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✤
Streetlamps blur past, casting fleeting streaks of light over the seaside highway. Beyond the window, moonlight glimmers across the waves, but Sanji’s too exhausted to truly see it.
It’s either late at night or early in the morning. He honestly has no clue. The crick in his neck and exhaustion dragging at his limbs suggest the latter. He rolls his shoulders, attempting to loosen the knots in his neck, but to no avail. With a little sigh he readjusts his travel pillow, hoping to relax for the remainder of the ride. It’s another twenty minutes of the same old road until they reach Oceanside, after all.
There’s music playing on the radio — something heavy, but turned down so low it almost sounds mellow. The driver sings along, her voice soft, smoothing out the edges of a song that should probably sound rougher.
Sanji lets his eyes slip shut, the exhaustion settling deeper into his bones. The words drift in and out of focus, but one line catches in his half-asleep mind:
"...and now you’ve become a part of me, you’ll always be right here..."
The lyric lingers, curling around something unspoken in his chest. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thinks hazily, to have that? Someone who stays. Not just promises to, and then leaves anyway.
The thought flickers, faint as the passing streetlights, and before he can chase it, the hum of the road pulls him under completely.
✤
“Hey, we’re here.”
Sanji jolts awake, heart pounding wildly in his chest, but then he remembers. Thankfully, the dim Uber lighting hides the blush creeping up his face. His driver, a young woman with caramel skin and round, gold-framed glasses that flatter her lovely face, shoots him a sympathetic half-smile. “Long trip?”, she asks, though the exhaustion on his face and the fact that she picked him up at the San Diego airport should be answer enough.
“You have no idea,” he mumbles tiredly while fishing out his wallet. He taps his card against her phone, waiting for the green check mark to appear. Satisfied, the driver offers a small smile before getting out to grab his luggage.
Sanji quickly collects his things from the backseat, double-checking that he didn’t accidentally drop anything into the footwell, and exits the car.
His driver — Celine, he just remembered — had set his two big-ass suitcases neatly on the curb. He hands her a ten-dollar-bill with a smile, thanking her for the pleasant ride. Celine’s eyes light up as she thanks him, tucking the tip away before wishing him a good night as she gets back into her car. He makes a mental note to write her a good review on the app, as well.
Sanji watches the Uber’s taillights disappear, blinking sluggishly at the darkened street. The ocean breeze rolls in, cool and briny, curling around him like a welcome-home embrace.
…It does nothing to lift the weight pressing down on his limbs.
He hasn’t been this exhausted in months.
His gaze flicks to his suitcases, then to the stairs, then back to his suitcases.
Yeah. Fuck that. He needs a cigarette.
With a tired sigh, he digs into his pocket, pulling out the small silver case he’s had for years. He only ever carries one, a rule he set for himself months ago. Every morning, he adds a fresh one. If it’s gone, it’s gone.
Luckily, today’s is still there.
The click of his lighter cuts through the quiet as he shields the flame from the wind. The first drag is immediate relief, bitter and familiar, curling in his lungs like muscle memory. He exhales slowly, watching the thin wisp of smoke get carried away by the breeze.
He can almost hear Zeff grumbling in the back of his head. “Didn’t take ya long to light up, huh?”
Sanji huffs, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Didn’t take you long to start nagging, huh?” he mutters under his breath, even though the old man isn’t here to hear it.
A few more drags, a minute to breathe, to gather enough willpower to face the stairs — then he stubs out the cigarette inside his case and grabs his bags.
It’s not that many steps, but he still drops the suitcases in front of his door unceremoniously, officially out of fucks to give. He grabs his keys, unlocks the door, and all but falls through it, his body too exhausted to hold itself upright. He pulls his suitcases inside, kicking the door shut behind him before towing off his shoes, letting them stay where they land, for once.
His socked feet drag along the hardwood on his way to the bathroom. Collapsing straight into bed sounds heavenly — the crisp Egyptian cotton, the familiar comfort of his own mattress. And yeah, he missed it, okay? But he also feels disgusting. The kind of gross that comes from fifteen hours in a flying tin can full of strangers. The stale air of the stuffy cabin still clings to him, combined with a faint whiff of the airline’s so called “dinner” — a chicken tragedy that he only managed to consume because he hadn’t eaten in over eight hours, and because wasting food goes against his principles.
So, instead of face-planting into his high-thread-count cotton sheets, Sanji turns on the shower. He strips while the water heats, grimacing at the way he has to peel his shirt off his sticky skin.
Steam clings to the tiles as Sanji finally steps under the spray, relief washing over him. He scrubs methodically, rinsing away the grime and stress of travel. The hot water hits the knots in his shoulders like a liquid massage, but even that isn’t enough to fully shake his exhaustion.
Moving on autopilot, he finishes his routine before finally heading towards his bedroom, the sight of it almost bringing him to tears. Outside, the sky lightens, stars fading one by one as the sun starts to creep up the horizon, yet his bed had never looked more inviting.
Sanji barely musters the energy to tug on a soft t-shirt and boxers before slipping under his navy sheets with an honest-to-God moan. The moment his head hits the pillow, the familiar scent of his laundry detergent — fresh linen and a hint of vanilla — wraps around him. He barely has time to smile before sleep claims him.
✤
The soft buzz of his phone rattling against the wooden nightstand drags Sanji from sleep. A bit of light sneaks through his thick curtains, casting a soft glow over his bed; A peaceful scene, if only his phone would just shut up already.
Sanji groans, shoving his head under his pillow and smothering himself in fabric until the buzzing stops. He breathes a sigh of relief, pulling the blankets higher, determined to slip right back into unconsciousness.
…When his fucking landline rings.
Annoyed beyond all hell, Sanji shoves off the blankets with a grunt and stomps to the kitchen, where his ancient wall-mounted telephone — seriously, who even has this number?! — rattles obnoxiously. He yanks it off the hook.
“What?”
“Hello to you, too, eggplant,” comes the all-too-familiar voice. “Glad to know you’re not dead.”
Sanji runs a hand down his face before reaching into his hair, tugging on the blonde strands lightly. “What the hell do you want, old man?”
“I just wanted to know if you’ve gotten back in one piece! You were supposed to send me a text when you got home.”
“Well, and you were supposed to pick me up at the airport!” Sanji shoots back — not actually mad, just taking the opportunity to be a little shit about it. “But you had to go and scare off another employee after just what, three weeks? That’s gotta be a record even for you!”
Zeff just grunts at that, muttering under his breath about soft-ass kids these days. Sanji smirks at his old man’s antics, pushing off the wall and heading further into the kitchen for coffee. He grinds the beans as Zeff rambles about work, until his eyes land on the oven clock.
[ 3:46 P.M. ]
What. The. Fuck?!
Still half asleep, he stumbles to the window, yanks back the slate-gray curtains—
And the sun greets him like a smug little asshole, blazing full force in the sky.
Fuck me.
“Eggplant? Ya still there?”
Sanji snaps out of it, slams the curtains shut, and focuses on what matters: Coffee.
They bicker a little longer, sharp words softened by the warmth neither of them ever addresses. And yeah, Sanji missed the old man, but it’s not like he’s going to tell him that.
See, Sanji had spent the last three months in Europe, hopping between five different restaurants across three countries. Europe is just awesome like that: Barely a few hours in a car or train and you’re in a completely different country with its own set of culture and cuisine.
Sanji loved it.
He spent the majority of his stay in France, as he was a sucker for French cuisine; a symphony of elegance and flavor, where buttery croissants and velvety quiches whisper of Parisian mornings, while coq au vin and ratatouille celebrate rustic hearths with wine-kissed decadence. He could wax poetic for days.
But… While Paris had once been the city of love for him, it's come down to just another place with good food and memories he’d rather forget.
At least the tan line on his left ring finger was finally fading.
His stay in Germany had shattered every Michelin-star stereotype he'd known. No stiff waiters, no pretentious air, just damn good food. It felt a little like the Baratie: Loud, chaotic and full of heart.
Barcelona, on the other hand, was pure energy. Tapas, salsa music, and a kind of warm, easy camaraderie he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. The Sangria recipe he’d perfected there? Absolutely making it onto his blog.
The only downside to Europe? It was halfway across the fucking globe. Sure, living on the West Coast had been great when he flew to Japan, but crossing the Atlantic?
That meant twelve hours straight crammed into a seat designed for hobbits. His knees still ached just thinking about it. No matter how he folded, twisted, or prayed to the gods of legroom, his limbs just wouldn't fit. Sleep? Forget it. He spent the entire flight in a state of prolonged suffering, rotating between his Kindle, half-baked blog drafts, and contemplating the meaning of life.
Never again. Next time, he was booking business class if it killed him.
Zeff was supposed to pick him up, at least that was the plan. Until, a week before his flight, the old man called to fess up. Apparently, another line cook had quit — again — after not even a month under Zeff’s iron rule. Which meant there was no way in hell he could take the night off. Sure, the Baratie paid well, so they always found new hires easily. But keeping them? That was a whole other story.
Convincing Zeff to give him three months off in the first place had been a battle of endurance. Sanji had pulled holiday shifts, racked up double hours, and even made an honest-to-God PowerPoint presentation.
Sanji had stood in Zeff’s office, PowerPoint queued up, blocking the monitor like a human shield. It felt like high school all over again, presenting his yeast samples at the freshman science fair while the judges barely pretended to care.
Zeff didn’t make it easy, of course. He’d leaned back in his creaky old chair, arms crossed, staring Sanji down like he was trying to put him into submission.
“You’re my sous-chef, eggplant, and I’m not getting any younger. I sure as hell ain’t running this kitchen alone for three months.”
Sanji clicked to the next slide like his life depended on it. “You’re not alone! If you’d just direct your attention to slide seven, you’ll see I already lined up replacements, fully vetted and ready to go.”
Sanji had handled the biggest hurdle before he'd even looked at restaurants overseas. His college friend Koby — a short, pink-haired guy who looked like a pushover but actually had nerves of steel — agreed to handle the administrative work, freeing Zeff up to focus on cooking.
Finding a kitchen replacement had been trickier — until he thought of Jessica.
She was intimidating as hell when he first met her in the large-scale cooking course that she taught last year. Strict, no-nonsense, impossible to impress. But when he stayed behind one day to discuss the intricacies of recipe scaling, she actually smiled at him. That was when she knew he was the real deal.
Calling her after all this time had been nerve-wracking, but to his surprise, she agreed. Her husband was a Marine stationed in California, which left her plenty of free time, and apparently, the thought of running a real kitchen again had her itching to get back in the game.
Every concern Zeff threw at him, Sanji had an answer ready, some before Zeff even thought of them. Eventually, the old man just grunted, waved him off, and told him to “get the hell out of my office before I change my mind.”
Sanji had walked out grinning, victory buzzing in his chest. No compromises, no discussions, no waiting for someone else’s approval — just his decision, his choice, his life.
And yet... When the high faded, it left something quieter in its place.
Because for the first time in almost a decade, there was no one to check in with. No one waiting for him to come home; no one to argue with over dinner plans or remind him to bring a jacket when he traveled somewhere cold.
Just him.
Sanji takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth ground him as Zeff wraps up some story about Koby standing up to a customer twice his size. Apparently, the old man was so impressed, he’d offered to keep Koby on as Baratie’s manager indefinitely.
Sanji huffs a quiet laugh into his mug. Good for the kid. He had more backbone than people gave him credit for.
“Alright, eggplant, I gotta start on dinner prep. See ya tomorrow, yeah?”
“Yeah, okay,” Sanji says, softer than before. “See you tomorrow.”
Sanji sets the phone back on its cradle, the last remnants of Zeff’s voice fading into silence.
And then, for the first time since stepping through the door, he actually looks at his apartment.
The furniture is still immaculate, arranged with the kind of effortless symmetry you’d see in a high-end design magazine. The sleek barstools, the carefully curated art pieces, the elegant bookshelf — all flawless, all expensive, all cold.
It’s… fine. It’s nice. It’s exactly the kind of place people expect from him: Refined, put-together, effortlessly stylish. But it doesn’t feel lived in. It doesn’t feel his.
Charlotte took a lot when she left. He didn’t notice at first — too focused on not thinking about it — but now, the gaps are obvious. The missing throw pillows, the vases she always filled with fresh flowers, the framed photos that once lined the console table near the door. Small things, but enough to leave behind the hollowed-out feeling of a place that used to belong to two people and now doesn’t know what to do with just one.
His gaze drifts to the dining area. A long, polished wooden table, easily big enough for eight, maybe ten. It used to be filled with laughter, wine glasses clinking, the air thick with the scent of his best dishes. Charlotte entertained while he cooked.
They had been her friends first, after all.
But Sanji had genuinely enjoyed their company, too. Maybe because he liked the feeling of a full table, or maybe just because there was nothing more satisfying than watching people savor a meal he made. That had always been enough.
Or at least, he thought it was. But after the separation, not a single one of them reached out.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised.
Now, the table sits untouched, chairs pushed in neatly, like it’s waiting for a dinner party that isn’t coming. Maybe he should get rid of it. Buy something smaller. But the thought makes his chest tighten, so he shakes it off and heads for the living room.
He exhales slowly, sinking onto the couch with a sigh that feels too big for the room.
Two piles of mail sit on the coffee table, one neatly stacked with important-looking letters Zeff already skimmed, and one significantly taller pile topped with a sticky note that just says “JUNK” in Zeff’s lazy scrawl.
Coupons, flyers, and magazines spill out of the edges. Sanji eyes them, then decides they’re a problem for future him, who hopefully won’t be jetlagged and running on fumes.
He takes a gulp of coffee, too big, too hot, burning all the way down, but it jolts him awake enough to tackle the pile. He tears through the first few envelopes.
Bills.
More bills.
A rent increase notice, because of course. He rolls his eyes and reaches for the next one.
Then he stops.
His fingers hover over the envelope, the sender’s name making his stomach twist.
The Supreme Court of San Diego. Blue-yellow emblem and all.
He swallows hard as he tears it open.
“Notice is hereby given that a judgment of dissolution of marriage was entered in the above-referenced case…”
The words blur. He reads them again. And again.
They don’t change.
It’s done. The waiting period is over. She didn’t change her mind.
Sanji is officially divorced at thirty years old.
For a moment, he just stares at the letter, the official weight of it pressing down on his chest. Three months ago, he’d left for Europe with the word “pending” still lingering in the air. Now, there’s nothing to wait for.
His fingers tighten around the paper. He could crumple it up, toss it, pretend it doesn’t exist—
But that wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t erase the years he spent building something that started falling apart before he even noticed the cracks.
And now, it wasn’t falling anymore. It was gone.
He exhales, slow and measured, then folds the letter neatly and sets it down. Out of sight, out of mind.
Sitting here won’t do him any good. His body feels stiff, his thoughts heavier than he’d like. If he lets himself dwell on this too long, he’ll spiral. He refuses to spend his first day back like that.
His eyes drift to the workout bag sitting neatly in the corner of his bedroom.
That’ll do.
A good workout, some sweat, some burn in his muscles. That’s what he needs right now. Something to ground him in the present, not the past.
Sanji pushes himself off the couch, shaking off the unease still clinging to his skin.
A workout will fix this.
It has to.
Sanji tugs on a pair of navy basketball shorts and a white compression shirt, the familiar routine settling him, just a little. He slings his workout bag over his shoulder, glances once at the discarded envelope on the table, then leaves the apartment without looking back.
The gym is only a few blocks away, so he walks. The sun is warm against his skin, but his mind is elsewhere. He pulls out his phone, flicking through Pinterest, absentmindedly pinning a caramelized onion and truffle butter sauce recipe.
Needs acid. Maybe a sherry reduction? No, too sweet. White wine. A dry one — Sancerre?
He’s so deep in the mental blueprint of a dish that he barely notices when he reaches the door, shoving it open with his shoulder like always.
Only this time, he stops short.
The sleek metal front desk is gone, replaced by a sturdy wooden bar, its surface still half-covered in bubble wrap. Every visible surface is clad in dark, polished wood. Knotted ropes hang from the ceiling like rigging, and a massive ship’s wheel leans haphazardly against the wall, waiting to be mounted.
The whole interior feels like the belly of a ship.
Nautical maps, faded Jolly Roger flags, and and images of tattooed skin are scattered across the walls — some framed, others still wrapped in brown paper, leaning in stacks on the floor.
A worn, oversized leather sofa sits against one side of the room, looking like It was dragged in first and forgotten about. A nearby crate labeled “STUDIO STUFF” is still unopened, perched precariously on top of a stack of smaller boxes.
Is the owner remodeling? Maybe they’re going for a pirate theme, trying to attract younger audiences. Hell, do kids even like pirates anymore?
He’s still processing the sheer ridiculousness of the situation when a gruff voice cuts through his thoughts.
“You lost?”
Sanji flinches, spinning toward the counter—
Only to freeze again. Because holy shit.
Tan. Very fit. Bright green hair.
And scowling like Sanji personally offended him simply by existing.
“Uh—“ Sanji starts, brain still buffering. Before he can finish, a redheaded angel swoops in and smacks the green-haired brute across the back of the head.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to be rude to customers?”
The guy scowls, rubbing the fresh bump on his head.
“And besides,” she adds, crossing her arms, “no functioning adult gets lost. Don’t project your tragic lack of direction onto other people.”
The angel — no, goddess — turns to him, her wrathful fire instantly replaced by a dazzling smile. A complete one-eighty from the way she’d just verbally eviscerated her coworker, and Sanji is, predictably, a goner.
“Welcome to Strawhat Tattoo!” the redhead announces, all warmth and professionalism.
Her arms are absolutely covered in intricate tattoos. Tiny dots and lines forming a vintage map on the one arm, whereas almost translucent, delicate branches and leaves decorate the other. A central compass design on her chest spreads out as far as he can see, and they all compliment each other beautifully.
“We’re still in the middle of moving, so please excuse any messes — including this oaf.” She gestures at the overgrown gorilla, who is now full-on sulking in his chair.
“What can I help you with?”
Her voice has clear customer service energy, but Sanji doesn’t care. A beauty like this speaks to him, and what is he supposed to do? Remain calm? Stay rational? Impossible.
The butterflies in his stomach escape, fluttering straight up his throat and out of his mouth in the form of compliments and unsolicited devotion.
“Just being in your mere presence cures any ailment I might have,” Sanji swoons, stepping forward and leaning on the counter like a man overcome. He flashes his best smile, ignoring the very loud, very exaggerated gagging sound from the brute beside her.
In reality, he’s completely lost. But admitting that? Not an option. He’s never been great at thinking on the spot — his temper usually does the deciding for him — and, apparently, today is no exception.
“I was actually, uh…”
What the hell am I doing? Is this happening? Oh, fuck, this is happening.
“…thinking about getting a tattoo.”
The guy’s eyebrows lift, clearly surprised. His gaze flickers over Sanji, assessing.
He smirks. Sanji one, broccoli head zero.
“You’re in the right spot, then!” she chirps, resting her arms on the counter like she owns the place — which, judging by her confidence, she probably does. The move does fantastic things for her cleavage (not that Sanji’s looking, obviously, but he does have impeccable peripheral vision, thank you very much). His heartbeat picks up just a little.
“Did you have something in mind already, or would you like to check out our wannados?” she asks, voice smooth, businesslike — just flirty enough to keep him engaged.
Sanji has no idea what the hell a “wannado” is, but he’s not about to admit that. He shrugs, aiming for casual. “I don’t have anything specific in mind. I’d love to look at some inspiration.”
Nailed it.
…Probably.
“Nice! Follow me, I’ll show you some designs.”
Sanji would follow this woman into the depths of hell if she asked, so of course he nods and trails after her.
They round the corner into a narrow hallway, the walls lined with three massive pinboards, absolutely covered in artwork. Even at a glance, the sheer variety is staggering. Sanji’s no art connoisseur, but he’s always appreciated beauty in all its forms, and damn, these are stunning.
“I’m Nami, by the way,” she says easily. “These are some of our favorite designs — pieces we’d love to do. They’ll also give you a feel for each artist’s style in case you’re thinking about something custom made. No rush, take your time.”
She steps back, arms loosely crossed, giving him space to take it all in.
His eyes move over the first board. Geometric designs, fine lines, subtle shading. Some are delicate and realistic, others bold and mechanical, almost steampunk in style. All of them are undeniably impressive.
None of them feel like him.
The next board is the complete opposite: Bright, bold, traditional. Classic ships, anchors, compasses. The kind of imagery he’d expect from a tattoo shop.
He pauses on a mermaid for a second, considering... But ultimately decides against it.
His eyes flick to the next board—
And stop.
His breath catches.
Amidst a dozen stunning paintings, one dominates the board. A massive design, sprawling across nearly a third of the space. Loose brush strokes, runny ink, motion and depth that make it look almost alive.
A Japanese-style dragon winds its way upward, twisting through crashing waves, its body a masterpiece of dynamic precision. Sea creatures surround it like devoted followers, schools of fish darting between its coils, sharks and octopi drawn into its wake. Every scale, every tooth, every ripple of water is meticulously detailed, but what stuns Sanji most is the color.
It's completely done in all shades of blue — layered, seamless, endless. Deep indigo shifting into brilliant azure, fading into soft teal. A fluid spectrum that feels as alive as the ocean itself.
In the corner, a mockup of a leg shows how the design would wrap around flesh, the dragon’s body coiling with the natural curve of the muscles. The effect is striking — like porcelain inked into skin, a seamless fusion of art and anatomy.
Before he even registers the movement, his fingers reach out, hovering just above the paper, tracing the dragon’s winding form without touching it. His gaze follows every delicate line, every flick of the brush that breathes movement into ink. It pulls at something deep in his chest. An instinct. Recognition.
This.
This is it.
He barely notices when Nami steps closer. She tilts her head slightly, watching him with a knowing smile. “Looks like you’ve found the one.”
A quiet “...yeah.” slips past his lips before he even registers saying it. He blinks, forcing himself back to the present, clearing his throat. “I mean — yes. This piece is…” He exhales, shaking his head with a small, almost disbelieving smile. “It’s perfect. Honestly… I’d be honored to wear it.”
Nami’s smile shifts into something more genuine, a spark of excitement lighting her eyes. “Damn. I can’t believe someone’s finally picking this one.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Zoro’s gonna lose his shit. Hang tight, I’ll grab him so you can go over the details.”
His heart stumbles over itself for a second. Wait. She’s not the artist?
For some reason, he’d just assumed — well, never mind. That was dumb. Of course they have different specialties.
Then it clicks. If it’s not her, that means—
Oh, hell no.
The brute from earlier. Green-haired, bad-attitude, human embodiment of a traffic violation. That guy is going to be the one with a needle in his hands?
Sanji shudders, already regretting all the little choices that led him here.
He’s still trying to process what the fuck just happened — blaming jetlag, temporary insanity, and possibly Nami’s smile — when she reappears, dragging the green-haired brute behind her.
“Zoro, this kind gentleman is interested in your All Blue design,” Nami announces, shoving the guy straight toward Sanji like a human offering.
Zoro barely reacts, just blinks at her, then at Sanji.
“I’m sure you two can figure out the rest, so I can get back to setting up the back,” Nami continues smoothly. Then she turns toward Sanji, a genuine smile on her face. “I really hope you go for it. It’d look great on you.”
She adds a wink for good measure, then leaves. Just like that. No buffer, no escape, just awkward silence.
Well. This is happening.
Sanji forces himself to actually look at the guy. Bronze skin, sharp Asian features; a simple black t-shirt stretched over unfairly broad shoulders, faded dark gray jeans, scuffed combat boots. And tattoos — so many tattoos. They cover almost every inch of skin he can see, except for his face.
(Which, honestly, is a mercy. It would be a crime to cover up a face like that.)
Unfortunately, that face is also staring at him like he’s an absolute idiot.
“…What?”
Sanji barely registers his own voice, because oh, shit, he definitely just missed something Zoro said.
When he refocuses, the other man is giving him a flat, unimpressed look.
We talked about this, dumbass, his inner voice groans. Stop staring at people, no matter how gorgeous, no matter the gender. It's fucking weird.
Zoro exhales slowly, like he’s already regretting this interaction. “I asked if this would be your first tattoo.”
His tone is unreadable, his expression just this side of blank — but there’s something sharp in his eyes, like he’s reassessing Sanji in real time.
And, well. Sanji would answer, except his brain is currently buffering over the fact that Zoro’s crossed arms are… distracting. Very strong. Very inked. Absolutely unfair.
Sanji barely stops himself from outright ogling the tattoos covering said unfairly strong arms. He forces his brain back online, straightening up, willing himself to act normal.
“Yes, it’d be my first tattoo,” he manages, voice steady.
Without thinking, he crosses his arms, mirroring Zoro’s stance. Which is fine. Totally normal. Except now Zoro is looking at him like he just did something interesting, and oh, that is not helping the whole “act casual” plan.
Sanji lifts his chin slightly, fighting down the heat rising in his face. “Is there a problem with that?”
To his surprise, something in Zoro’s face shifts — just a fraction, but enough for Sanji to notice. His posture loosens, arms uncrossing as his gaze flickers to the design on the board. And for a brief moment, all that guarded skepticism disappears, replaced by something quieter. Something almost… reverent.
“No, there’s no problem.”
Zoro’s gaze lingers on the dragon, fingers twitching like he wants to touch the paper but doesn’t. His voice is steady, but there’s something different in it now, something almost careful.
“But this is a big project for a first tattoo. It’s going to take months, not just a few sessions. You’ll have to sit for hours, get through some of the worst pain spots, and trust me not to screw it up.”
He finally looks back at Sanji, expression unreadable. “You sure you’re up for that?”
Zoro’s dark eyes lock onto his, like he’s waiting for Sanji to flinch, to second-guess himself. And for a split second, Sanji wonders if he should. This isn’t some dumb impulse anymore — it’s ink, permanent, a piece of art carved into his skin by someone who clearly gives a damn about it.
But that just makes him want it more.
He tilts his head, smirking. “Yeah. I’m sure. One hundred percent.”
Zoro exhales, a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh, like he expected Sanji to back out. When he doesn’t, something flickers across his face — something almost amused. He shakes his head, and the three golden earrings in his left ear jingle softly, like the tiniest wind chime caught in a breeze. The ghost of a smile touches his lips.
“Fine. You can tweak a few things if you want, but the overall design stays.”
“The design is perfect.”
The words slip out before Sanji can stop them, too firm, too certain. He clears his throat, willing himself to sound less like a nervous idiot. “I mean, I don’t think I’d change anything.”
Zoro watches him for a beat, something unreadable passing over his face. Then, barely perceptible, the corner of his mouth twitches up again.
“Great,” Zoro says, shifting into a more comfortable stance. “This is gonna be a mix of freehand and stencils. I work with the shape of the body, so I’ll draw most of it directly on your skin. The smaller creatures? Those’ll be stencils.”
He nods toward the design, gaze flicking over it like he’s already mapping it out. “First session’s just layout. I’ll sketch the whole thing on you and trace the lines in light ink, so called ‘ghost lines.’ It’s the foundation before we really get into it.”
His eyes meet Sanji’s again. “Got it?”
Sanji nods, maybe a little too quickly, like he’s trying to keep up. His brain is still catching up to the fact that this is really happening. He walked in here looking for a workout and is now committing to a tattoo that’ll take months to finish. What the hell.
Still, the excitement outweighs the nerves. He shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair. “How long is each session going to be?”
Zoro takes a step back, gaze sweeping over him from head to toe, slow and deliberate. It’s the kind of look that makes Sanji feel like prey in a tiger’s den, and for once, he understands how unsettling it is to be on the receiving end.
If this is how people feel when I stare at them, I swear I’m never doing it again, he thinks, swallowing hard.
“Depends on your pain tolerance,” Zoro says, tone unreadable. “I can go all day, but most people tap out after five or six hours.”
He pauses, watching for a reaction. Then, just as flatly: “All-day session’s eight hundred. We'll probably need four to five of those. If you wanna book now, I need a hundred-dollar deposit.”
Sanji quickly does the math. Four to Five full-day sessions? That means the tattoo could easily end up costing him four grand. He exhales. That’s… a lot.
But also...
Does he really need the new LG Signature fridge? Sure, it had automatic double French doors and a built-in window so you could look inside without opening it. And yeah, he’d talked about it so much that Zeff banned him from mentioning it at work.
But somehow, getting inked by this unfairly attractive man — spending hours with him, letting him carve something meaningful into his skin — felt like the better investment.
“Do you take credit card?”
Zoro exhales a short breath that could almost be considered a laugh, shaking his head in quiet amusement. Like he can’t believe this guy, but maybe, just maybe, he’s a little impressed. Then, slowly, he holds out a hand. His expression shifts into something sharp, something like a challenge.
“Does that mean we’ve got a deal?”
Sanji knows that look. He’s seen it before — across the pass, in the heat of dinner service, in the moments that separate a good chef from a great one. The silent challenge: Show me what you’ve got.
And he’s never been the type to back down.
He grips Zoro’s hand, firm and steady, holding his gaze.
“Yeah. We’ve got a deal.”
✤
The second he steps out of the shop, he inhales a lungful of salty air and immediately reaches for his cigarette.
Somehow, he’d actually done it. Left a deposit, found a date that works for both of them and booked the appointment. Zoro had handed him a card with his number, along with a stern, no-nonsense directive: “Read this before our first appointment. And send me a text so I have your number in case anything happens.”
Sanji had nodded like an idiot, grabbed the card, and promptly fled the scene like a man avoiding his own destiny.
What the hell did he just sign up for?
A full sleeve — no, a full leg piece — done by some grumpy, green-haired asshole who probably already thinks he’s a dumbass. Months of sessions. Thousands of dollars. Literal pain.
What the fuck was he thinking?
His lighter flares to life, and this time, he doesn’t even try to pace himself. The first inhale is sharp, grounding, something to latch onto while his brain continues spiraling. He exhales slowly, smoke curling into the night air.
It’s fine. It’s gonna be fine. He’s going to get a beautiful piece of art, and if that means enduring a few months of some surly bastard stabbing him, so be it.
…And okay, fine. Maybe the bastard is also ridiculously attractive. Not that it matters.
Sanji scowls at the thought, taking one last drag before flicking the cigarette into a nearby ashtray.
Nope. Not going there. He’s already in deep enough as it is.
While walking, he adds Zoro’s number to his phone, saves the appointment in his calendar, and stuffs the card into his wallet like it might burn him. Future Sanji can deal with it.
Finally home, he tosses his keys into the bowl by the door and flops onto the couch, limbs heavy. His careless landing knocks over part of his mail pile, sending a flyer fluttering to the floor. Bright, bold letters catch his eye.
KAMABAKKA GYM’S GRAND REOPENING!
Now bigger, better, and just three doors down!
Don’t miss your chance to train like a champion!
Sanji stares at it for a long moment, then exhales the kind of sigh only a truly defeated man can manage. He nudges the flyer aside and picks up the rest of the mail, but his brain has officially checked out for the day. Instead, he grabs the remote, settles back into his cushions, and scrolls through his watchlist until he lands on his favorite mindless cooking competition — the kind with way too much yelling and at least one disastrous soufflé collapse.
His phone buzzes.
It's a message from Zoro.
His heart does a ridiculous little leap (and wow, what a new and inconvenient revelation). He opens it fast, only to be met with the soulless efficiency of an auto-reply:
Zoro (Strawhat Tattoo)
Hey there! Thanks for reaching out to Strawhat Tattoo! 🏴☠️ We’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you need urgent assistance, feel free to contact us via Instagram @strawhat_tattoo or call us at 818-555-63779!
Sanji stares at the message. Of course.
He groans, sinking deeper into the cushions and throwing an arm over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from his own life choices. Four thousand dollars. Four whole grand. He could buy an absurd amount of wine with that money. Or upgrade his entire knife set. Or, you know, not let a man he just met repeatedly stab him for hours.
…And yet.
His mind drifts back to the design — the dragon, the fish, the way the water swirled around them like a living thing. It was perfect. He’d built his entire career around seafood, traveling the world to master its many forms, and one day, he’ll open a restaurant that brought all those flavors together. The dragon acts like a reminder of that journey — of the long road ahead, of the strength he’d need to carve his own path.
And the placement? His leg? The part of him he trains the hardest, the weapon he relies on. The part of him that keeps him moving, keeps him standing, keeps him fighting. Because he never fights with his hands, not if he can help it.
There's no way he could have come up with something better himself, not in a million years.
Now he just has to survive five full days with Zoro. Hours of sitting still. Endless small talk. And the uphill battle of convincing him that today’s complete trainwreck of a first impression wasn’t actually representative of who he was.
Great. Fantastic. Surely, the guy didn’t already think he was a total lost cause.
Sanji sighs and tosses his phone onto the coffee table, officially done thinking for the night.
A contestant just dropped an entire cake on the floor. Someone was crying over burnt risotto. The host was screaming.
For now, he had a front-row seat to a disaster that, for once, wasn’t his own.