin was aware of Zoro standing behind him, of that quiet nearness, of the breath that didn’t touch him yet but already said everything.

Zoro moved in closer. There was no rush. No warning.

His bare chest brushed Sanji’s back, first lightly, almost like a test. Then more firmly, just enough for Sanji to feel the solidity of that body, the heat of his skin, the undeniable presence. Zoro tilted his head, his nose grazing along the curve of Sanji’s neck as he drew in a deep breath, like he wanted to memorize his scent in that exact moment.

Zoro’s hands slid to Sanji’s waist.
Wide. Warm. Steady.

They rested there for a second, motionless, just feeling. Then they began to move slowly, gliding up along his stomach, tracing the defined muscles with a care that bordered on reverence. His thumbs followed the lines of Sanji’s body like someone studying a familiar map, while his fingers spread along his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Sanji let his breath go slowly, his shoulders relaxing before he even realized they’d been tense.

Zoro pressed his lips to the base of his neck. It wasn’t a kiss right away. First came just the warm touch of his mouth, a promise. Then a slow, lingering kiss that made Sanji close his eyes again, his head tipping slightly to the side to offer more space.

Zoro kept going. He kissed along the curve of Sanji’s neck, then his shoulder, then came back to the nape of his neck, his lips lingering, his breath hot against the cooler air of the bathroom. In some places, the kisses turned into a light scrape of teeth, almost a mark; in others, they were soft, almost ghostly, like Zoro was carefully choosing where to leave his presence behind.

Sanji felt his whole body respond. Without opening his eyes, he raised his arms and slid his hands up to the back of Zoro’s neck, lacing his fingers there and pulling him a little closer. The movement was slow, deliberate, full of trust. He leaned into Zoro’s body, letting himself be held, letting himself feel.

When he opened his eyes, Sanji watched everything unfold in the mirror in front of him. He saw the contrast between his own pale skin and Zoro’s strong arms around him. He saw the pink scar slicing across the face of the man behind him. He saw Zoro’s gaze, intense and dark, fixed on his every reaction.

Zoro’s hands kept exploring, moving higher up his torso and lingering over the center of Sanji’s chest. There was no hurry, no roughness. Just a firm, aware touch that made Sanji’s heart beat faster with every second. Zoro stopped there. His fingers moved slowly, finding Sanji’s nipples and tracing around them in almost circular motions, as if testing his sensitivity, as if he wanted to tease without crossing an invisible line only the two of them seemed able to see.

Sanji bit his lower lip, trying to swallow back a moan, his eyes half-lidded as he watched their reflection, his chest rising and falling more noticeably. His hips shifted, pressing back into Zoro’s and finding an unmistakable hardness that made his mouth water with want. “Zoro…” His name slipped out low and drawn out. A plea.

Zoro answered with another kiss, this time just below his ear, slow and deliberate, like he was saying I know. He didn’t speed up. He kept exploring Sanji’s skin, never pushing past the boundary they still weren’t allowed to ignore. Zoro didn’t take more than what was being offered.

His hands stayed there, present, warm, steady, while they watched each other in the mirror, trapped in that suspended moment where desire didn’t need speed to be overwhelming. The bathroom felt smaller. The air, heavier. The silence, thick with everything they wanted and needed but still couldn’t have. And there, between their reflections, the restrained touch, and their mingled breathing, time slowed enough for every second to be felt—intensely, deeply—before any next step could exist.

“You drive me crazy,” Zoro panted into Sanji’s ear.

Letting the earlier moan escape this time, Sanji caught one of Zoro’s hands and guided it down over his body until it reached the front of the towel, which had long since lost the battle of hiding Sanji’s erection.

Zoro brushed his thumb over the bulge, and the touch almost pushed Sanji over the edge. He moaned, breathless, letting his head fall onto Zoro’s shoulder, fingers tangled in his hair, gripping tight. “Zoro...” Sanji repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I want you so much, Curly,” Zoro turned Sanji so they were face to face. He cupped Sanji’s face in both hands and pulled him closer. The kiss was deep, while four hands roamed over two bodies. “We just have to hold on a little longer,” Zoro said against his lips.

Sanji let out another moan, this time of frustration. “I hate that we still have enough sense to actually listen to the doctor.”

Zoro smiled and stroked his cheek with his thumb, his gaze full of love and restrained want. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“When the doctor clears you,” Sanji pressed one last kiss to the corner of his mouth and stepped back, letting his hands slide one last time down Zoro’s torso, “we’re staying locked in this apartment for a week.”

Laughing, Zoro went to wash up while Sanji got dressed. Neither of them tried anything else, because they both knew they were standing too close to the edge and didn’t need much of an excuse to jump. They were both on a razor’s edge, holding back their desire, and anything could be enough to tip them over.

Rationally, Sanji knew Zoro still needed time for his injured eye—the one that got hurt fighting to protect him—to fully heal. But now Sanji knew the exact feel of Zoro’s skin under his fingers, knew how warm he was, how soft and solid; he knew how Zoro’s mouth tasted and what it felt like to be swallowed up by it. Sanji knew that Zoro was his new addiction—his scent, his body, his smile, his sharp mind. And Sanji wanted more, all the time, forever. It was embarrassingly easy to admit that Zoro had him in the palm of his hand.

Zoro coming back into the room, grabbing a change of clothes he’d left in Sanji’s wardrobe, pulled the chef out of his own thoughts. Wearing a soft robe over pajama shorts and a T-shirt, Sanji walked toward Zoro without hurry, like someone approaching something sacred. He lifted his hand, hesitating for just a second, then lightly touched the bandage Zoro had just replaced. He applied almost no pressure, just enough to feel its texture and the warmth of the skin around it. “Does it hurt?” His voice came out low, soft.

Zoro pulled him closer by the waist, closing the distance just enough that their bodies lined up in all the right places. “Only when you stop touching me,” he murmured against Sanji’s neck, his voice rough and warm and full of everything they still weren’t allowed to do.

Sanji’s body reacted before his mind, his fingers curling at the back of Zoro’s neck, pulling him in. The kiss that followed was slow and deep, full of a hunger they both had to keep in check if they didn’t want to forget the doctor’s orders. With every touch, every slide of lips and tongue, it felt like a huge part of them screamed for more. But Zoro was the one who finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Sanji’s, drawing in a long breath.

“Curly… I want to, you know I do… but…”

“I know,” Sanji replied with a small, sad smile, overflowing with affection. “I’ll behave,” he slipped out of Zoro’s arms and climbed onto the bed, glancing back over his shoulder. “For now.”

They lay down together, Sanji fitting perfectly into Zoro’s embrace, his large hand resting firmly on Sanji’s waist as if he could anchor him there and shield him from anything. Sanji fell asleep almost too quickly, his body exhausted, his mind still buzzing with every forbidden possibility. He drifted off breathing in Zoro’s scent, his chest tight and warm with a love that was already too big to fit inside him.

The next morning, the sun barged in through a gap at the top of the curtain. Zoro woke to find Sanji curled against his chest, his face tucked into the crook of Zoro’s shoulder. He didn’t have the heart to move. Sanji looked so peaceful, eyes still, chest rising and falling slowly, mouth slightly open, hair falling messily over his face. Zoro gave in to temptation and leaned down, kissing each closed eye framed by ridiculous lashes, then the tip of his nose—and that was when Sanji opened his eyes. The sleepy smile Zoro got in return could have powered an entire solar system.

“Morning, Marimo,” Sanji mumbled, shifting closer and wrapping his arms around Zoro’s waist, letting his fingers feel the soft texture, warmth and muscle across his back.

“Morning, Curly,” Zoro said, brushing his thumb over Sanji’s cheek, taking in the sight of this beautiful man he still couldn’t quite believe had told him he loved him back.

“We’ve got a long day ahead, don’t we?” Sanji asked, hiding his face again in the crook of Zoro’s neck.

Zoro nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got the reality show taping during the day and then All Blue tonight.”

“We could pretend we don’t have anything to do and just stay here. How about that?” Sanji’s voice was muffled, his breath tickling the exposed skin of Zoro’s neck.

Zoro laughed. “Tempting, but we have to go.”

Sanji lifted his head as soon as he heard Zoro laugh, his body warming and lighting up, reacting to that amazing sound. “That’s so unfair,” Sanji pouted, and his hand found the bandage over Zoro’s eye. “I want this gone already.”

“So do I, Curly. So do I,” Zoro replied, leaning in to press a kiss to that wonderful mouth.

The kiss was slow and sweet, the perfect way to start the day. Zoro slid his hands under Sanji’s T-shirt, exploring the soft lines and warm skin, brushing lightly over his sensitive nipples, savoring every little breath Sanji let slip.

Sanji grabbed onto Zoro’s soft hair and let his body take charge, rolling them over and throwing a leg across Zoro’s body so he ended up straddling him, never breaking the kiss, never letting go of the feel of Zoro’s tongue tangled with his. Zoro’s hands found his ass again, squeezing, drawing Sanji closer, closer, like he could pull him into himself.

“We need to… go,” Zoro said against Sanji’s lips, still holding that delicious ass.

Sanji shook his head, and Zoro, laughing, gave him a playful smack there, earning the most obscene little moan he’d ever heard from Sanji. He felt his own cock twitch in response. Zoro swatted him again, earning a sharp tug to his hair. “You said you were going to behave, Curly.”

“I’m starting to reconsider,” Sanji replied, leaving a hickey on Zoro’s neck.

“Be good,” Zoro said, getting another moan and a slow roll of Sanji’s hips against his. Zoro grunted, but quietly filed away the information that a simple word of praise could pull that reaction out of the chef.

Before they could wander any further down still-forbidden paths, Zoro scooped Sanji up and carried him to the bathroom, where the two of them finally separated to start their day.

The breakfast was quick, filled with smiles and glances that promised entire worlds as they went over the day’s schedule. It was a filming day, and they both knew they would have to put their masks back on and pretend, once again, that they were nothing more than Chef Blackleg and his bodyguard.

-*-

The chaos of the studio welcomed them back like a living organism.

Lights flickered on and off, cables were dragged across the floor, producers talked over one another, Brook gestured with the excitement of someone who had seen it all hundreds of times and still enjoyed it as if it were the first. The scent of fresh ingredients mixed with the heated metal of the workstations and the almost tangible nervousness of the competitors, who craned their necks whenever they could, hoping to catch a glimpse of the most talked-about chef of the moment.

Sanji crossed the set as if he had been made for that space. As he walked from the dressing room to the main set, everyone around him stopped whatever they were doing to look at him, admire him, try to exchange even a few words. When the competitors entered the set, they searched for Sanji and broke into enchanted, nervous smiles when they spotted him on the small platform where he stood beside Bonney and Capone Bege.

Sanji’s relaxed body paired with his impeccable posture inspired admiration and envy alike, yet nothing surpassed the Chef’s warmth. It was impossible not to want to be near him. More than that, it was impossible not to like him. His magnetism was undeniable. The perfectly tailored dark suit, the tie aligned just right, the easy smile that betrayed nothing of the emotional storm he carried beyond those walls. Everything drew people toward Sanji.

But the moment everyone was in position, he stopped being simply Sanji and, with impressive ease, became Chef Blackleg before the cameras: precise, elegant, attentive, kind in exactly the right measure, and absolutely unforgiving when it came to technique.

Zoro moved through the studio like a lethal shadow. Never in anyone’s way, but constantly adjusting his position according to the camera angles, alert to every movement around Sanji. He watched the competitors with the same gaze he used to assess potential threats, yet whenever he could, his eyes drifted back to the chef. Sanji was magnetic. There was no denying it.

Bonney announced the challenge with deliberate suspense: oriental cuisine, focused on technique, balance, and respect for the ingredients. The competitors would work with different types of rice, seaweed, raw and marinated fish, long-simmered broths, and delicate spices to create their dishes according to the theme. Zoro, for his part, could only focus on the sharp blades laid out across the workstations.

The competitors swallowed hard, the tension thick in the air. Sanji smiled. “Eastern cuisine isn’t about excess,” he explained, walking between the stations as the cameras followed him. “It’s about intention. About understanding the ingredient and not trying to shout louder than it.”

Zoro followed everything in silence, satisfied to see that even amid the studio’s chaos, Sanji held absolute control of the environment. He spoke with authority without ever raising his voice, corrected posture with a simple gesture, made observations that made it clear to anyone who truly understood that his knowledge didn’t come from books or trends, but from years of practice and respect for the craft. The competitors gave their all whenever he approached, desperate to impress him at the slightest sign of attention. It was almost amusing.

A massive digital clock appeared on the screens, and the hour-and-a-half countdown began, officially starting the challenge. Sanji seemed to be enjoying himself, watching the competitors rush for the best ingredients, breathing in the aromas that slowly filled the studio, feeling the vibration that only a kitchen could have.

When the dishes began to arrive for judging at the end of the allotted time, the studio seemed to hold its breath along with the competitors each time Sanji stepped forward to evaluate them. Bonney and Capone were important, each with their own expertise. But everyone there knew who the true culinary genius was, and who they all wanted to impress.

Sanji analyzed each dish the way one reads a story. He observed the plating, the texture of the rice, the sheen of the fish, the precision of the knife work. He smelled, touched with care, tasted with absolute focus. His comments were surgical. “The rice is right, but you missed the resting point. It needed another minute to breathe.” “The fish is excellent, but the cut is timid. You lacked confidence.” “Here, you understood balance. Simple, clean, honest. Very well done.”

There was no cruelty in his words, only truth. And, curiously, that seemed to make the competitors even more nervous, even more eager to please.

Zoro watched it all with a quiet pride he made little effort to hide. Everyone there could admire Sanji, desire him, sigh over him — and many did, shamelessly. But Zoro knew something no one else did.

Sanji had chosen him.

At the end of the first challenge, Brook signaled a short break so the studio could be prepared for the second and final challenge of the day.

Sanji left the set, and Zoro followed, doing his job as his bodyguard. But the Chef didn’t head to his dressing room. Instead, he kept walking toward the back of the studio, where almost no one was around, until he found a narrow gap. He grabbed Zoro by the collar in one swift, decisive motion.

The kiss was urgent, almost feral in its restraint. Completely forbidden.

Zoro tasted it instantly. Rice. Seaweed. Soft salt.
Onigiri.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. “You’re going to kill me,” Zoro murmured, their lips still far too close. “That’s cruel. Doing this to me, and on top of it, with the taste of onigiri in your mouth.”

Sanji smiled that insolent, dangerous, irresistible smile. “It’ll be a beautiful death,” he replied softly, brushing Zoro’s lips with his fingertips. “And what’s wrong with onigiri?”

Even in the dim light, Sanji saw Zoro blush. “They’re my favorite,” the bodyguard admitted quietly.

Sanji felt as if he’d just been handed a wonderful gift. “Oh, Marimo, I had no idea!” he said, smiling — and Zoro couldn’t resist that beautiful sight, smiling back. “Now that I know that’s your favorite dish… I can make it for you when we get home.” Sanji stepped closer and kissed him one last time, making sure Zoro tasted every bit of his mouth, their tongues tangling in the most profane way Zoro had ever experienced.

Before Zoro could form anything remotely coherent, Sanji was already gone, back in the light, his professional expression firmly in place, as if nothing had happened.

“I think I already died,” Zoro muttered to himself, unable to stop his heart from racing with pure happiness at the privilege of having Sanji in his life.

The rest of the shoot was flawless.
And absolutely unbearable.

Zoro wanted Sanji with an intensity that bordered on physical pain. Every smile for the cameras, every gentle word to the competitors, every elegant gesture felt like a cruel reminder that he had to keep his hands to himself. Sanji, in turn, sent quick glances in Zoro’s direction, barely perceptible winks, smiles meant only for him.

The winner of the challenge was announced to applause. Sanji was warm, congratulated the competitor, offered words of encouragement to the others. His charisma seemed to fill the entire studio.

And Zoro realized that his love for Sanji had the power to grow even larger than his own heart.

-*-

Night fell over the All Blue almost without warning, as always happened when the kitchen slipped into its own rhythm.

The first order came in, and from that moment on, time stopped being a reliable measure. Knives began to sing against the boards, sharp and sure; flames rose beneath the pans, licking at copper bottoms; the scent of melted butter mingled with fresh herbs and long-simmered broths. Sanji moved through the space as if he were home — because he was. His body responded before thought, his hands knew where to go, his eyes caught every detail without effort.

Plates went out one after another, flawless. In the dining room, laughter rippled between tables, glasses clinked in toasts, admiring comments escaped delighted patrons. The staff functioned as a single organism, each person knowing exactly what to do, when to do it, where to look. And at the center of it all, Sanji commanded with the same firm elegance he had displayed before the cameras hours earlier.

Zoro stayed close to the kitchen. Not only out of duty. There was a silent choice in it, a pull that kept him within that specific orbit. He watched the flow of people, the servers moving back and forth, the guests who stood up just to catch a glimpse of the chef — and whenever he could, his eyes found Sanji.

The moments were brief. A gaze held a second longer than necessary. A quick smile at the corner of the mouth. A brush of hands in the narrow hallway that anyone else might read as an accident — but not them.

Sanji felt Zoro’s gaze even when he didn’t see him directly. Felt the steady presence at his back as he crossed the corridor to greet a guest. Felt his body respond to every closeness, every shared silence. Self-control required effort, but there was something deliciously dangerous in that restraint, in knowing that the desire was there in full, simply waiting.

When the last dish left the kitchen and the orders began to slow, the exhaustion finally settled in. A good exhaustion, deep and earned. Sanji ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and exchanged one last look with Zoro — and for the first time that night, truly alone, a complicit smile.

They met in the middle of the dining room, hands finding each other, fingers interlacing automatically. Zoro leaned in and kissed the top of Sanji’s head. “Ready to go, Chef?”

Sanji brushed a quick kiss to the corner of Zoro’s mouth and pulled away, meeting a hungry gaze. “Absolutely, Marimo.”

They reached the apartment laughing about a ridiculous joke one of the waiters had made that night. The laughter and the closeness made their bodies hum with the urge to tangle together and, perhaps, continue the night before.

But unlike the previous evening, the apartment’s energy felt different. When Sanji opened the door, he found Nami sitting on the couch, tablet in hand, shoulders tense, expression serious. He knew something was wrong before she even stood up.

A heavy silence filled the air, the kind that comes before storms. The kind Sanji knew all too well from other lives, other fears, other abandonments. The kind of silence that always came just before someone said I can’t anymore and left.

A cold sensation ran down his spine as Nami stood, and Zoro immediately positioned himself behind Sanji — protective, alert, ready. “Nami, what happened?” Sanji asked, rushing toward her. “Are you okay?” His voice was too firm to hide the anxiety beneath it.

Nami nodded, but took a deep breath, looking from Sanji to Zoro and back again. “We have a problem. A big one.”

She turned the tablet so they could see the screen, her expression somber, professional… and heavy with a concern she was trying to conceal.

The image was zoomed in as far as it would go, grainy, almost blurred by distance — but still impossible to mistake. Sanji and Zoro, in the middle of that very living room, locked in a deep kiss. Zoro’s hands on his waist. Sanji’s hands around the bodyguard’s neck. The intimacy undeniable.

Sanji’s heart sank. His precious paradise, his oasis of happiness… destroyed, drained, completely shattered.

Zoro froze behind him.

And Nami said what neither of them wanted to hear: “Someone saw you two. And decided to make it public.”

For a moment, Sanji couldn’t breathe. The sensation came immediately. Violent. Devastating.

This is it. It’s over. I lost. He’s leaving. No one stays when the storm begins. No one ever stayed.

Zoro was leaving.

His heart pounded so hard it hurt. He heard blood roaring in his ears. His stomach dropped as if he were falling off a cliff. There was no air. No ground. No defense.

Nami’s voice sounded distant, muffled, as if it were coming from underwater. “Sanji… we need to talk about this.”

He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at the picture.

Zoro was leaving.

The fear was so vast, so old, so deeply embedded in his skin that he almost felt as though he were being ripped out from the inside.

There was only one thought in his mind, blazing in capital letters, glowing in neon light, impossible to ignore:

Zoro is leaving.

Sanji tried to ground himself, to breathe, to say something — anything. But the words simply wouldn’t come.

Until he felt it.

First, a gentle touch at the nape of his neck. Then, a warm, steady presence against his back. And then Zoro’s large hand slid along the curve of his neck, down to his shoulder, slow, firm, deliberate.

Sanji closed his eyes, because he knew that touch. It was the touch that had held his face in the early hours of the morning. The touch that had kissed him slowly, with devotion, ever since the very first time.

With care, he felt his body being turned from that point at his shoulder and allowed himself to be guided — but he couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. No. This could very well be a dream, and Sanji wanted to savor it before waking up to the real nightmare.

When the motion stopped, his breath shook despite himself. It couldn’t end yet.

“Open your eyes,” Zoro asked softly.

Swallowing hard, Sanji obeyed. When he did, Zoro was there — so close that Sanji could see his own reflection in the dark lenses of the glasses Zoro was still wearing to hide the bandage. Zoro lifted his free hand and removed the glasses, revealing the bandage over his injured eye… but also revealing the look that burned with something Sanji had never received from anyone, something he didn’t quite know how to interpret — a light that made the gray of that eye intense, powerful.

Zoro didn’t look away. Didn’t hesitate. His voice came out low, but so steady it cut through the air. “Sanji.”

The chef tried to inhale, but the knot in his throat wouldn’t allow it. His eyes burned.

Zoro cupped Sanji’s face with his free hand and leaned in, resting his forehead against Sanji’s, looking straight into the chef’s visible eye. “I love you. And I’m here with you.” The fingers at Sanji’s shoulder slid up to the nape of his neck and tightened — not with force, but with promise. “You’re not going through any of this alone.”

Sanji felt the first tear fall, and with it, the entire world seemed to melt, collapse, rearrange itself. A wave of something overwhelming washed over him — not fear, not panic, but a relief so profound it nearly brought him to his knees.

Zoro was there. Zoro had chosen to stay. Zoro had chosen Sanji.

Zoro wasn't leaving.

And that was it. That was what Sanji had waited for his entire life, without ever knowing if he truly deserved it.

Nami watched them, but didn’t interrupt. Maybe because she understood. Maybe because she was finally seeing what she had always wanted for Sanji: someone who stayed.

When Zoro finally pulled back by an inch, after wiping away a stream of tears from a face that should have been home only to joyful smiles, Sanji lifted his hand carefully, as if touching something sacred, and placed his fingers against the bodyguard’s chest, right over the steady heart that beat without hurry, without fear.

“Zoro… I—” Sanji tried to say, his voice low, barely more than a whisper.

“It’s okay.” Zoro tilted his head, brushing his nose against Sanji’s — just a touch, nothing more than a breath of intimacy — and smiled. “We’ll face this together.”

Sanji felt his legs go weak as a shy smile curved his lips. “I don’t know what to say.”

Zoro shook his head, still smiling. “It’s enough that you’re here, smiling with me. I’ll take care of the rest.” He wiped away another tear sliding down Sanji’s face. “You’re everything to me, Curly.”

Sanji lifted his face, and Zoro understood the silent request, leaning in for a quick kiss that restored certainty to Sanji’s universe.

It was Nami who brought their minds back to the real world, clearing her throat with the elegance of someone who knows exactly how much space to give — and when. “Now that the three of us are aligned…” she said, slipping back into her professional tone, though her eyes shone with quiet satisfaction. “We need to decide how we’re going to respond to this.”

They stepped back just enough to look at her, and Sanji took a deep breath, his heart steadier, his chest lighter. He looked at Zoro, who nodded with quiet confidence, and saw there the silent confirmation: whatever you decide, I’m staying by your side.

Sanji had spent his entire life believing he would face the world alone, forever. After a while, he made peace with his solitude and with the idea that he might never find someone willing to share the weight — because everyone always left when things became difficult, or when Sanji admitted that he wanted more.

But not Zoro. He had chosen to stay. He had chosen to love Sanji, without conditions.

Sanji straightened his posture, discreetly wiped away the tears he hadn’t even noticed were still falling, and took a deep breath. “Alright,” he said, his voice still a little rough, but firm. “Let’s decide together what to do.”

Zoro gave a light touch to his back, making his support and presence unmistakably clear, before positioning himself at Sanji’s side.

Nami nodded. “I don’t think we’ll be going to bed early tonight, then.”

And for the first time since the photo had surfaced, Sanji smiled. A small smile, but a real one. Because now he knew: no matter how fierce the storm was, Zoro was his safe harbor. And together, they could face any rough sea.

- to be continued -