rirk - blinking in n out of existence

+the lineart only version of it because I like it way more, as usual.

He always insisted on traveling this way when he could, not in his private ship, not with the shadowy speed of underworld couriers, but here among the masses. He claimed it was to “smell the story where it lived,” although you suspected he simply relished being the largest and loudest presence in any given room. A week on a ferry was, for him, a stage.

It took nearly seven days to reach Whole Cake, the journey dragging on in a haze of shipboard meals, half-slept nights, and the murmur of tides. You spent much of it seated on the upper deck, notebook balanced on your knee, staring at the white line of wake stretching toward the horizon. The ferry was meant to be safe, a government guarantee of passage across waters claimed by emperors, but even so, every creak of the hull reminded you where you were. Deep in Yonko territory, every sound carried more weight than it should have.

You had been given many assignments in dangerous waters before, yet none had ever carried you so directly into the heart of peril. Whole Cake Island was Big Mom’s jewel, her throne, her home. You had never dreamed your work would require setting foot on her archipelago. It was the sort of place reporters spoke of in rumor, not itinerary.

From what you had managed to pry out of Morgans during a particularly tense evening of shared silence and locked gazes, it was not a sanctioned assignment at all. Not officially, at least. This journey, he had finally admitted, stemmed from a personal invitation. Not from the World Government. Not from any editor or publisher. But from his other network, the one buried in shadows, held together by bribes, threats, and promises. His “less legitimate connections,” as he had called them with a laugh that did not quite reach his eyes.

You had heard whispers of Morgans’ underworld dealings before. Now you saw the proof firsthand. A bird like him, fattened on secrets, could never resist a feast as rich as this.

After you let him have a piece of your mind, and after he promised a big fat bonus for your silence, you settled. The bargain was thin, more a truce than an agreement, but it gave you room to breathe. You could not fight every battle, not when you were already sailing toward the heart of a Yonko’s empire.

So your first impression of Whole Cake Island was sparkling and dreamlike, if not somewhat terrifying. The horizon began to change color as the ferry cut closer. The sea shifted from a steady gray-blue into strange bands of pink and lavender. Towers of spun sugar seemed to grow out of the mist. Mountains gleamed like candied almonds. The scent in the air changed as well, sweet enough to sting the back of your throat, as though the entire archipelago was exhaling sugar.

Passengers rushed to the rails, pointing and marveling. Even Morgans leaned forward with the restless excitement of a predator about to pounce. His quills bristled as he muttered half-formed headlines under his breath, already shaping the spectacle into a story.

For you, it was harder to put into words. The island looked enchanted, alive, like a child’s wild dream. Beneath the shimmer, something was wrong. Too many guards on the shore. Shadows too long. Teeth painted as frosting.

It was beautiful. It was grotesque. And it was very clear that once you stepped onto that glittering shore, you were committed.

Morgans laughed loudly, feathers shivering with the force of it, and nudged you in response to your open astonishment. He was already in his element, strutting with the confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable. “You will taste something spectacular,” he crowed, as though the island itself had risen from the sea for his benefit.

You said nothing, too aware of the sugar-sweet air filling your lungs and the way your stomach knotted around it. With your notebook clutched to your chest like a shield, you followed him down the gangplank. Each step carried you closer to a land that seemed built from dreams but promised nightmares in equal measure.

The dock itself looked carved from gingerbread, with lampposts twined in what appeared to be candy canes. Children of the archipelago shrieked with laughter as they darted between the guards, plucking chunks of frosting from the railings as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Soldiers in polished armor stood watch, their spears sharp despite the frosting swirls painted across their shields. Their eyes followed every passenger disembarking, weighing, measuring, deciding.

The crowd ahead pushed forward eagerly, a tide of traders, emissaries, and wide-eyed tourists desperate to glimpse the promise of Big Mom’s paradise. You forced yourself to keep pace. Morgans walked with a puffed chest, his golden eyes scanning every corner of the dock, already dictating headlines to himself in quick, hungry bursts.

You had covered wars and famines, trials and coronations. You had even watched a Marine admiral take the sky. None of it had ever looked quite like this. Whole Cake Island was alive in a way no place should be, a kingdom of sweets wrapped around a core of menace. And you were here, pen in hand, as though a notebook could protect you from an emperor of the sea.

And almost the moment your foot hit the ground, your soulbond twitched. It was subtle at first, a shiver in the back of your skull, like the brush of cold fingers. You froze mid-step, lungs catching. Then it struck harder.

You gasped. Morgans glanced over, almost worried, his feathers shifting uneasily. His golden eyes lingered on you for a fraction too long, searching for weakness before masking it with disdain. “Do not faint on me now,” he muttered, but his voice was clipped, as though he sensed something was wrong.

Then the real pain came. With a violent wrench, it was like the entire length of the bond was torn from you. Not severed cleanly, but ripped, dragged as if from the marrow of your bones and the folds of your brain. Your knees buckled. For one awful heartbeat, you thought you had gone blind, because the world blurred, smearing into streaks of color.

The sugar-sweet air turned acrid on your tongue. A wave of dizziness struck, enough to send your notebook clattering from your grip. Morgans swore under his breath and crouched beside you, his wings twitching in agitation as he scanned the crowd for watching eyes.

“Pull yourself together,” Morgans hissed, though there was an edge in his tone that betrayed unease. “This is not the place to collapse.”

“Sorry,” you spat between clenched teeth, forcing air into your lungs as the ripping agony dulled into an empty ache. “Next time I decide to faint, I will do it on schedule.”

The words were sharper than you intended, but they were the only thing you had to hold onto. The bond was gone. Your Sanji, your soulmate, torn out of you like someone had reached into your chest and stolen a part of yourself you had never imagined losing. The silence where he had always been rang was unbearable, an emptiness that made the world tilt.

The next thirty minutes were a blur. Colors bled into one another, bright candy towers warping into grotesque shapes that seemed to breathe. Scents grew thick and cloying, too sweet, clinging to your throat until it felt like you were drowning in sugar. Every laugh in the crowd twisted sharp as glass in your ears.

You stumbled after Morgans, eyes fixed on the shifting sway of his coat as he cut a path through the throng. He never slowed, never looked back, as though the only thing that mattered was reaching his contact. You followed because it was all you could do, notebook pressed to your chest, your vision narrowing to that single anchor point.

Behind your eyes, your mind clawed at what had been taken. A warmth. A spark. A tether you had always thought was simply part of yourself. Now it was gone, ripped away, and you were left hollow, stumbling through a wonderland that had turned into a nightmare.

And no matter how hard you tried, you could not remember his face. The thought gnawed at you as though your own memory had betrayed you, as though someone had reached into your heart and scrubbed clean the one thing that mattered.

After a few moments of stumbling through the kaleidoscope haze of the streets, you and Morgans reached a bakery tucked between two towering candy-colored buildings. The bell above the door chimed in a sweet, tinkling note as you entered, and the smell of warm bread and sugar swept over you in a dizzying wave.

The interior was tall, built for giants or at least the larger folk you had seen wandering the streets, yet for all its height, it was narrow, cozy even. The shelves climbed high, stacked with buns glazed in syrup, loaves frosted with icing, and cakes that glittered with candied fruit. Only a few chairs were scattered across the room, one enormous and meant for someone far larger than you, and several small ones almost comically undersized in comparison. You tucked yourself into one of the tiny tables, head sinking into your hands as the ache behind your eyes pulsed again.

Morgans was already strutting to the counter, puffed feathers shaking as he greeted the woman behind it. She was lovely in a warm, simple way, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, a neat apron tied around her swelling belly.

“Ah, welcome! I’ve been waiting for you!” she sang out, her voice bright as sunlight.

“I must compliment you, madam,” Morgans boomed, wings spread as if the room were his stage. “It is very generous of you and your husband to have offered us lodging. I hope we are not displacing you!”

She smiled, and to your alarm, her arm stretched out far past its length to seize a tray of fresh bread, the limb extending like dough pulled thin before snapping back into place. She carried the tray with ease, as though nothing strange had happened.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said warmly, sliding the tray onto the counter. “This is my little bakehouse here on Whole Cake. When my husband has to leave for long periods of time, I stay here and run it myself. We will be staying at the place for the wedding, but afterwards, we will return to our home on Komugi. I doubt he will let me leave once I get closer to the due date.” She patted her stomach fondly, flour dusting her fingertips.

Morgans nodded enthusiastically, eyes gleaming as if her words were already inked in a headline.

“Now, let’s get you settled—oh, are you okay?” Her voice softened as she turned to you. A gentle hand brushed your back just as another bolt of pain tore through your head, sharp and final, as though someone was closing the last door in your mind.

You bit down on a cry, clutching your notebook with trembling fingers. The warmth of her touch was comforting, yet it only seemed to highlight how hollow you suddenly felt, how much had been stripped from you. Somewhere deep inside, a tether that had once held fast was gone, and you were left alone in the silence.

You forced yourself upright, pressing a weak smile onto your lips as you waved away her concern. “I am fine,” you lied, though your voice was raw and shaky. The woman gave you a searching look, clearly unconvinced, yet she did not press. Instead, she lifted the tray of bread from the counter and balanced it against her hip with surprising strength for her slight frame.

“Come,” she said gently. “You should rest. The ferry can take it out of anyone, especially on a first visit.” She guided you toward a narrow staircase tucked at the back of the bakery, her hand firm at your elbow. You clutched your notebook to your chest as though it were your lifeline, each step up the stairs blurring with the pounding of blood in your ears.

Behind you, Morgans and the woman spoke on, their voices drifting up the stairwell.

“Ah, yes, the wedding,” Morgans boomed with his usual bravado, his voice carrying over the clink of dishes. “The entire world will be watching. It will be a story for the ages, and I intend to give it the coverage it deserves.”

“Oh, it will be grand,” the woman replied with cheerful certainty. “The islands are already overflowing with guests. No one has ever seen such preparations before. Mama insists it will be the most magnificent wedding in all the seas.”

The words scraped at your skull, though you did not know why. Something about the wedding, the way they spoke of it with such pride, made your chest ache.

At the top of the stairs, she led you into a small, tidy room. A single bed pressed against the wall, the quilt patched but clean. The window overlooked a narrow alley where sweet-smelling steam drifted up from vents below. She fussed with the quilt for a moment, then turned back to you with that same warm, steady smile.

“Rest here. I will fetch you something light to eat,” the woman said, her hand brushing her belly as she added almost absently, “And I will send for a family member to look in on you. Can’t have Morgans’ infamous critic be too sick to eat.”

You managed a nod, though the weight in your chest made it feel as though you were sinking deeper into the bed. The quilt smelled faintly of sugar and yeast, comforting and cloying all at once.

An hour or so passed in uneasy silence. The sweet perfume of the bakery below drifted through the floorboards, mixing with the ringing ache behind your eyes until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. You drifted in and out of half-sleep, startled awake each time by the memory of a face you could not remember. At last, footsteps sounded on the stairs, measured and light. The door eased open without a creak, and a young woman stepped inside as if she belonged there. She had soft brown hair pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, a ribbon holding back stray strands. Her dress was modest, the color of cocoa, and she carried herself with the grace of someone accustomed to being both overlooked and obeyed.

Despite Morgans’ squawking protests from below, she closed the door with deliberate care, sliding the lock into place. The sound was quiet, almost delicate, yet it struck you as final, like the turning of a key on a prison cell.

“I will handle this,” she called gently through the wood, her tone warm enough to soothe and sharp enough to end the conversation. Morgans’ voice faltered, then fell silent. You could almost hear him shifting his feathers, uneasy but unwilling to argue with the authority in her tone.

The young woman turned back to you. A polite smile curved her lips, but her eyes gave away nothing. They were a rich amber-brown, soft at first glance, though you noticed the way they lingered too long, studying you, weighing you. There was something behind them that felt sharper than courtesy.

She approached your bedside, unhurried, her hands folded before her as though she were a hostess come to check on a guest. “You must forgive the intrusion,” she said kindly, her voice lilting with practiced warmth. “I was told you were feeling unwell.”

You shifted uneasily under the quilt, clutching your notebook closer. “It was nothing. Just the ferry. The air here… it is different.”

Her smile deepened at that. “It does take some getting used to. Whole Cake can be overwhelming at first, but it is home to me.” She let the word home linger, her gaze flicking briefly toward the window, where the candied spires of the town gleamed faintly in the light.

There was a pause, the kind that seemed to stretch, filled only by the soft hum of ovens somewhere below. Then she placed a hand delicately against her chest. “I should introduce myself properly. My name is Pudding.” Another pause, this one weighted. “One of Mama’s daughters.”

The title landed heavily, as though it were meant to explain everything—the bakery, the strange warmth of the woman downstairs, the way the guards outside had glanced at her with deference when she passed.

You sat up a little straighter, the quilt rustling as your heart thudded in your ears. Of all the people who might have come to check on you, you had never imagined her—the bride herself. Your throat tightened, dry as ash. “Pudding,” you echoed, the name catching awkwardly on your tongue. You tried for careful neutrality, though it sounded more like disbelief.

Her lashes lowered in a graceful flutter, and when she looked at you again, her smile bloomed, perfectly sweet. “And,” she added, her tone soft and deliberate, as though she enjoyed the weight of each syllable, “the bride-to-be.”

Your lips curved automatically, a reflex you could not restrain even as your thoughts reeled. Of course, you should congratulate her—anything less would be unthinkable—but the words felt strange and distant in your mouth. “Congratulations,” you murmured. Polite and automatic.

The smile on her face did not falter. If anything, it deepened, but there was a tension behind it you could not name. She tilted her head just slightly, as though testing the sound of the word, as though your attempt at courtesy was an insult only she could hear.

“You congratulate me,” she said softly, almost to herself, as though she were speaking to the air rather than to you. Her voice was sweet, lilting, but there was something brittle beneath it. “And yet you are the one who had his heart first.”

Alarm prickled at the base of your neck, sharp and immediate. Your fingers tightened on the quilt. “What do you mean?”

Her gaze snapped back to you, steady and unblinking. She did not raise her voice. She did not need to. “Sanji,” she said, as if the name alone was explanation enough. “He is your soulmate.”

The name cracked something inside you. For the briefest instant, the fog in your mind parted and warmth flooded through you—a memory of laughter in a kitchen, the rhythm of his voice, the weight of his presence beside you. It was so strong that your breath caught. Then it slipped away again, leaving you clutching at nothing.

“I—” The word stuck in your throat. The world tilted. “How could you possibly know that?”

Pudding’s smile sharpened, teeth flashing in a way that was almost too bright. “Because Mama knows. Mama can taste the bonds. She sensed him the moment he arrived, and she traced it back to you. You.” Her voice dripped with a mix of pity and accusation. “The critic with the sharp tongue. The one who should never have been here in the first place. Funny how these things happen.”

Your stomach twisted. The pain in your head surged again, like a warning bell. You tried to sit up straighter, to push back, but her presence pressed against you like the weight of the whole island. “Do not look so surprised,” she went on, her tone softening to something almost gentle. “I am to be his bride, and you—” her eyes flicked over you as if weighing, as if cataloguing every imperfection “—you are the complication that Mama refuses to allow. However, I am kind. I don’t want you dead. It’s too much trouble.”

You gasped, the sound raw, your fingers clenching tight around the quilt as though it could anchor you. For a heartbeat, the memory was there, trembling like fragile glass—the warmth of his smile, the echo of laughter in your mind, a hand that should have been in yours. Then it slipped, shattering into fragments too small to hold. You pressed your palms against your temples, trying to force the pieces back together, but they scattered, leaving only the echo of his name.

Pudding shifted closer, her skirts rustling softly against the wooden floor. She knelt beside the bed, her head tilted in a mockery of compassion. Her face was suddenly soft, almost tender, and she reached out with a careful hand to brush a strand of hair from your forehead. The touch might have been comforting, had her eyes not gleamed with something sharp and cruel just beneath the surface.

“Shh,” she soothed, her voice honey-sweet. “I know it hurts. I know you feel torn in half. That is why I came. You are weak now, and it is easier this way.”

Then, with a practiced motion, she brushed her bangs aside, revealing a perfectly centered third eye gleaming from her forehead. It blinked once, slow and deliberate, and the air in the room seemed to tighten. Your breath caught. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to flee, but your body felt heavy, pinned under the velvet press of her gaze.

You tried to push yourself upright, forcing every ounce of strength into your arms, but she pressed a cool hand to your shoulder. The strength behind it shocked you. It was iron strength wrapped in silk, impossible to resist. You sank back against the quilt, trapped beneath her touch.

“Do not fight it,” she whispered, and her tone was almost kind, almost loving. “Between Mama and me, we will take this pain away. We will erase your worries for him, so you do not suffer. So Mama’s plans may go forward without… interference.”

Her third eye glowed faintly, and you felt pressure stir at the edges of your mind. It was like hands rifling through the pages of a book you had not meant anyone to read. Images threatened to rise: fingers that smelled faintly of spice and smoke brushing yours, the warmth of a smile that had once been only yours. Yet every time you reached for them, they slipped farther away.

Her voice dropped lower, honeyed and sharp, the kind of sweetness that rotted at the core. “Do not fear. You will forget, and it will be easier. You will not lose Morgans’ favor, and Mama will not lose her contact. Everything will be perfect.”

The word perfect rang inside you like a nail being driven into wood. Perfect for them. Perfect for her. But not for you. For you, it meant the death of everything that mattered.

You clawed at the memory, desperate, the shape of his name breaking through your lips in a whisper before the weight of her gaze crushed it into silence.

And Pudding smiled, her third eye gleaming, as she began to strip him from you.

The next thing you remembered was sleep.

Not the drifting kind that comes after exhaustion, not the slow surrender of a body giving in to rest. This was sudden, absolute, like a curtain dropped across your mind. One moment, you were clawing at the memory of him, grasping at fragments that slipped like water between your fingers. 

Next, there was nothing but darkness, heavy and complete.

It was a sleep without dreams, without anchors. The warmth that had always lived somewhere inside you, that hidden thread tying you to someone unseen, was gone. You stirred once, your body twitching as though trying to wake, but the weight pressing down was too strong. The silence where the bond had been was smothering, and you sank deeper, unable to fight it.

When you finally surfaced, you had no idea how much time had passed. The room smelled of sugar and bread, the quilt still tucked neatly around you. Your notebook rested on the bedside table where you had left it, untouched. Everything looked the same. Yet you felt lighter, emptier, as though something had been stolen in the night and carefully swept away so you would not notice.

You blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, you tried to recall what had unsettled you, what had made your chest ache so violently, but the memory danced out of reach. All that remained was the faint sting of tears at the corners of your eyes, and a hollow ache you could not explain.

-X-The Cold War-X-

A month ago, when the crew finally reunited, Sanji had thought he was ready for anything. Two years on Kamabakka Kingdom had carved him leaner, sharper, and meaner in ways he hated to admit. He had cooked, fought, bled, and survived on sheer stubbornness, and he had done it all with the bond closed tight inside his chest like a locked door.

Closing it had been the hardest thing he had ever done. Harder than fleeing Enies Lobby. Harder than bleeding in a duel. Harder than every humiliating lesson drilled into him by Ivankov’s people. To cut himself off from his soulmate, his “bro” as he had convinced himself you were, had left him ragged. But at the time, he had thought it necessary.

You had hurt him without even meaning to. He could still feel the sting of it, the echo of laughter or carelessness. It had festered until he shut the door completely. What twisted the knife most was the Baratie. His Baratie. The place that had made him, the place that was sacred to him. He had been so proud of every plate he carried out, every fire lit in that kitchen, every dream folded into the dishes he cooked. Then he had discovered that the sharpest critique ever written of the Baratie had come from you—his soulmate. 

And you had never told him.

So he had poured himself into training. To become stronger, faster, and better. He had learned to cook with flames that bent to his will. He had perfected kicks that could crack stone. He had ignored the emptiness where your voice should have been.

Except he had not ignored it, not really.

Every so often, when the loneliness pressed too sharply against his ribs, he had almost reached out. When despair clawed at him, or when a beautiful woman with perfect curves passed by, he would catch himself thinking, Oi, did you see that pair of— before the words faltered. He would remember the sting of your silence, the hurt of your omission, and he would stop, choking the thought down with a cigarette and a laugh that sounded too forced.

Yet even as he held back, the truth nagged at him. You had never meant to wound him. That much he knew now, with distance. Looking back on the bond with clearer eyes, he could see how much of it had been his own insecurity, his own hunger for connection twisted into something brittle. You had been good, more often than not. You had been uplifting. You had been the one bright presence that steadied him in the darkest moments—on the damn rock, in Enies Lobby, and even in Sabaody when the world was on fire around them.

That realization came slowly, like dawn breaking, but when it hit him, it almost floored him.

Because the truth was simple and ridiculous and absolutely crushing. 

He was hurt because he loved you.

The thought made him gag at first. He had clutched his face, doubled over, groaning like a man stabbed. “God, no, no, no,” he muttered into his hands, staggering around the Sunny’s deck like a drunk. He had wanted to vomit, to crawl into the sea, to drown the shame of it. To love someone he had never even met, someone who was a man.

But then it had settled into him, and it had felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It was freeing. It was right.

The ridiculous playboy act, the swooning over every woman he passed, none of it carried the same weight as the thought of you. It was theater. His heart had already chosen, and now he knew why nothing ever filled the emptiness inside him.

The big problem was that he realized how little he truly knew about you. A tenuous voice in his head, a bond on his soul. That was all. He did not know your face, your real job, your life. By god, he had called you bro so long he hadn’t even bothered asking your name. 

And the audacity he had to be surprised you weren’t who he thought you were? He hadn’t even tried to know you the littlest bit. 

He was too nervous to open the bond he had closed with any sort of casual interaction. And you had been too kind to force it open.

So he started searching in the one way he could. He began reading the papers. At first, it was a habit, scanning for bounties, news of the crew, recipes tucked into columns. Then he noticed the reviews. Not your name—never your name—but the words. The thoughts. They were yours. He knew the rhythm, the sharpness, the warmth tucked beneath the criticism. He heard you in every line.

He read every word. He argued with your points aloud, muttering as he stirred a pot. He laughed when you skewered some pompous chef, shaking his head and thinking, That is exactly like you.

And in those moments, for all his suffering, for all the hurt, he found himself smiling.

And so, as he landed on Zou, he had made his decision. He was going to open the bond again. He had spent two years locking you out, two years convincing himself it was better to be alone, but now he knew better. Whatever came of it, he needed you back in his life.

When he finally reached inside himself, tugging at that hidden thread, it was like drawing in a long breath after nearly drowning. The bond opened, oh so quietly, and suddenly you were there again.

It was incredible to feel you. The relief hit him so hard his knees almost gave out. For so long, he had carried only silence, and now the connection pulsed again, soft and alive. He pressed a hand against his chest, inhaling shakily, as though he could catch the warmth before it slipped away.

But it was strange.

The way you felt now was different. Softer. Gentler. The sharp, brotherly edge he had always told himself defined you was… gone. The bond brushed against him like silk, steady and warm. He frowned, confused but desperate not to question the gift of having you back.

Then, without warning, he slipped further.

The bond opened wider than he had intended, and suddenly he caught a flood of sensations that were not his own. Warmth. Steam. The gentle splash of water. He froze, cigarette slipping from his fingers. 

The bath. You were in the bath.

His eyes widened, his face turning scarlet as he staggered back against the wall of the Sunny’s corridor. He had not meant to intrude, but you had left yourself wide open, unaware he was even there. He tried to pull back, he really did, but then your thoughts brushed against his, light and careless. You were humming. Humming and relaxed, as though you had no reason to guard yourself.

And that was when he realized.

You were a woman.

Sanji went rigid. His cigarette fell from his lips and burned out against his shoe, but he felt nothing. His entire body seized like someone had replaced his blood with champagne and set it on fire.

His heart thundered so loudly he thought the Minks on Zou could probably hear it. His eyes rolled back, his jaw dropped, and his knees buckled. “WOMAN. SHE’S A WOMAN. MY SOULMATE IS—SHE’S—BATHING—” He clutched his chest, staggering in a daze across the Sunny’s corridor like a man shot. “THE SEA ITSELF IS NOT READY FOR THIS. I AM NOT READY FOR THIS.”

He crashed to the floor, limbs splayed like a fallen saint. 

“Oh merciful heavens, forgive me, for I have trespassed where only the foam of the ocean should dare to touch. Strike me down where I lay! No, wait, spare me, for I have finally seen the truth of my soul!”

He sprang up again, pacing in frantic circles, tugging at his hair. “All those years calling out, bro. All those nights punching my pillow, wondering why it hurt so damn much. All that pain, all that heartbreak. IT WAS BECAUSE I LOVED HER. OH GOD, I LOVED HER.” He dropped to his knees again, pounding the floor with both fists. “WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS. WHY THE BATH? WHY THE HUMMING? WHY THE—THE—” He gagged, blushing scarlet, flailing backward like he had been electrocuted.

Sanji’s thoughts ran faster than his mouth could keep up. She’s a woman. She’s the woman. She’s the only one. My soulmate. My angel. My everything. And I just blundered in like a peeping-tom ghost in her bathwater. I should be killed. I should be married. I SHOULD BE BOTH.

He curled up, rocking back and forth, eyes wild and shining. “I want to throw myself into the sea. I want to kiss every plank of this ship. I want to scream until the heavens acknowledge me as the luckiest fool alive.”

And through it all, your presence remained steady, warm, and soft, humming as you soaked, utterly unaware of the hurricane of men that was Sanji collapsing into himself outside the bond.

You somehow did not realize it, and Sanji, despite his own catastrophic meltdown, managed to keep the cardinal rule of bathroom peeping with the precision of a lifelong expert: do not get caught.

He lay flat on the deck, panting like a dying fish, whispering prayers to every saint, devil, and passing sea king. “Thank you, gods of every religion, for sparing me the shame of her knowing. Take everything else from me. Take my smokes, my wine, my eyebrows. But please, do not let her realize her soulmate is a supernatural peeping tom.”

Then the anger hit.

Years. Years of him tossing boobs your way, yelling through the bond about curves and cleavage, trying to corrupt you with his worship of the female form… and you had said nothing. Nothing. Not a peep. His eye twitched, his lip curled, and he groaned into the floor. “You… you kept this secret from me? All this time? While I was pouring my soul out, ranking every bosom in the East Blue?!”

His body convulsed, caught between betrayal and rapture. “You’re a goddess. You’re hyper-intelligent. You tricked me. You kept your secret under lock and key while I, the fool, the clown, the pervert, danced like a trained dog at the sight of every beautiful woman. Please. Step on me. Step on my worthless, ignorant skull.”

Then it hit him like a cannonball.

He had seen you.

The memory flashed in his mind, sharp as glass. The mysterious girlfriend he had once glimpsed in your thoughts, the one he had assumed was some phantom of your private life. The shape of you, the curve of you, the very same presence he now felt through the bond. His jaw dropped, his soul left his body, and he began kicking his own shins in despair.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, you tricked me. You made me rate your boobs. You let me think they belonged to someone else. You let me be the idiot! The hopeless idiot!” His voice cracked as he wailed, tears shooting from his eyes like twin fountains. “You didn’t tell me because you thought I was too perverted! You thought I was too obsessed with women to be trusted with your secret! You thought you weren’t good enough and I—Sanji, disaster of all disasters—proved you right!”

He flopped onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the dramatic exhaustion of a Shakespearean hero stabbed by fate. “I am the problem. I am the clown. I am the rotten shrimp. Let the waves drag me to hell, let the kitchen knives of every chef pierce my chest, for I have wounded my goddess with my idiocy.”

And still, you hummed softly in your bath, blissfully oblivious, while Sanji died a thousand deaths at your feet.

On Zou, once his pulse finally slowed to something resembling human rhythm, Sanji dragged himself upright. He had admired you, your hum, your warmth, your absolute perfection, ten more times, and each time left him blushing and whispering frantic apologies into the bond.

Then, with a shaky exhale, he did what hurt most. He shut the bond.

It was polite, careful, like closing a door quietly instead of slamming it. Not because he wanted to lose you again, but because he could not trust himself not to fall apart every time he brushed against your presence. Not while his head was a storm of lust, love, guilt, and revelations.

He pressed his palms together as if in prayer, smoke curling from the forgotten cigarette at his lips. “Forgive me, just for now. I will come back. I swear it.”

Once the bond was quiet, his mind exploded with a thousand plans.

Plan one: apologize forever, on his knees, forehead pressed to the floor, until you accepted he was the world’s biggest idiot and forgave him anyway.

Plan two: cook you the most fantastic meal the seas had ever seen, one so perfect it would say what words could not.

Plan three: write poetry, bad poetry, beautiful poetry, poetry so overwhelming it would melt you instantly.

Plan four: duel every man alive until none remain, then present you with the empty world as proof of his devotion.

Plan five: simply listen, speak honestly, and prove he could be the kind of man you trusted with your heart.

Every plan contradicted the last. Every plan made him groan into his hands. Yet every plan came from the same truth. He had to fix it. He had to mend what had been bent, no matter how long it took.

Sanji tilted his head back, staring up at the endless sky above Zou’s ancient elephant back, eyes blazing with romantic determination.

“I will redeem myself. I will win her heart. I will prove myself worthy.” His voice cracked, then rose louder. “This is my noble mission.”

A few of the Minks passing by slowed to watch him drop to one knee in the grass like a man proposing to destiny itself.

Sanji did not notice. He was already lost in planning his thousand-and-first scheme.

But Sanji’s thousand-and-first plan never had a chance.

On Zou, Capone Bege arrived under Big Mom’s flag. Sanji was handed the letter sealed in wax, the order clear: he was to marry Charlotte Pudding. Refusal meant death for his crew. His Germa bloodline had already sealed the bargain.

Dragged into Bege’s castle and taken from Zou, Sanji was horrified. He had only just reopened the bond, and only just felt you again. And now he was shackled in a cage he could not break.

From there, he was delivered to Germa, bound by Judge’s will, then ferried to Totland itself. The candy-colored nightmare of Whole Cake Island opened before him, every street a reminder of what he had lost.

When Sanji finally stood before Big Mom, her laughter filled the room like thunder. She welcomed him as family, as if he were already her son. All Sanji could do was bow, hide the fury in his chest, and pray no one could see how much he wanted to tear it all down.

The hall reeked of sugar and smoke, the sweetness so heavy it turned rancid in his lungs. Big Mom’s laughter rolled over him like thunder, rattling the floor beneath his shoes.

“Vinsmoke boy,” she said, her eyes narrowing to slits of candy glass. “You reek of divided loyalty. I can feel it humming inside you.”

Sanji’s stomach turned to ice. His hands curled into fists, but he did not move.

Her grin stretched wide, jagged and bright. “I despise scraps. Useless fat should always be trimmed.”

Before he could draw breath, her will came down.

The bond screamed inside him. Not cut clean, but crushed, folded into itself until it was nothing but a ragged thread. Sanji’s chest convulsed, air tearing from his lungs in a sharp, helpless gasp. His knees nearly buckled under the sudden, suffocating pressure. The silence that followed was worse than any wound he had ever taken.

He could not breathe. The hollow ache clawed through his ribs and sank deep, deeper than fists or blades could ever reach. Every nerve burned. His vision swam. It felt like being skinned from the inside, like something sacred had been ground underfoot.

Horror struck him as the truth sank in. If it hurt him this much, then anyone else bound to it would feel it too.

His teeth clenched hard enough to crack. He forced his spine straight, his fists unclenching only by will alone. Rage burned under his ribs, but terror bound it fast.

He bowed low, the motion mechanical, the words scraping out of his throat. “As you wish, Mama.”

Big Mom laughed, delighted, the sound booming through the hall as though she had plucked a string just to enjoy the discord. She turned her focus elsewhere, but the weight remained, pressing down in every beat of his chest.

Sanji stayed bent, his jaw locked, every breath shaking. The hollow gnawed deeper with each heartbeat, a raw wound he could not close. He wanted to scream. He wanted to claw it back open. Instead, he knelt, silent and obedient, the cage clanging shut around him.

And it was then that he finally cried.

Not the hot tears of rage that came with fists and fire, but the quiet kind that tore him apart from the inside. His shoulders shook, his breath hitched, and the salt blurred his vision until the world swam.

He turned his face down, hiding it from the towering figure above him. He bit his lip hard enough to bleed, desperate to keep it silent, but the sound still escaped; a broken gasp, raw and unguarded.

The tears fell anyway, burning paths down his cheeks. They slid into the corner of his mouth, bitter as ash, bitter as every vow he could not keep. He hated it, hated her power, hated himself for bending at all. But more than that, he hated the pain, the hollow gnawing in his chest that refused to be ignored.

Sanji pressed a trembling hand to his heart, as though he could hold it together by sheer force. His knees touched the polished floor, not in devotion, but because he no longer had the strength to keep himself upright.

His pride had carried him through everything. His pride had survived Judge’s fists, Germa’s cruelty, the starving years on the Baratie, and the battles that should have killed him. But here, in Big Mom’s hall, with her shadow swallowing him whole, his pride was finally shattered.

And so he wept, quiet and broken, while her laughter echoed above him.

-X-Emotional Turning Point-X-

The three days before the wedding passed in a blur of dining halls and crowded streets. Morgans had dragged you from one restaurant to the next with feathers ruffling in excitement, every plate arriving with pomp and flourish. The chefs beamed at him, eager for a word of praise, and at you, half-afraid of your pen.

The food was dazzling at first glance. Sauces gleamed like jewels, sugar spun into impossible shapes, seafood cooked in ways you had never seen. Yet with every bite, you found yourself frowning, notebook open but your pen hesitant. The flavors were strong, the textures perfect, but something sat wrong in your chest as you ate. It all lacked something you could not name.

Morgans never noticed. He devoured plates like a king at a feast, quills scratching furiously as he wrote notes between gulps of wine. “This will sing on the front page,” he boomed more than once, spraying crumbs in his excitement. “They will eat it up, critic. Eat it up!”

But when the meals ended and the tables cleared, you always closed your notebook slowly, unsatisfied, a faint ache humming inside you.

On the third evening, after another lavish dinner, Morgans excused himself with a flap of wings. “Sightseeing!” he declared. “There is nothing like watching the streets breathe after dark.” He was gone before you could argue.

You lingered behind, notebook heavy in your lap, until the bakery owner padded over. Her belly had seemed rounder since you first met her, the apron stretched taut across her middle. She carried a tray of bread still warm from the oven and smiled kindly when she saw your face.

“Not to your taste again?” she asked, sliding the tray onto the counter.

You hesitated. “It is not that the food is bad. It is…” You faltered, searching for the right word, but nothing came.

She laughed softly, smoothing her apron with one flour-dusted hand. “Sometimes it is not the food at all. Sometimes it is the company.” Her eyes softened as she said it, a touch of something wistful in her voice.

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked down at your notes.

The woman tilted her head, then brightened. “Why not come with me tomorrow? To the Château. The wedding preparations are nearly finished, and the kitchens there are unlike anything else. Perhaps if you taste what Mama’s palace has to offer, you will finally find what you are searching for.”

You looked up, caught between caution and curiosity. The thought of stepping inside Big Mom’s Château was daunting, but the ache in your chest and the hollow notes in every meal gnawed at you.

You found yourself nodding before you could stop. “Yes. I… I would like that.”

Her smile widened, and she gently patted your arm. “Then it is settled. Tomorrow, you will dine at the heart of Totland.”

Tomorrow came quickly. 

The Château pulsed with life. Servants hurried down marble corridors with towers of spun sugar, croquembouches taller than children, and fountains of cream that wobbled dangerously with every step. The air was heavy with caramel and baked bread, sweet enough to cling in your throat. Laughter and shouted orders echoed together until the whole castle seemed to vibrate with anticipation.

She brought you into one of the kitchens, a warm and frantic space that smelled of butter and chocolate. Her belly curved round beneath her apron, yet she moved with calm, unhurried steps. Where others stumbled or rushed, she carried herself like she had nothing to fear.

You noticed how the staff responded. Most brightened when they saw her, offering smiles or quick greetings, some even slipping her small gifts from their trays. Her presence eased the pressure in the room, as if her steady warmth made the work lighter.

Not everyone dared to look her in the eye. A handful of cooks kept their gazes low, their movements clipped and precise, as if afraid of being noticed at all.

It was not long before you overheard why.

“She’s his wife,” a boy whispered as he stacked trays by the door. His companion paled, eyes darting toward her before snapping back to the floor. “Katakuri’s. No one crosses her. Not if they want to keep their skin.”

That gave you a start.

But the revelation explained much. The order in her voice, the way her presence seemed to calm the storm around her, the way even the busiest kitchen hands relaxed when she drew near. It also explained the hush that followed her steps. Because to cross her would mean crossing not just a baker’s wife, but the wife of a Sweet Commander.

You kept watching her, noticing the quiet shift in the air whenever she passed. She carried trays, patted shoulders, and reminded apprentices to mind their timing, all with an ease that made the frenzy of the Château feel almost orderly. No one questioned her, and no one dared oppose her.

She caught you staring and slipped to your side, her smile bright and easy. “You still look dissatisfied,” she teased, lowering her voice so the cooks could not overhear. “Have you not found a flavor to match your heart?”

You hesitated, then admitted the truth. “It is not that the food is bad. It is perfect, in a way. Every sauce shines, every pastry balances just right. But…” You frowned down at your notebook, frustration creeping into your voice. “It does not feel alive.”

Her eyes sparkled as if with a secret. “Then perhaps you need a different hand at the stove.”

Before you could ask what she meant, she turned toward one of the guards loitering near the doorway, his spear tipped with sugar-crystal shine. “Fetch the Germa boy,” she said, her tone carrying the easy authority of someone used to being obeyed. “I hear he was a chef on a pirate ship—I’m sure he’d appreciate some time out of that room.”

The guard hesitated, shifting his weight as if the request pressed against rules he did not want to break. But the woman’s gaze pinned him, her smile warm and unyielding all at once. He gave a stiff nod and left without another word.

Murmurs rippled through the kitchen. A few cooks exchanged wide-eyed looks. Others bent their heads lower, suddenly busying themselves with pastry cream or batter, as if pretending they had not heard. The room tightened with curiosity and unease.

You blinked at her, unsure whether she was joking. “The groom?”

She tilted her head, amusement tugging at the corners of her lips. “Why not? If the food feels hollow, perhaps you should try something made by hands that have seen adventure.”

You closed your notebook slowly, heart skipping. A pirate groom-turned-chef, summoned like another ingredient to test. The thought was absurd, but the bakery owner’s smile made it sound inevitable.

The door creaked open. Heavy steps echoed across the polished floor. Then you saw him, flanked by two guards as though he were dangerous. His hands were in his pockets, a cigarette burning at the corner of his mouth. Blond hair framed a sharp face. His coat was pressed, his stride smooth, but there was something restless in his posture, a tension wound so tight it hummed in the air around him.

The moment his eyes found you, he stopped. The cigarette slipped, dangling by a breath, his expression breaking open into something raw and unguarded.

And then he moved.

He strode forward, ignoring the guards as though they were invisible. So fast that before you could react, he stopped in front of you and dropped into a bow so deep it startled you back a step. His head was bent low, shoulders shaking faintly as though he had to fight to steady himself.

You clutched your notebook tighter, alarm prickling at the back of your neck. Nobody had bowed to you like that before, not with such gravity and respect.

Slowly, he lifted his head, and his eyes met yours. Smoke curled from the forgotten cigarette still clinging to his lips, but his gaze was clear and burning. Reverent. Devastated. Relieved.

He took your hand so gently it was as if he feared you might shatter, then brought it close to his lips. His voice was low and unsteady, trembling with weight.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I was unprepared for you. Enchantée, mademoiselle. I am Sanji Vin—just Sanji.”

The words struck through you, strange and unfathomable. You froze, unsure whether to pull back or to ask what he meant.

Your gaze flicked to the bakery owner, desperate for guidance. She only smiled and shrugged, as though none of this was unusual.

“Thank you for coming,” she said brightly, her tone as casual as if she were asking someone to fetch flour. “Could you perhaps help my friend? She’s quite the food critic and is looking for the perfect meal.”

He rose at once, pressing a hand to his chest, bowing his head again, but this time his eyes never left yours.

“What is your name, my dear?”

You haltingly gave it to him, watching how his eyes warmed. You tensed at feeling the squeeze of warm fingers enveloping your own. He was very friendly.

“It’s perfect,” he said. His voice was still unsteady, but there was steel in it too. “I will give you everything I have.”

You shrank back another step, your notebook pressed tightly against you. Morgans was eccentric, but this was something else entirely. The way he spoke it was like he was speaking in two separate tongues. One was the polite answer to the bakery owner’s request. The other… You could not place it. It carried a weight you did not understand, as though the words were meant for you alone.

You watched the way his face fell as he pulled back, wounded, as if you should have held him there.

The kitchen had gone quiet. A few cooks exchanged glances, then turned back to their work with forced concentration, pretending not to notice. The guards at the door shifted, restless, unsure if they should intervene.

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice into something steady. “It does not need to be everything,” you said, hoping to lighten the air. “Only something…that was.”

His expression flickered, almost breaking, as though the words cut deeper than you meant them to. Then he smiled, too sharp, too fragile at the edges.

“Then that is what I will give you,” he murmured. “A memory of an older happiness.”

Sanji moved with quiet precision, and the entire kitchen seemed to shift around him. The other cooks, who had been bustling and clattering moments before, slowed their work just to watch. He did not reach for the gilded jars of candied almonds or the sparkling towers of sugar glass, nor the exotic meats and fruits Totland flaunted like trophies. Instead, he rolled his sleeves neatly to his elbows and chose a basket of vegetables, a small cut of fish, and a pinch of herbs so ordinary they looked almost plain beside the Château’s luxuries.

You frowned at the simplicity of it. Here, in Big Mom’s palace of excess, the pirate groom had chosen a dish so unremarkable it almost seemed like a joke. You opened your notebook, pen poised, ready to note down your skepticism.

But when he began to cook, something strange happened. His movements were unhurried yet exact, each slice of his knife clean, each motion practiced until it looked effortless. The air filled with the light scent of seared fish and citrus, the faint sweetness of carrots and onions sweating down in the pan. It was not the overwhelming perfume of sugar you had grown used to in Totland—it was cleaner, sharper, like breathing after rain.

When he set the plate before you, your pen hovered uselessly in midair. It was simple. Modest. A plate that would have looked at home in any seaside inn rather than the palace of a Yonko.

You took a cautious bite.

The flavor bloomed, soft at first, then spread warmth through you like a wave. The fish was delicate, the vegetables tender and bright, the herbs grounding it all into something that felt… honest. It startled you so entirely that you froze mid-bite. It was your favorite kind of dish, the sort of food you craved when your soul was tired and you wanted something that would hold you together.

Your chest tightened.

He leaned lazily against the counter, one hand in his pocket, the other balancing his cigarette between two fingers. His grin was crooked, but his eyes tracked every flicker of your reaction. “Well?” he asked, his voice calm, teasing. “Not bad, huh? Or are you going to tear me apart like every other poor bastard lucky enough to serve you? How was the soup?”

“Ah, yes, soup, the surest sign of good taste.” You said blithely, and he broke into a sparkling grin, so wide it made your heart skip.

He really was so handsome. The bride was a fortunate girl.

You blinked, lowering your notebook slightly. He sounded casual, but the weight behind his gaze made your throat dry. You cleared it and forced your voice steady. “It is… good,” you admitted, words sticking in your throat. “Balanced. Clean. Almost too simple, yet it lingers.” Your brow furrowed. “It reminds me of home. My favorite restaurant is in the East Blue, though…” You trailed off, frowning as you tried to picture it. The sign, the tables, even the coastline around it slipped away like mist. “…for some reason, I cannot remember its name.”

For a split second, something flickered across his face. The grin faltered. His cigarette burned low, smoke curling up between you, and in his eyes there was something sharp, something almost pained. But before you could catch it fully, he masked it again with a small, lopsided smile.

The bakery owner, who had been quietly watching from her chair, chuckled softly as she smoothed a hand over her belly. “She has been feeling sick since she arrived,” she said warmly, as if to explain the faint weariness in your face. “Even Pudding tried to help her, bless the girl, but nothing worked. When I first got here, even my soulbond went insane."

Sanji’s gaze shifted to her, eyes widening. You tapped your pen on your journal, still more focused on why your memories seemed so fuzzy.

“Pardon? Your soul bond?” He asked, alarmed.

The woman nodded

The bakery owner gave a soft laugh as she brushed flour from her apron. “There is even talk about the family. Even about Pudding.” She winked at Sanji, who looked less like an excited groom and more like an alarmed dog, “There was a rumor that she can shift memories, pull them apart, and put them back in a new shape.” She waved it off, smiling. “Nonsense, surely. Kitchen gossip.”

His gaze flicked to you.

You were bent over your notes, lips pressed tight in thought, frowning at the page as though frustrated with yourself. Earlier, when you had admitted you could not recall the name of your favorite restaurant in the East Blue, it had startled him. That place was carved into both your lives. For you not to remember it…

 Sanji straightened suddenly, his face going carefully blank when the bakery owner’s eyes flicked his way.

You bent over your notebook, but the pen slipped uselessly across the page. The harder you tried to recall the restaurant in the East Blue, the more it blurred, until the memory unraveled into nothing.

Frustration rose hot in your chest. With a sharp snap, you closed the notebook and stood. Both Sanji and the baker looked up, surprise flickering across their faces.

“Excuse me,” you managed, your voice tight. “I need some air.”

Without waiting for a reply, you crossed to the back of the room. The balcony doors opened with a low groan, hinges protesting against the quiet. You slipped outside and let them fall shut behind you, the chatter and clatter of the kitchen muffled to a distant hum.

The balcony stretched wide, overlooking Totland’s glittering streets. Sugar lamps lined the avenues like constellations, their golden glow shimmering against the candy-colored rooftops. From here, the island looked like a painting: bright, decadent, and utterly unreal.

The air was cooler, but not clean. It clung to your throat, thick with the sweetness of frosting and caramel. You gripped the rail until your knuckles ached, leaning forward as the ache in your chest broke loose. Your eyes stung, and before you could stop them, tears blurred the lights below into streaks of gold.

You swallowed hard, dragging in breath after breath, but the heaviness refused to lift. Everything here was too much—too sweet, too loud, too polished. And you, with your memory slipping like sand through your fingers, felt too small for it.

Behind you, the door opened again, quieter this time. Soft footsteps approached, steady and unhurried, the weight of each one deliberate.

You did not turn. Not until the faint curl of cigarette smoke drifted past your cheek, cutting through the syrup-thick air with the bitter tang of tobacco. The sweetness clinging to your lungs gave way to something sharper, grounding, almost welcome.

Sanji moved with quiet certainty, coming to rest against the stone railing a few feet away. The golden light from the hall spilled over his shoulder but left the rest of him in shadow, as if he belonged to both worlds at once. He exhaled slowly, the ember at the end of his cigarette glowing like a watchful eye in the dark.

For a long moment, he said nothing. The only sounds were the distant echo of music from the Château, the muffled laughter of unseen guests, and the faint hiss of his cigarette.

Then his voice came, low and rough, as though each word had to fight its way out of his chest. “Do you know what a soulbond is?”

You blinked through your tears, startled by the question. The word itself made your pulse jump. You turned your head slightly toward him, though your hands still clutched the railing. “Yes,” you said softly. “I’ve heard of them. Why?”

Sanji’s gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, the faint orange glow of his cigarette painting the lines of his face in fleeting light. His jaw tightened, smoke curling from his lips in a steady stream. The silence stretched, heavy and brittle, long enough that you began to wonder if he might not answer at all.

At last, he drew in another drag, shoulders rising and falling with the breath. He exhaled toward the dark sky, and his voice came out low, raw around the edges.

“I have one. Not my fiancée.”

Your brow furrowed. “But—why are you getting married then?”

You turned more fully toward him, blinking back the wetness in your eyes, uncertain where this was leading.

He chuckled.

“I should say I did have one. And she hurt me more than anyone else ever has,” he continued, each word casual like he was talking about the sky, and not a deeply personal revelation. “Without meaning to. It was like being carved open and told to smile through it. I shut her out for years, told myself I was better that way.”

The corners of his lips twitched, though it was nothing close to a smile. The look was pained, half-bitter, half-defiant, as if he were daring the night to call him a liar.

“And then I tried again, and turns out she had one last lie.”

You twist to fold your arms, unsure why the groom getting married tomorrow was telling you all this.

“But I still love her,” he admitted at last, so softly you almost thought he meant it for himself alone. He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his heel, and the sharp smell of smoke clung stubbornly to the night air. “Love doesn't give a damn about pride. You can bleed and curse and turn your back, but the bond will still be there. They remind you of everything you lost, and everything you still want, whether you deserve it or not.”

Your throat tightened. The words were raw, heavy, nothing like the flamboyant bravado he had carried in the kitchen. “That’s… that’s awful. I’m sorry.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Awful, yes. Turns out that it’s part of the charm, though. She lied because I was awful as well. Because I made her feel too uncomfortable to be honest.”

“So it was… a misunderstanding? Can it be resolved?” Your voice shook as you asked, and when he did not answer right away, you looked away, staring at the glittering streets below.

He gave a quiet, broken laugh, the kind that carried no joy. “I don’t know. It feels like an impossible task. I don’t even think I’ll last through tomorrow, much less through this heartache. And truth be told…” His voice dropped lower, so soft you barely heard it. “I don’t think I’m even worth it.”

Your head snapped back to him.

You did not know this man. It baffled you that he would bear his pain so openly to you, as if he trusted you with wounds that had no name. Perhaps he saw your own frustrations mirrored in his, two people fumbling against weights they could not name.

But you were not stupid.

This man was good. Anyone with eyes could see it, anyone with ears could hear it in his voice. And he deserved to hear it back.

“Don’t you dare give up. You are worth it.” His head snapped up, eyes wide. Down your face, fresh tears fell, ugly tears that no person wanted another to see. You turned to him, your voice breaking under the force of it. “And very much a prince to care so deeply, even when it costs you everything. Even if your soulmate is an idiot, I cannot imagine anyone knowing you and not seeing how good you are.”

For a heartbeat, he froze. His eyes flicked to yours, and the mask he wore cracked wide open. A dot of something wet fell on your face, but this time, it wasn’t tears. The sky opened up, and it began to rain.

But neither of you moved. 

Slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish, he reached for your hand. His fingers were warm, trembling slightly as they closed around yours.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, the words almost breaking. “For not giving you the perfect meal tonight. But I will—one day. When that is done, I will become the best cook the seas have ever known, and you will finally taste happiness again.”

He lifted it with reverence, bowing his head as he pressed a kiss against your knuckles. Then his knee touched the wet stone floor, and the gesture carried such gravity that your breath hitched in your chest.

The warmth of that kiss lasted the rest of the night.

-X-The Slip Up-X-

You cried most of that night. The tears came in ragged waves, each one heavier than the last. For the groom, for the love he had lost before the wedding could ever bloom, and for yourself, for the hollow ache that settled in your chest and refused to leave. For the small, bitter pieces of joy you could no longer taste in anything—even the sweet confections that had once made your tongue sing. You cried until your throat was raw, until your pillow was damp and cold beneath your face, until the stars outside the window had wheeled silently across the sky and you barely noticed.

By the time you finally forced yourself into sleep, your eyes were swollen and puffy, streaked with the evidence of your grief. They were ugly eyes, heavy and red, the kind of eyes you had never wanted anyone to see, and yet you had no energy left to care. Morning came with an indifferent light, warm on your cheeks and cruel in its persistence, and you woke far too late for the ceremony. You stared at the ceiling, numb, your chest hollow, before finally dragging yourself upright.

You didn’t fuss over it. The dress had been chosen and laid out for you already, a small mercy in a day that offered few. You pulled it on slowly, smoothing the fabric over your damp skin, feeling its weight and its neatness and its indifference. Your hair, stubborn and untamed, yielded to the pins in your drawer, and you swept it back without ceremony, securing it with the practiced motions of someone who had long ago learned to make themselves presentable even when they felt far from it.

Even as you stood there, brushing imaginary dust from your shoulders, a strange, hollow quiet settled over you. The world outside had gone on without pause, the flowers were arranged, the guests were arriving, and somewhere the sound of laughter carried on the wind. And yet, inside, you felt the lingering echo of everything you had lost, of everything that could never be reclaimed, pressing like a weight against your ribs.

The Château’s halls had been a labyrinth of silk banners, servants, and guards, and by the time you found the great doors to the wedding hall, the ceremony had already begun. The air inside was thick with perfume and sugar, the sound of music and murmured excitement nearly swallowing you whole.

You slipped in quietly, notebook clutched to your chest, hoping Morgans had not noticed your absence. The crowd’s attention was fixed on the stage, so your tardiness went unseen.

Almost immediately, you felt the faint pull of eyes on you. A group of colorful figures, standing together near the back of the hall, their gazes sharp and unmissable. The Vinsmoke Family, you deduced.

You didn’t recognize them, and their attention meant nothing to you, though something about the five of them—slight in posture, sharp in gaze—struck a faint, uneasy chord. There was a resemblance, you realized, to the groom, subtle and undeniable: the same jawline, the same measured carriage, the same glint of mischief in one brother’s eyes. Vinsmoke, you thought, and decided it was best ignored.

You kept your chin high, shoulders squared, and let your steps carry you past without a flicker of reaction. One of them gave a slow, deliberate wink, as though it were a personal challenge or an invitation you were expected to acknowledge. You didn’t. The gesture brushed past you like a shadow across the floor—noticed only by the corner of your mind, but ultimately inconsequential. Their scrutiny, sharp and calculating, blended into the hum of conversation and the swell of music, nothing more than background noise to the pressing rhythm of the ceremony.

Notebook pressed tight against your chest, you felt the familiar weight of paper and pen against your ribs, a tether to your own focus, your own world, your own matters. Every heartbeat was a quiet reminder that, here and now, the ceremony and its orchestrated grandeur demanded your attention more than any stranger’s eyes.

You maneuvered through the crowd with deliberate care, skirts brushing the marble floor, the rustle of silk and taffeta echoing softly around you. The music shifted, a waltz weaving through the air, pulling a collective breath from the attendees.

Sliding next to Morgans, you offered a fleeting, perfunctory smile. He cast you a quick look—one eyebrow raised, a silent question lingering—but it was immediately swallowed by his attention turning back to the blonde woman seated next to him. He spoke with her quietly, laughter sparking in the curve of his mouth, and for a moment, you felt invisible, tucked neatly between obligations and observation. The hum of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the soft clinking of glasses all fell away into the background, leaving only the press of your own thoughts and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears.

On top of a cake were the pair of to-be-weds.

The bride, Pudding, stood in her gown, a vision of delicate perfection. The veil fell like lace mist over her shoulders, drifting with every small movement, catching the light and scattering it in glimmers across the polished floor. Her smile was sweet, flawless, the kind that demanded admiration without effort, and it landed squarely on her groom. The applause of the guests faded into a hushed reverence as the vows began, the silence settling like a warm, heavy blanket over the hall. Despite her kindness in coming in person to check on you, you felt like she seemed a little off.

The groom, Sanji, faced her and stood impeccable in his tailored suit, his golden hair gleaming under the bright sunlight. Every line of him, from the slope of his shoulders to the tilt of his chin, spoke of careful preparation, of a man who had studied this moment for months. His smile was soft enough to fool the crowd, delicate and practiced, and yet it seemed to you like a mask, one that didn’t quite hide the shadow beneath. It looked perfect. It looked rehearsed.

It was by far the weirdest celebration you had ever attended, and you’ve visited Fun Fun Island during their ‘Celebration of Pickles’ week.

You edged into an empty seat along the side, careful not to draw attention, notebook still clutched against your chest. Your pulse thudded erratically, a drumbeat of something you could not name: anticipation, fear, guilt, longing, all tangled into one sharp, overwhelming ache. Just as Sanji began to recite his part of the vows, your eyes flicked up, catching the movement of his lips, the subtle lift of his hand, the careful ease of his gestures.

Then it happened. His words stopped.

His head turned, just slightly, and his eyes swept over the crowd with the precision of a ship’s prow cutting through water. And then, impossibly, his gaze found you.

It was like gravity had shifted. The hall, the chandeliers, the delicate notes of the harp and violin—everything blurred at the edges. The murmurs of the crowd dulled, the sugar-sweet scent of perfumed air seemed to fade, and even the stage itself seemed to hold its breath. He stared at you, frozen, his lips parted in a silent question, as the rest of his vow vanished from the world.

A single heartbeat stretched into an eternity. Your own chest trembled as if it had recognized him first, your hands tightening involuntarily on your notebook, knuckles white. Every thought, every carefully suppressed memory, surged and recoiled in a rush of confusion and clarity you weren’t ready for.

The officiant cleared his throat, the sound sharp and intrusive against the charged silence, and the hall rippled with a wave of whispered confusion. Pudding’s smile faltered, fragile as spun sugar, her veil trembling with the motion of her sharp intake of breath. Her eyes darted toward him, panic and disbelief sparking in the depths of her gaze, searching for what he had seen that had broken his composure so completely.

A murmur swept through the guests like a ripple through water, growing louder, more insistent, until Big Mom’s laughter cracked over them, sharp and grating. She clapped her massive hands together, booming, “What’s the delay?”

The sound shattered the fragile tension, reverberating through the hall like a hammer striking crystal. Pudding stiffened, her fingers tightening around the bouquet she hadn’t meant to clutch so tightly; her eyes narrowed as the shadow of something cruel flickered beneath the delicate façade of her bridal mask. She leaned toward Sanji, her voice low, fierce, a hiss hidden beneath the softness expected of a bride. Her words were sharp enough that you caught the tremor in his expression—the brief flicker of hesitation before his lips curved into a smile. Soft, dazzling, heartbreakingly false.

And for reasons you couldn't name, the sight of him there—so practiced, so careful, so restrained—felt like a torment pressed into your chest, a weight you couldn’t lift. You could feel it in your bones: this was not a performance for the crowd. This was a war of unspoken words and restrained emotion, one you were trapped in the audience of, powerless.

The other guests, however, sighed in relief, mistaking the tension for nothing more than nerves. Whispers dwindled, the room relaxing as the expected ritual seemed poised to continue. And yet, you knew—knew with a certainty that made your stomach churn—that this was only the calm before the storm.

Then Pudding pushed her hair to the side.

And then everything fell apart.

The first crack came like a tiny, ominous hiccup: a harp string snapped in the corner, pinging like a disgruntled cricket, and silk rustled somewhere in a warning whisper.

Pudding’s veil twitched violently as she stepped back, her smile faltering for a heartbeat before she yanked it back into place with the precision of a woman who knew everyone was watching. Sanji’s hand twitched, subtle enough that most would have missed it—but in this charged hall, it was like dropping a pebble into a storm. The hush faltered. Eyes ping-ponged from him to her, from her to the guests, uncertainty spreading faster than spilled champagne.

Big Mom’s laughter roared again, but this time it was… off. Sort of like a cat trying to sing opera. Uneven. Slightly scary. Definitely not the joyful, booming thunder they’d expected. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like confused minnows. You pressed your notebook tighter to your chest, aware of every heartbeat, every shallow breath, and every pulse of panic radiating from the stage.

And then the world tilted. The music faltered, the chandeliers seemed to wobble, and the room shrank into a tight spotlight focused on the gathering storm at the altar.

A gunshot.

Heads jerked. Pudding screamed a startled squeak, Sanji froze mid-smile, and the minister behind them crumpled like a poorly made marzipan figurine.

Then the pièce de résistance: the giant, luscious wedding cake they were standing atop erupted in a thunderous, sticky explosion. Frosting flew like confetti gone rogue, chunks of sponge collided with terrified guests, and Big Mom shrieked loud enough to rattle the chandeliers—and probably some nerves you didn’t know existed. Tables flipped, crystal glasses shattered, and what had once smelled like vanilla and sugar turned into the acrid chaos of caramelized destruction.

“Holy SHIT!” Morgans cawed, ducking just in time to avoid a flying éclair. “Is that Strawhat? A dozen Strawhats??? WHY IS HE EATING THE CAKE?!”

Another chunk of dessert shot past, narrowly missing your notebook, now more frosting than paper. The hall had officially descended into full-blown bedlam—a perfect storm of horror, hilarity, and utter disbelief.

You were shoved sideways by a flailing guest and toppled into a table. Your hands immediately froze, glued to frosting and panic. Looking up, you realized you had landed smack in front of a family who did not look pleased.

One was a massive man with slicked-back blonde hair, a mask, and a scowl that could punch holes in walls. Next to him, a young woman with long, pink hair stared at you like she’d just discovered an alien in her dining room. Following that was one with spiky red hair, one with green hair, and a boyish one with bluish hair; all had their eyes locked on you, the confusion and irritation radiating off them like heat from a furnace.

You didn’t know them, and apparently, they didn’t know you either. Their expressions screamed a single, unspoken question: Who the hell are you, and why are you in our chaos?

The blonde one’s eyebrows knitted together. The pink-haired woman leaned back, arms crossed, voice sharp even without words. The spiky-haired ones glanced between each other, clearly thinking the same thing: Shit. We’re all stuck. Who the fuck is this person?

Morgans appeared at your side with a dramatic flourish, feathers and ink flying, wings puffed wide enough to knock over another table entirely. Golden eyes gleamed with manic delight.

“Kuahahaha! Big News! Time to write—,” he crowed, voice booming over the chaos. “Now this is a turn of events! A Yonko’s wedding crashing into carnage, assassination plots unraveling, the groom staring off at—” He waved a wing vaguely at you, beak clicking in glee. “—a mystery in the crowd. Oh, the headlines write themselves!”

The five of them shared a look that perfectly captured the moment: This is not happening. We’re stuck in the middle of someone else’s disaster. Who even are you? Why now? Is that a giant albatross slinging headlines?

And you? You pressed yourself into the table, notebook useless, heart hammering, secretly hoping this encounter would be filed away somewhere in their brains as just another weird shitshow—and that you’d survive long enough to escape it.

You stared at him, breath still uneven, notebook hanging limp at your feet. “Morgans, I am TRAPPED in CANDY—”

“Yes, yes, tragedy, panic, blah, blah.” He waved a claw dismissively, already scribbling into his own notepad with wild, chaotic energy. “But do you see it, critic? History! Right here under frosting and fire. This will sell papers for decades. And you, darling, are right in the middle of it.”

“I am in danger.” You cried out, flipping your head around to try to register the chaos. “Did someone just BREAK a picture? What did the picture do?”

“CATASTROPHE AT THE ALTAR! BLOOD AND FROSTING FLOW TOGETHER! THIS IS HISTORY, PEOPLE!” Morgans cried aloud, entirely lost to his own scoop, as he barreled past tables, narrowly missing a spiky-haired man who yelped in indignation.

“MOTHER FUCKING FEATHER!” You yelled, scrambling backward, only to freeze as a sound unlike any other pierced your eardrums—a low, wet, horrific squelch followed by a drawn-out, warbling shriek that made your teeth ache.

Images pummeled your brain, so much so that your knees collapsed, leaving you shaking in pain.

Big Mom’s scream shook the Château to its foundations. The cake was gone, reduced to a frosted ruin across the marble, and her roar for more shook the chandeliers—guests scattered like frightened birds, the underworld’s finest tripping over their silks in panic.

You struggled against the candy, limbs stuck in a gooey, sugary deathtrap, when suddenly a pair of warm, fuzzy ears brushed against your face. You blinked, startled, and looked over to see a reindeer giving you the most ridiculous, toothiest smile.

“What the hell?” you squeaked, half laughing, half panicking.

But any conversation was immediately cut off as a streak of gold and black tore across your field of vision.

It wasn’t just fast. It was impossibly fast, like someone had decided to bottle a lightning bolt and give it a suit and hair that gleamed like spun sunlight. One foot slammed onto the table beside you, snapping it in half with a satisfying crunch, while the other shot forward, kicking a rogue mound of sugar that had threatened to smother your notebook.

His coat flared dramatically, catching the light like the finale of a fireworks show, and his hair shimmered like a halo as though even the wedding hall itself recognized him as the protagonist. And then, with breathtaking suddenness, you felt yourself lifted into a princess carry, sharp and urgent, every second of it screaming, “you are getting the hell out of here right now.”

You clutched at the table, notebook slipping from your candy‑smeared hands, heart hammering in pure disbelief. The reindeer blinked at you, unimpressed, as if this kind of chaos were just another Tuesday in its long, absurd life.

He didn’t even glance at the Vinsmokes, frozen in stunned confusion, or at the flying dessert debris that littered the hall like some confectionery apocalypse. He just moved, a golden streak against the collapsing sugary battlefield, every step precise, fluid, and terrifyingly confident. The sound of splintering wood and squelching sugar barely registered against the rhythmic thunder of your own pulse.

Then you looked up.

And there he was—Sanji, the former groom, standing tall amid the chaos, his white and gold tailored suit perfect despite the hall’s transformation into a disaster, its coat flaring like a banner in a storm. He was the eye of the hurricane, serene in a way that made the world around him blur into insignificance.

Your gaze locked with his, and for the briefest heartbeat, it was as if the entire wedding hall, the screaming guests, the shattered cake, the others gawking in confusion, didn’t exist. There was only him. His hair gleaming like spun sunlight, eyes sharp and bright, a faint curve of a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

He lifted a hand, palm out, a gesture small and commanding at once. Your brows furrowed, squinting against the overwhelming urge to collapse into him, your heart a riot inside your chest. You couldn’t hear his words over the chaos; the crashing chandeliers, Big Mom’s furious bellowing, the general disintegration of all things sweet—but the movement of his lips, the tilt of his head, the intensity of his gaze—it was as if he were speaking directly to the part of you that had been silenced for too long.

“Behind me, my love.”

The thought wasn’t spoken, not in any language you could define, but it thundered inside your chest with absolute clarity. Time slowed. Every ounce of fear, every pulse of panic, every sticky, frosting‑smeared panic in your limbs—the world condensed into a single, burning truth: he was here. 

Not that you knew why he was being so specifically kind, but it did feel… right?

You didn’t question it. You couldn’t. You simply pressed closer, letting the chaotic, impossibly fast current of his movement carry you forward, a golden lighthouse in the storm of sugar, fire, and fury.

“Get out of here. I’ll find you later.”

You snapped up to look at the blonde. It was as if he spoke in your head. Suddenly, Morgans was in your vision, and had your arm on his claw.

You didn’t have time to process the words—or the thought—before he surged forward, carrying you like an arrow through the hurricane of sugar, splintered wood, and shrieking guests. The Vinsmokes, still frozen in confusion, were nothing more than background blur. Tables toppled beneath his boots, chandeliers swung violently overhead, and the very air seemed to hum with the force of his presence.

Your notebook was lost somewhere in the wreckage, forgotten entirely as your pulse threatened to outpace your heartbeat. You clung to him, wide-eyed and utterly helpless, your mind a storm of disbelief, terror, and something sharper, deeper, aching in your chest.

Then, finally, the exit. The cool night air hit you like a relief so sharp it made your lungs seize, carrying with it the scent of salt and the faint whisper of freedom. You blinked, seeing the courtyard sprawling beneath the moonlight, open and chaotic, but safe. 

Morgans had pushed you out, to the street, so he at least got credit for not being the worst boss ever.

For the briefest second, you thought it was over.

But then a deep, rumbling groan tore through the night.

Your eyes shot back to the Château. The massive structure shuddered violently, the skeletal remains of the wedding cake smoking and crackling like a cursed pyre. Then, with a sound that made your teeth ache, the entire top level erupted in a spectacular explosion. Fire, sugar, and debris shot into the air, the walls trembling under the impact. Marble and shattered glass rained down, and for the first time, it hit you that nothing in this city would survive another second.

But before you could react, before you could scream, a slender, white‑gloved hand shot into your field of vision, gripping your wrist with a precision that both startled and unnerved you.

“Move!” a voice hissed, low and sharp, carrying an edge of authority you hadn’t expected.

A familiar face came into view—Pudding.

Of all people. The bride? And yet here she was, yanking you out of the blast radius with a force that left your chest pressed against hers, every instinct screaming trust no one, even as her expression was calm, controlled, almost… friendly.

The courtyard floor trembled beneath you as a massive chunk of the Château’s upper wall collapsed, sending clouds of dust and shards of stone hurtling past. You staggered, mind reeling, when Pudding’s arms tightened around you like an anchor in the storm.

“We’ve got to go,” she muttered, voice low and clipped. “Hop on, Rabiyan will give us a ride out of here.”

Your eyes widened as she gestured toward a rolled carpet lying nearby. Before you could question it, she yanked you onto it. The fabric was rough beneath your hands, but impossibly sturdy, and your stomach lurched as the rug lifted into the air.

“FUCK!” You cried out, clutching it like a witch on a broom. “What the hell is it with this place? And why the hell are you helping me?”

Pudding’s lips twitched, just enough to hint at amusement—or maybe irritation at your shouting. “Because if you stay there, you die,” she said bluntly, eyes scanning the fiery debris of the collapsing Château. “And I’m not in the habit of letting people die in my wedding. Stay low, hold on.”

You blinked at her, wide-eyed and still processing that the scheming, memory‑erasing Pudding—the bride—was now literally saving your life. “I… I don’t even—”

“Not your time for philosophy,” she interrupted.

The massive, winged magic carpet homie soared under you, skimming the ground, eyes gleaming with what could only be described as utter disdain for your screaming.

You almost tripped over your words. “Seriously? I’m stuck with the bride, being chased by collapsing castles and a flying… carpet? I’m—I can’t even…”

Pudding rolled her eyes, adjusting her hold on you. “I know I’ve done a lot of crappy things. More than a lot. But this one—I owe Sanji.” Her tone was clipped, but there was a weight to it that made you pause.

Your heart stuttered. “Owe… Sanji?”

“Yes. Don’t get sentimental. Just hold on.” She pushed off slightly, giving you enough room to cling to the carpet while she leaned forward, scanning the fiery chaos for threats. Rabiyan swooped, catching the carpet midair, and the two of you were lifted skyward.

The Château groaned one final time, then exploded in a spectacular shower of fire, marble, and scorched sugar, raining down behind you like a grotesque fireworks display.

You clutched the edge of the carpet with white-knuckled terror, notebook long forgotten and likely ruined by frosting, while Pudding held you like a lifeline. Her arms were firm and immovable, an anchor in the storm of airborne debris.

“I have no idea how I’m involved with any of this,” you gasped, voice shaking as the carpet dipped and swerved around a flaming chunk of roof.

Pudding went red—both from exertion and something else, something unreadable.

“Of course you don’t,” she said, voice clipped but sharp, almost scolding. “I took your memories. I doubt your soulbond is back to normal quite yet, either. You’ve got to get out of range of Big Mom’s Haki for her influence to fade.”

You blinked at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Wait. Wait. Excuse me? You took my memories? Ma’am, how? When? What–where–”

She shot you a glare sharp enough to cut through the smoke and fire. “Shut up!” Her voice cut through the roar of collapsing marble and the distant, panicked screaming. “Not important! What is important is that you happen to be Sanji’s soulmate, and I cannot fix you right now! And Sanji—Sanji was kind to me and I didn’t deserve it, so this is how I make it better!”

You stared, heart hammering, trying to process the absurdity: saved by the bride, flying on a sentient carpet, escaping an exploding wedding cake, and now told that your soulmate’s memories had been meddled with by none other than the scheming bride herself. Somehow it was both terrifying and ridiculous.

“And just what, pray tell,” you muttered through gritted teeth, “am I supposed to do with that information while hurtling through the air on a magic rug?”

Pudding didn’t answer immediately, instead leaning forward slightly, eyes scanning the burning Château behind you. The wind whipped her veil and hair around her face like a dark halo. Finally, she said, low and clipped, “Survive. Keep your heart in your chest. Trust no one until you’re clear. And whatever you do… don’t touch anything that looks remotely edible back there.”

You swallowed hard. “Right. Got it. Survive. Don’t touch sugar debris. Trust the person who erased my memories. Check.”

Pudding’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she muttered, “You’ll thank me later. Or scream at me later. One of the two.”

The carpet banked sharply, Rabiyan’s flying hard against the night sky, carrying you further from the chaos below. Behind you, the Château groaned one final time before collapsing completely in a shower of fire, marble, and scorched sugar. The scent of burnt frosting hung thick in the air, clinging to your hair and clothes. Your notebook, already ruined by flying cake, flopped uselessly at your side.

-X- Love’s Fervent Trials -X-

You weren’t expecting to pick up another Charlotte sister. Certainly not one who came lumbering along in a walking tank that clattered like a parade drumline gone rogue.

You definitely weren’t expecting her to find Sanji as he and his crew ran along, his suit jacket flaring, cigarette smoke curling, voice pitched low and sharp as if he knew exactly when the curtain was meant to rise. For a second, the battlefield felt like a stage play, and he was the only one with a script.

Your stomach pitched. It had been fifteen minutes—barely enough time to breathe—since Pudding had looked you dead in the eye and accused you of being her ex-groom’s soulmate. You hadn’t known what to say, not with her words ricocheting around in your head like loose shot.

And now here he was. And after a performance of flirting of such an unnatural nature between Pudding and Sanji that you felt second-hand embarrassment that would probably be passed down your bloodline.

The magic carpet wobbled beneath you, threads of sorcery tugging at your balance, the tank’s racket fading into the background. Soldiers shouted. The ground shook. But all you could see was him—Sanji, looking at you like he’d expected you all along.

And you absolutely were not expecting to be roped into helping bake a wedding cake to stop a yonko’s rampage.

So, of course, you sat a little away from the group, feeling incredibly awkward as they made plans. It was like stumbling into a kitchen rehearsal mid-performance, everyone throwing out measurements and ingredients as if the world wasn’t cracking at the seams outside. Pudding was furiously scribbling recipes across parchment, while Sanji paced like a general, mapping out troop movements.

You folded your arms tighter, pretending to be fascinated by the scuffed edge of the carpet. The voices blurred together: eggs, flour, cream, chocolate, all barked like military codes—and you nodded along as though you had the faintest idea what was going on in the cooking.

But your heart kept tugging sideways, back to the blond man issuing orders with smoke curling from his lips. His confidence made the absurdity worse, like he could command a cake into existence fast enough to quiet an emperor.

You looked away. “You should all know that I’m usually the one critiquing the food. I’m literally just a critic. Nothing else.”

You tried to shrink further into yourself, silently praying they wouldn’t notice you weren’t contributing. Because if Sanji so much as looked your way, you weren’t sure if you’d combust from embarrassment—or be handed a whisk.

His cigarette glowed faintly as he exhaled, eyes narrowing with a flicker of amusement before softening into something warmer. “Just a critic, huh?” His voice cut through the chaos, smooth as cream. “Then you’re not useless at all. You’re the most important person here.”

Pudding and Chiffon turned your way, and your ears burned. Important? You wanted to sink into the carpet. “I meant—” you started, but Sanji’s smile only sharpened.

“You’ll tell us if it’s worthy or if we’re doomed,” he said matter-of-factly, as if this had already been decided. “That’s the only job that matters right now. Leave the baking to me.”

And just like that, he turned back to Pudding, rattling off another set of orders as though he hadn’t just disarmed your entire attempt at self-deprecation with a single compliment.

Mother-fucking charmer.

Your heart gave an unhelpful lurch. Maybe you weren’t here for kicks and giggles after all.

Pudding’s pen scratched harder against her parchment, lips tightening just enough to betray the smile she pasted back on when Sanji glanced her way. For all her theatrics, you caught the flicker in her eyes—a sharp, sour note that landed squarely on you. As if you’d stolen a line from a script she thought belonged only to her.

You decided right then your safest option was silence. Silence and pretending the scuffed edge of the magic carpet was endlessly fascinating.

And that was your contribution until you landed.

Cacao Island rose like a confection from the sea, ovens already blazing, bakers scrambling in every street. The moment you stepped into the grand kitchen, the air grew heavy with the scent of chocolate and cream, heat rolling off copper pots and firelit stoves.

Sanji moved at once, his coat cast aside, sleeves rolled up. He was in motion before anyone else had found their place. Every gesture was sharp, every order precise, his desperation buried beneath elegance. Even in the chaos, he carried himself like the kitchen was a ballroom and he was the only one who knew the steps.

And, maddeningly, Pudding stayed glued to his side, watching, smiling, every few moments throwing a glance your way as if daring you to try and keep up.

You quietly looked for exits until a bowl was pushed into your hands.

“Whisking duty,” Sanji said, eyes twinkling. “Time for the critic to be the one judged.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Listen, asshole, I will get us killed. I am not qualified.”

“Then learn,” he instructed firmly, but not unkindly. “If you can judge, you can taste. If you can taste, you can balance. Now move.”

You scoffed but obeyed, stirring with irritation.

And still, your hands began to move with a rhythm that felt too familiar. You whisked with an ease you could not explain. You folded the batter as though you had done it before. With every scent that filled the air, something inside you stirred—cocoa, citrus, almonds, cream. The aromas pried open doors you had not known were locked.

Memories leaked back like water through cracks. A boy at a stove. A kitchen filled with laughter and fire. A bond threaded tight between you, humming with warmth.

You gripped the whisk tighter, blinking as the present blurred with the past. The copper pots clanged around you, heat pressing at your back. Pudding’s voice was sharp and insistent as she rattled off another instruction to Sanji. Yet you barely heard her.

Because Sanji had turned, just enough to watch you, smoke curling in the corner of his smile. For a flicker of a heartbeat, the whole mad kitchen seemed to fall away.

The kitchen was a storm of sugar and fire. Bakers rushed in every direction, carrying trays of cream and stacks of chocolate bricks, their voices rising in frantic rhythm. Sanji moved among them like a maestro, never missing a beat, guiding you and Pudding with sharp precision.

“Taste,” he said for the sixth time.

“Balance it with citrus,” you replied, sliding a spoon his way.

“Keep whisking,” he ordered you, his eyes never leaving your face.

You tried to argue, but your body betrayed you. Your hands folded batter with ease, your wrists flicked the whisk into perfect rhythm, your nose caught flaws in balance before the spoon even reached your tongue. It was muscle memory you did not know you had with every aroma—almond, citrus, cocoa—memories stirred like shadows at the edge of sight.

It was like a dance between you both, despite your clumsiness.

Sanji stepped closer, his hand brushing yours as he adjusted the angle of the bowl. His touch lingered for a fraction too long, warm even through the heat of the kitchen. “Gentle,” he murmured, his voice carrying over the clang of pans and frantic shouts. “The batter listens to how you move.”

You laughed nervously, the sound too thin, but he smiled as if it was the only answer that mattered. When he handed you a spoonful of filling, his gaze never left your face, watching not just for judgment but for recognition. You tasted the flavors bursting across your tongue and nodded slowly.

“Perfect,” you whispered.

Sanji exhaled like he had been holding that breath for hours, shoulders relaxing, eyes softening into something that felt far too tender for the chaos surrounding you. For a heartbeat, you swore the kitchen was no longer a storm but a waltz, the two of you moving in step without ever meaning to.

Pudding stopped beside a cooling rack, the light catching the sheen of chocolate on her fingers. She pressed her hands together, as though steadying herself, and for once her smile slipped entirely.

“You…” Her voice caught, and she started again. “You are not supposed to be here.”

You hesitated, but her tone was different now. Not sweet, not smug. Something in her eyes flickered, conflicted and almost kind. You followed her to the far corner of the kitchen, away from the clatter of pans and Sanji’s sharp commands.

You blinked. “Trust me, I agree.”

Her laugh was short and bitter, but her gaze stayed fixed on you. “And yet… he looks at you like you’ve always been here. Like he’s been waiting.”

Your stomach lurched. “What are you talking about?”

Pudding’s jaw tightened. She studied you for a long moment, then raised her hand as if she meant to strike—yet her fingers only hovered near your temple, trembling.

“You don’t remember him,” she whispered, eyes glistening in a way that didn’t suit her sharp edges. “Because I took it. I made sure of it. And still… look at you.”

Heat prickled at your skin, confusion tangling with fear. “You… what?”

Her hand trembled once more, then steadied. “I wanted to believe he could love me. That if I erased you, it would be easier. But even I cannot rewrite the way he looks at you.” She exhaled, shaky and resigned. “So take it back. I don’t want it anymore. He’ll never look at me that way. Not while you exist.”

Before you could protest, her palm pressed firmly against your temple.

The world cracked open.

Scents, voices, laughter, heat; memories flooded through you in a rush so violent your knees buckled. Sanji’s smile, his voice calling your name across a crowded kitchen, the bond that had always thrummed beneath your skin, the boy at the stove with dreams of fire and freedom. All of it crashed over you in a wave too vast to hold.

Your vision blurred, the ground tilted, and Pudding’s face twisted with equal parts jealousy and sorrow.

She turned to face you, her voice low. “Hold still.”

Before you could ask what she meant, she lifted her hand. Her bangs shifted, and the third eye at her forehead opened.

A chill shot through you. You stepped back, but she caught your shoulders with surprising strength. “Have guts,” she whispered. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Her fingers brushed against your temple. A rush like fire and ice flooded your skull. The world twisted, blurred. Memories surged, breaking through like waves: a boy cooking at a stove, a bond threading through your mind, laughter across oceans, the ache of being shut out, the hollow loss when it was crushed.

Your knees buckled. The kitchen spun, voices warping into a blur of shouts and clattering pans.

Before you could hit the floor, strong arms scooped you up. The world steadied against the press of a broad chest, the scent of smoke and citrus clinging to him. You were weightless, carried effortlessly, his stride sure and unhesitating.

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to see his face above you, sharp with worry yet softened by something raw and unguarded. His jaw clenched as though holding back words, his breath uneven as he adjusted his grip to keep you steady.

“Easy,” he murmured, the sound low enough to anchor you. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go again.”

You tried to speak, but the words tangled, slipping away as exhaustion dragged you under. The last thing you felt was the steady beat of his heart against your ear and the warmth of his hold, fierce and unyielding.

The frantic kitchen hushed for a heartbeat as he gathered you into a princess carry. Bakers stared, spatulas frozen mid-whisk, trays forgotten in their hands. Even Pudding stood rooted where she had touched you, her veil askew, her expression unreadable.

Sanji’s jaw was tight, but his eyes never left your face. He shifted you carefully against him, one arm steady under your knees, the other braced at your back as though you were fragile glass.

“Keep working,” he barked at the stunned bakers, his voice sharp as steel. “The cake will not bake itself.”

The room jolted back into motion at once, the storm of sugar and fire resuming, though now every glance flickered nervously toward the man carrying you.

Sanji lowered his voice, so soft only you could hear it. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”

The last thing you felt was his heartbeat, quick and unsteady beneath the steady mask he wore for everyone else.

Darkness tugged you under, but this time it was different. The bond hummed in your chest like a chord finally resolved, no longer muffled, no longer broken. And even as your body went limp with exhaustion, the warmth of his hold followed you into the dark.

-X-The Climax-X-

But the next time you opened your eyes, the Château, the kitchens, and the roar of Big Mom were just gone. You would hear how it all ended later. How Sanji and Pudding baked the cake in a frenzy, how the crew fought their way through the island, how the Yonko’s rage had been momentarily stilled by sugar and cream. The escape.

You were lying in a hammock that swayed gently with the rhythm of the sea. The air smelled of salt and sun-warmed wood, the cloying sweetness of Totland finally behind you. Above, wood creaked, and beyond the porthole, the sky stretched endlessly and was blue.

Your heart stumbled in your chest as you sat up too fast, memories crashing over you all at once: painful, sweet, overwhelming. The bond was there, steady and alive again, thrumming like a heartbeat that was not yours alone.

And there was a hand. Warm, steady, holding yours.

Sanji.

He sat beside the hammock, his coat discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. Exhaustion clung to him in every line, his posture loose, shadows darkening his eyes. Yet the moment you stirred, he straightened, his hand tightening on yours as if to anchor you.

“Hey,” he said softly, his voice rough but steady, a faint smile curving his lips. “You’re awake.”

Your throat ached, caught between everything you remembered and everything you wanted to say. All you managed was a whisper. “I… remember.”

Something flickered in his gaze—relief, ache, hope all tangled together. He lifted your hand and brushed his lips across your knuckles with a tenderness that stole your breath.

The bond hummed between you, steady and sure, carrying not only his voice but the weight of everything unspoken: his fear, his relief, his love.

“Sanji—”

And that was enough. He saw the recognition in your eyes, and his own filled with tears. He raised a hand, briefly covering his face.

“Give me a second,” he murmured, voice trembling with restraint. “I need a moment to… let this out.”

When his words came, they were quieter still, almost reverent.

“I will admit something to you. When I first realized the truth, I went through hell. Humiliation. Shame. Anger. I thought I had been made a fool of. I thought you laughed at me every time I called you ‘bro.’ Every time I went on about women. About Nami. About… jiggle physics. All of it.”

You closed your eyes, the memory of those exchanges now unbearably sharp in your chest.

He let out a low, broken laugh, his thumb brushing against your knuckles as if to anchor himself. “I’m a fool. Because when the truth settled in, when I stopped thrashing against it, I felt… relief.”

Your breath caught. “Relief?”

He looked at you then, nothing guarded, nothing hidden. “Because it meant you were mine all along. That no matter how stupid I made myself look, I wasn’t wrong to keep reaching for you. The bond was still there, even when I thought I’d lost it.”

The hammock rocked gently between you, the sea humming with the bond’s steady rhythm, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“Yes.” He gave a shuddering breath. “Relief that you are not a man. Relief that I could have it all. I am ashamed to admit how much lighter it made me. Guilt that I knew it shouldn’t have mattered, but I’m so broken, it did.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “Sanji…”

“But,” he went on, softer now, “the truth is, I doubt it would have changed much. Even if you had been a man, even if you had been everything I told myself you were… I think I would still feel this way. That is what terrifies me most. You were never the problem.”

You pressed both hands to your face, sobbing quietly. The bond thrummed steady between you, stronger now than ever, carrying not just his shame and his relief but also the trembling thread of hope he had buried for too long.

“I am not sure how to proceed from here,” he admitted. “Because I am entirely in love with you. But I have spent so long praising other women, worshiping them out loud, that you will not believe me when I say it.”

You pressed your palms harder to your face, shaking, unable to look at him. “Sanji… you will always be yourself. That is who I met. Who I listened to. Who I trusted.”

There was a pause. The waves slapped against the hull in the silence. Then, faintly, a grim note entered his voice.

“That self,” he said, “is not a man I am proud of. But I have another question. Answer me truthfully. Do you like women romantically?”

You gave a strangled laugh. “No. I do not.”

He choked, and the bond shivered with his outrage. 

“See, this is what pisses me off—Mon Dieu! Then why did you let me rate other women’s boobs in your head? Why let me ramble on about cleavage, about legs, about—”

You laughed harder, tears wetting your cheeks. “Because I admired what I lacked. And you got so excited. I loved it.”

For a long moment, the air was filled with his stunned silence. Then he broke into helpless laughter, rich and bright, the kind you had not heard in so long. You pressed your hand to your chest, clutching the sound like a lifeline.

It was not perfect. It was not easy. But in that laughter, something fragile finally began to heal.

You could feel it in the bond. A shift. Not sharp or sudden, but gentle, like a tide turning. The sorrow and shame that had weighed him down ebbed back, replaced by a lighter current. His voice carried it when he spoke again.

“You should know,” he said, almost thoughtful, “that there are consequences for lying to me this long.”

Your stomach knotted. “Consequences?”

“Yes.” You could feel the grin even before he let out a low laugh. “Thanks to you, I am a pervert. One who will be concentrating his entire focus on you. Every word. Every sigh. Every damn heartbeat. I will be relentless.”

Heat rushed up your neck. “Sanji—”

“No, no, do not try to stop me,” he teased, his voice turning silk-smooth as his hand cupped your face. “This is justice. You hid from me, you let me think I had a mere friend-in-titty. Now you are going to endure everything I ever poured out on other women, only it will be ten times worse, because it will all be for you.”

You covered your face with both hands, cheeks burning with shame. “I am not the busty goddess of your dreams. You can do better.” Your hand made a weak, embarrassed gesture toward your chest.

Sanji swore so fiercely it made you jump.

“Do better?!” His voice cracked with disbelief as he turned to look at you, utterly offended. “You, insane, beautiful, cruel woman. You think you can say that to me? After all that you have been, what are you now? Do not insult me. Do not you dare.”

His words came hot and ragged, like smoke curling from a flame. “You are mine, and you are more than everything. Better than anything I dreamed. Better than anything I ever deserved.”

The bond thrummed, fierce and undeniable, wrapping around his voice like a vow. His hand trembled slightly where it cradled your cheek, not from weakness but from the force of what he held back.

You lowered your hands slowly, meeting his gaze through blurred lashes. His eyes were burning, not with lust alone but with devotion so sharp it almost hurt to look at.

“My angel. My muse. My darling flame. Every second I wasted on other women was a crime against my own heart. Allow me to repent properly, by spending the rest of my life praising your every inch, from the tips of your fingers to the curve of your—”

“Sanji,” you groaned, your face burning. “Sir, please. We are having a soft moment.”

He laughed, warm and shameless, the sound rolling through the bond like sunlight. “Soft moments are for poets, my love. I am a cook. And the only thing I want to simmer over a slow flame is you.”

You buried your face in your arms, torn between laughing and sobbing.

“You cannot stop me now,” he declared dramatically, kneeling before you. “Every word, every breath, every syllable will belong to you. You think you are safe, but just wait until you get better. I will lay roses at your feet. I will compose sonnets. I will make every man jealous that you chose me.”

You groaned again, but your chest ached with joy. “You are impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he said, his voice softening at the end, playful bravado dipping back into something tender.

You smiled faintly, brushing your fingers along the back of his hand. “I do.”

For a moment, he froze, as though the world had stopped around him. The sea, the sail, and the creak of the hammock all faded. Then his breath escaped in a shaky rush, his forehead pressing lightly to yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

Your smile widened despite your tears. “I love you, Sanji.”

The bond surged between you like a heartbeat shared, pulling him closer until the space between your lips vanished. His kiss landed softly at first, almost trembling, as though he feared you might disappear if he pressed too hard. But when you leaned into him, his restraint shattered. The kiss deepened, hungry and reverent all at once, his hand sliding from your cheek to cradle the back of your head.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging as the world tilted with the force of it. Every ounce of his devotion poured through the bond, wrapping around you, anchoring you. When he finally drew back, his lips brushed yours again and again, unable to stop. His breath came ragged, his eyes hazy with need, and he tried and failed to smother.

“Mon Dieu…” he muttered, ducking his face into the crook of your neck as if ashamed of his body’s urgency. The bond quivered with embarrassment, but beneath it burned raw, unfiltered longing. “Forgive me. I cannot help it. You undo me.”

You laughed softly, your hands smoothing over his shoulders. “Sanji… it is all right.”

He cleared his throat, ears pink. “I do not want to ruin this. I have waited too long. You deserve—” He faltered, fumbling for words, then gave a weak, self-conscious laugh. “The truth is, I have no idea what I am doing. Not with you. Not like this.”

The admission was so vulnerable that it made your chest ache. “Sanji,” you whispered, “are you telling me you want to—”

“Yes?” He squeezed his eyes shut, mortified. “Yes. Yes, all right. Do you know what happens when you spend your whole life cooking, fighting, and dreaming of a perfect woman you never thought you would meet? You end up saving yourself without meaning to. And now… please save me from my own pathetic nature.”

You stared at him for a long moment, and then laughter burst out of you, helpless and bright.

His head snapped toward you, scandalized. “What—why are you laughing?!”

“Because,” you said, climbing into his lap and cupping his shocked face between your hands, “that’s it. I’m riding you.”

His eyes nearly rolled back in his head, the bond lighting up with stunned arousal. “Mother of God—”

You pressed your forehead to his. “You’re mine. That’s more than enough.”

The bond thrummed between you, steady and warm, wrapping around his doubts and silencing them in a way words never could. Sanji’s breath caught, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue, but the certainty in your voice left him undone.

His hands finally settled against your waist, firm but shaking, as though he was terrified of breaking you. You kissed him again, slower this time, guiding him back down into the sway of the hammock. His body arched beneath yours, trembling with restraint. Every sigh, every ragged breath echoed in the bond, filling you with the sheer depth of his longing.

You rolled your hips against him, and the sound that tore from his throat was raw, almost pained with how much he wanted. His eyes fluttered open, wide and wet, as though he could hardly believe this was real.

“Mon ange,” he whispered, voice breaking. “If this is a dream, do not let me wake.”

You cupped his cheek, brushing away the tear that slipped free. “It isn’t a dream. It’s us.”

And when you finally let go, drawing him closer, the bond surged bright and whole. It carried every truth he had ever hidden, every vow he had ever left unspoken. Sanji kissed you like he was sealing a promise, and you held him as though you would never let him go.

When he joined with you, his whole body jolted, a helpless cry escaping him as he clutched at you like you were the only anchor he had left. The bond flared hot and radiant, filling you with his awe, his wonder, his overflowing love.

“Mon chéri, mon cœur, ma moitié,” he gasped, trembling beneath you. “My All Blue. I am yours. Always yours.”

You steadied him, your hands pressed to his chest, your lips soft against his jaw. “Sanji,” you whispered, and the single word made him shiver. 

You moved together slowly, as if learning each other for the first time, coaxing him past his nerves into something tender. He kissed you through it, over and over, unable to stop, as if he was afraid you might vanish if he did. His hands traced the curve of your back, the line of your arms, the silk of your hair, touching every part of you he could reach with reverence.

He whispered your name like a prayer, again and again, as though speaking it aloud was what kept him alive. There was nothing practiced in him now, none of the charm or flourish he wore for the world. Only Sanji, laid bare and devoted, giving himself to you without hesitation.

He didn’t last five minutes. Not even two. 

When the release came, it was not sharp but overwhelming, like sunlight breaking across the sea. The bond blazed through both of you, searing and cleansing until all that remained was love; pure, steady, absolute. 

Afterward, he held you close, his arms tight around your waist, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder. His voice was hushed when he finally spoke, but every word rang with certainty. “I have waited my whole life for this. For you.”

And when you kissed his hair and whispered that you had too, he didn’t need to believe you. You had been with him, and his whole heart, and had waited for him. 

He already knew that you did. 

-X-Honeymoon-X-

Morning sunlight spilled across the Sunny, bright against the waves. The smell of butter and coffee drifted from the galley as Sanji moved like a whirlwind at the stove, whistling under his breath. You sat at the counter, watching him with a smile, the bond steady and warm in your chest.

Settling into the Sunny had been more than easy, and they had accepted you with almost too much enthusiasm, causing more than a bit of jealousy from your Sanji.

He turned every few seconds just to flash you a grin, sliding a plate in front of you first before the rest of the crew got a whiff. “For my beloved,” he declared dramatically, setting down a perfect omelet. “And the rest of you can wait your turn.”

Luffy wailed, already half climbing over the counter. Brook groaned about favoritism. Chopper pouted until Sanji added a dish of sweet bread just for him.

Through it all, Nami and Robin watched with quiet amusement.

Later, when the chaos settled and Sanji was busy chasing Luffy out of the pantry, Nami leaned against the rail beside you. Her lips curved in a sly smile. “I have to admit, you being here has been… helpful.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Helpful?”

Nami’s eyes flicked toward the galley door where Sanji was loudly scolding Luffy for eating dried meat straight from the barrel. “He’s calmer. More focused. Still ridiculous, of course, but it feels different. Like he finally stopped performing for the world and started living for someone.”

Your cheeks warmed. The bond pulsed in quiet agreement, echoing with Sanji’s voice from the kitchen, still ranting about rationing.

Nami nudged you gently. “I don’t know what you did, but… keep doing it. We’ve all noticed.”

Robin’s voice floated over from her chair, where she was reading in the sun. “Yes. It is rather endearing, seeing him so transparent. He used to scatter his affection like petals in the wind. Now it seems he has chosen to plant a garden instead.”

Your heart stumbled at their words, the warmth of the crew’s acceptance sinking into you like sunlight.

Your face burned. “I did not do anything.”

Nami chuckled, tapping your shoulder. “You gave him somewhere real to pour it all. You saved the rest of us a lot of trouble.”

Robin’s smile was warm, her gaze thoughtful. “And perhaps more importantly, you gave him a place to rest. He has chased so many things. Now he resta with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring out at the sea as your heart swelled.

Behind you, Sanji’s voice rang out, furious and flustered as Luffy tried to steal from the pantry again. “Hands off, you bottomless barrel! That food is for my soulmate!”

The women laughed, the sound soft and knowing, and you covered your face with your hands.

Sanji was still himself. Loud, dramatic, shameless. But he was yours. And somehow, that made all the difference. When he kissed you later, sunlight bright on the waves and the crew’s laughter carrying through the ship, the world was perfectly, utterly right.

And his food was always perfect.

-X-Epilogue-X-

The Baratie was as noisy as ever. Pots clanged in the kitchen, waiters shouted across the floor, and the smell of frying fish filled the air. Zeff sat in his usual chair near the galley doors, pipe in hand, scanning the latest issue of the World Economy News.

Across the front page, in bold, Morgans had splashed it: “Straw Hats Claim Another! Critic Turned Pirate Reporter Joins Crew!” The photo showed Sanji mid-dramatic flourish, cigarette glowing, arm tight around you, while the crew squabbled in the background.

Zeff grunted around his pipe, smoke curling into the air. “Idiot kids.”

One of the line cooks peeked out nervously. Patty raised a brow. “Uh… Chef? Something wrong?”

Zeff slapped the paper against the table, scowling. “He finally found her, that’s what’s wrong. Means he’s going to be more of a lovesick fool than ever. And that poor girl is going to have her hands full.”

Patty blinked. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Zeff’s scowl softened for just a moment. He tapped ash from his pipe, eyes lingering on the photo. Sanji’s grin was wide, unguarded in a way Zeff had not seen since the boy was small. And the woman at his side looked just as undone, notebook forgotten in her lap, caught in the bond of a man who would never let her go.

“Yeah,” Zeff muttered, quieter now. “It’s a good thing.”

He folded the paper, set it aside, and barked for someone to bring him his dinner. But his one good eye lingered on the headline a little longer, pride flickering beneath the gruffness.

Zeff exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the rafters. His scowl softened into something closer to thought. “All these years,” he muttered, “that brat ranted about the All Blue. Swore he would not be satisfied until he cooked for everyone, until he proved himself. But looking at this…” He tapped the photo with a calloused finger. “Looks like he found himself another dream… and it seems like you achieved your dream too, girl. You did not have to wait until the All Blue to have him cook for you. To be fed by him. To have his whole damn heart served on a plate.”

He leaned back, pipe resting against his teeth, his one good eye glinting in the lamplight. “Maybe that’s the dream worth chasing after all.”

The dining hall clamored around him, waiters shouting, pans clattering in the kitchen. But for a few quiet moments, Zeff sat with the paper folded carefully in front of him, pride and relief tucked into the corners of his gruff smile.

Cosmic Joke Status: Ifrit Jambe!

Congratulations!

You’re now stuck with a flammable chef who doesn’t knock, doesn’t think ahead, and would 100% flambé himself just to make eye contact with you while carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. (Especially the part where he snarls at people who flirt with you, like a tuxedo-clad second coming who recites poetry, cooks a five-course meal, and faints dramatically if you so much as smile at him.) 

He has exactly three modes:

Cooking like his soul depends on it.

Flirting like he’s auditioning for a romance novel cover.

Collapsing in a cloud of hearts because you said “thank you.”

And the worst part?

You like it.

-X-The End-X-

You were ten when it began. At first, it was faint, a half-formed whisper slipping into your mind, someone else’s thoughts bleeding uninvited across the edges of your own. You had heard about soulbonds in passing, tales traded at ports or written in cheap magazines, but those were for exceptional people. The Warriors destined for greatness. Saints meant to change the world. Or, sometimes, the quiet sort who lived unremarkable lives and needed one tether to make them whole.

You had not imagined average kids like you could have one. But the universe had a knack for lacing drama where it was least expected.

The boy was nine. Younger than you. And he was very, very annoyed. Especially at those of the same gender as him. You knew this because he thought you were a boy.

-X- A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript; Chef’s Cut -X-

“Why do they always harass me? Just because I’m a better chef—” The voice cracked through your mind one night as you dozed against your father’s shoulder. It was small and uneven, like it had been crying for hours. Bitter. Desperate. Bruised in ways your nine-year-old self could not comprehend. “At least I have perfect rice. No one can deny that.”

You sat upright, heart hammering, eyes darting around the hotel room where you and your father were staying. The whisper had no sound. It came from within, a raw pulse that did not belong to you. A foreign thought pressed into your head like a shard of glass.

“Hello?” you whispered aloud, voice tight, as if the boy might step out from the shadows of the room. “You okay, bro?”

Your father stirred and gave a startled snore, tugging the covers closer. You froze, half hoping he had heard it too, half terrified he might ask what you were doing awake. But the room stayed ordinary. The lamp on the nightstand glowed faintly. The hum of traffic drifted through the window. Nothing answered you.

The silence pressed in, thick and strange. You held your breath, waiting. Then the boy’s voice spilled through your mind again, quieter this time, as if he were speaking into his own darkness.

“Mon dieu—”

You clutched the blanket to your chest, shivering though the hotel room was warm. The sound wasn’t sound at all, but it thrummed inside you, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Oh my god. You had a soulmate.

Your heart raced like a runaway train. Suddenly, every story you had ever overheard about bonds came rushing back: romantic tales in magazines, whispered promises in ports, even the silly playground chatter about how people knew. You readied yourself in a panic, words already lining up in your head. You would introduce yourself, list your family history, gush about your favorite food, maybe even blurt out your social security number if that helped prove you were real.

However, the boy cut you off. Immediately.

It was nothing like the gentle spark those stories promised. No warm flutter, no poetic music swelling in the background. It was jagged and furious, a boy’s voice cracking with emotion and slamming through your skull like a door being kicked shut.

“Oh, fantastic. Just what I needed. A soulmate. And it’s a guy. Figures. All guys suck.”

You froze, mouth hanging open, then blinked at the sudden venom. “Excuse you?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Are you really there?” His voice sharpened, horrified, disbelief dripping from every word. “Oh, no. This is real. I really got stuck with a dude soulmate. My life is over.”

Your temper flared, hot and sharp.

 “I don’t suck.”

“You do,” he snapped back instantly, the certainty in his tone leaving no room for doubt.

You sat there in the dark hotel room, blanket bunched in your fists, staring at the quiet walls that had suddenly become a prison of voices. You had imagined soulmates might feel magical, that you would wake up in the middle of the night with someone whispering kind words across the stars. Instead, you had gotten this: an angry, dramatic little boy who already hated you without even knowing your name.

Something in you bristled. You could have told him the truth right then, that you were not a boy at all, that he was wrong and unfair. But his tone had been so drenched in loathing, so ready to shove you away, that your pride took over.

“Big deal. And I don’t suck. You’re just rude. Happy?”

The silence on his end stretched long, heavy, and skeptical. You almost thought he had vanished completely. Then, at last, a mutter slid through the bond, quiet and grudging.

“Not really. But at least you’re honest.”

And then he was gone. Whatever mental equivalent of a door he had, he slammed it shut with finality.

You sat blinking into the darkness, stunned. It wasn’t the warm, dreamy connection you had always heard about. It was prickly, sour, and utterly insulting. Yet beneath the malice lingered something else, something that caught at your chest. His thoughts had sounded ragged, desperate, like someone who had been burned too many times already.

When your father stirred awake with a groggy yawn, you wasted no time. You immediately launched into the story, recounting every detail in a rush of words: the voice, the insults, the strange way it all worked. He rubbed his chin with one hand, eyes half-lidded in the hotel’s dim light, and let you finish.

Finally, he sighed, the kind of sigh that seemed to carry the weight of far-off storms and unanswered questions. His hand scrubbed down his face before settling on his knee.

“Well,” he said softly, voice thick with sleep, “soulmates don’t always start like fairy tales. Sometimes they’re just people. And people… can be complicated.”

“He’s an ass,” you muttered hotly, clutching your blanket like it might shield you from the memory of that voice.

“Language, my dear,” your father warned, though his tone was more weary than sharp. He shifted on the mattress, trying to wake fully, and gave a low groan. “And I can’t say I approve of it. Kids shouldn’t be talking this young through a bond. It takes years sometimes, years. But he sounds hurt.” His brows knit, shadowed in the faint lamp light. “You’re sure he’s a kid?”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. “I said I’m a boy.”

That pulled him up short. He blinked, then gave you a long, level look. For a heartbeat, you thought he might scold you, but instead, he chuckled, warm and tired and proud all at once.

“Of course you did,” he said, shaking his head as if the answer had been obvious. “That’s my kid.” He leaned back against the pillows, the lines around his mouth easing. “Just be his friend, if he talks again. You shouldn’t be anything more than that. Not now.”

You sagged into the covers, chewing your lip, his words echoing in your chest. Friend. Not more. You wanted to believe it would be that simple.

But as you lay there in the dark, listening to your father’s steady breathing return to sleep, you could still feel the boy’s ragged voice like a bruise pressed against your ribs.

He didn’t talk much for the first few weeks. Just bitter little thoughts that leaked through: salt spray, shouting sailors, the clang of a galley kitchen. You pieced together that he worked on a ship, cooking for people who probably didn’t appreciate him.

The unfairness of it burned. He was only nine, and already he sounded like the world had chewed him up and spit him out.

And he thought a lot about food. To the point that you were sure he was doing it to ensure he didn’t think of anything else. So much so, you’re pretty sure he didn’t even touch your thoughts unless you metaphysically pushed them on him. He made it, honestly, a little too easy. You immediately clocked that the child had no self-esteem.

One night, when he was thinking about how much he hated peeling potatoes, you slipped in, thoughtfully observant. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want them to cook evenly, you have to keep the slices the same size. My family… my dad knows a lot. He taught me.”

The boy bristled instantly. “Oh, well, excuse me, rich boy. I didn’t realize my soulmate was some fancy brat.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “I’m just saying. If you’re going to cook, do it right.”

“I’m on a ship full of idiots who can’t boil water! Cut me some slack!”

The weeks after that were strange. His thoughts dripped in now and then, like someone muttering behind a wall. Shouting sailors, waves slamming against wood, the stink of fish. Pots banging in a kitchen in rhythm. 

He worked on a ship. Obviously. 

One night, while he was grumbling about overcooked vegetables, you said, “You know, you’re supposed to salt it before you blanch it. Then only cook till it gets bright, not soggy.”

The sharp pause that followed made you grin.

“Oh, really? Did your butler teach you that?” 

You snorted.

“I don’t have a butler. But I know what I’m talking about.”

The snort on his end was pure scorn. “Oh, no. My soulmate’s a snob. Perfect. Just perfect. A snobby boy who thinks he knows food better than me.”

“I didn’t say better,” you shot back. “I said right.”

“Listen, rich boy. I’m already cooking circles around whatever chef feeds you.”

That ass. Even worse, despite his piss-poor attitude, he did seem to have the makings of a good chef. A hard worker who took criticism well and responded to it perfectly. And whenever you dared to press him for details—what he cooked, how he cooked it—his descriptions weren’t childish. They were vivid, technical, full of detail, and love. He knew food. He lived it.

Still, you had a critic’s tongue. And you weren’t going to let him off easy.

“You see, the broth’s rich, but if it’s that oily, it’ll coat the tongue and drown the flavor. Balance matters.”

“Don’t tell me about balance, snob. I’ve been cooking since I was old enough to walk. You wouldn’t know real food if it bit you.”

“Better than listening to a nine-year-old who thinks pepper is spicy.”

The bond vibrated with his indignation. “You take that back!”

You smirked into your menu. “Make me.”

He cooked. You critiqued. He threw temper tantrums when you poked holes in his pride, and you secretly admired the way he cared so much about getting every dish right.

The two of you were children bickering across a bond, but somehow, in the rhythm of recipes and insults, you gave him what no one else did: someone who saw him not as a burden, not as a tool, but as a boy who wanted to be more.

Even if he still thought you were just another boy. Sanji was a rude little jerk about that, very specifically. That much was clear.

He constantly insulted you, snapped at every correction, and treated your input as an annoyance. But you could hear the cracks in his pride. The way his stomach growled louder than his bravado. The way he thought about food was not just with skill, but with desperation, like it was the only thing that kept him tethered to the world.

So you were kinder than he merited, but you could spot a child without a childhood from a mile away.

“You’re too harsh on yourself,” you told him once, after he’d cursed his soup for the tenth time in a row.

“Shut up, rich boy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The silence stretched, then he muttered, “…It’s not enough. I want it to be enough.”

It was moments like that that kept you from snapping back at him. Because underneath all the vinegar, he was just a boy who wanted someone to like what he made.

“Don’t be friendly, butt-face. I don’t make friends with guys.”

You almost laughed, but you bit it back. Because the truth was…he cared. You could feel it in the way he thought about food, even when he was cursing the sailors or grumbling about their empty stomachs. His voice came alive whenever he planned a dish, even the simple ones.

That was the first thing you admired about him. Not his manners, not his attitude, but the way he lit up at the thought of feeding people.

Age 11:

When the shipwreck came, you felt it through him; the slam of panic, the wrench of hunger, the bleak, endless churn of the sea pressing against him like a weight. Then, silence. Not that he was gone, but that he had nothing left to think with but emptiness. The kind of silence that filled your chest with cold dread, that made every heartbeat loud and accusing.

When his voice finally cracked back through, it was raw, thin, frayed around the edges. 

“I hardly have anything left. Just water. I’m gonna die here.”

The words were not just spoken—they were carved into your mind, each one a blow. What were you supposed to say to that? Comfort him? Promise him miracles? You swallowed, your throat tight. 

“No, you won’t—can’t—You’ve got me—I’ll keep you company.”

He huffed, a bitter sound, as if he would rather simply let the ocean claim him than hear your voice. But you stayed. You held the line, even when your own stomach twisted with emptiness, even when your hands shook because you hadn’t eaten, because you felt the ghost of his pain in your own body. Your father would later tell you how worried he had been for you at this age. You barely touched your meals. You’d become so skinny he could see your ribs through your shirts.

But at the moment, how could you bear to eat when your friend could not?

When he was starving on that rock with the old pirate Zeff, you became the echo that refused to leave him. You kept him talking, coaxed him out of the silence that threatened to swallow him whole. You asked him what he would cook if he could, the one thing that made him feel alive again. You made him describe every step: the way he’d chop onions, how the broth would simmer, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan, the smell of garlic and butter melting together. You painted the kitchen with your voice. You filled the bond with imaginary flavors, coaxing him to remember the things he loved, to taste them again with his mind even when his body could not.

You imagined the heat of the flames, the shimmer of oil on the pan, the soft thump of bread dough under practiced hands. You watched him through the bond as his voice, so faint at first, grew steadier, sharper. For a moment, you could almost hear him laughing at himself, nearly taste the sweetness of a meal long imagined.

And in that fleeting, miraculous space, hunger didn’t rule. Fear didn’t rule. The ocean was still endless and cruel, but between you, between your voices and shared breaths, there was a small, defiant warmth.

You weren’t there to save him from the sea, or from Zeff’s harsh lessons, or from the gnawing ache in his belly. You were there to keep him alive in the only way you could. And in keeping him alive, you were also teaching yourself how to endure.

“Grill a fish for me.”

“You’re insane.”

“Come on. Humor me.” 

A pause. 

Then, grudgingly, “…Fine. I’d score the skin so it doesn’t curl, brush it with oil, salt it—just enough, no more—and cook it over open flame. The fat would crackle. The skin would blister and pop. It’d smell like the ocean got better.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in the imagined aroma. You could almost feel the warm flesh flaking off the bone, the sharp tang of salt on your tongue. 

“That’s better than the stew I saw tonight.”

He laughed, weak and ragged, a sound that made your chest ache. 

“Finally. You admit I win.”

But the days stretched on. Weeks blurred into one another. The hunger was relentless, gnawing at him, molding him into someone thinner, bitterer, more fragile than the boy you knew. His laughter came less often, his voice quieter, and every word felt carved from exhaustion.

All you could do was talk. Ask questions, coax stories, imagine meals, tease memories. You wove entire feasts in the bond, from tiny flicks of bread crust to oceans of soup steaming in an imagined kitchen. You told him he couldn’t give up, even when his own mind was fraying. You tried to make him remember that the world could still be good, even if the sea refused to be kind.

And you hated it. You hated the warmth of the sunlight on your skin, the bite of real food in your mouth, and the comfort of your own bed. You hated being alive, fed, safe, while he withered on that rock, the salt of the ocean in his hair, the bitter tang of survival in every breath. Every bite you swallowed felt like theft, every laugh a betrayal.

So one night, you said out loud at dinner, the words tumbling out before fear or caution could stop them, “I’m going to sea. I’ll find him.”

Your father froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Absolutely not,” he said, the strain in his voice sharp with worry. “Do you even know where he is? The seas are dangerous. Pirates, storms…you could—”

“It’s not okay!” you shouted, your voice cracking with the weight of weeks of imagined horror. “He’s starving! He’s—he’s going to die if someone doesn’t—”

The words caught in your throat, the taste of helplessness bitter on your tongue. You could feel him, weak and ragged and alone, through the bond, and it made your chest ache with panic.

Your father’s face softened, but it was a sad, almost broken kind of softness. His eyes looked right through you, seeing the child you were, the limits you couldn’t yet surpass. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and the weight of it fell like stone in your stomach, “but… There are some things you can’t do.”

Your hands clenched in your lap. The room felt suddenly too small, too quiet. The silverware clicked against the plate like a metronome marking time you didn’t have. You could almost hear the sea, hear the ache in his voice, hear the hunger that would not wait for permission or logic.

And yet, your father’s words were final. You could not deny the truth in them. You could not yet change the world, no matter how loudly your heart demanded it.

That night, you lay awake, the bond humming faintly in the darkness. You could feel him, a ghost of desperation and fatigue, and though your body stayed in your warm bed, your mind ran wild across storm-tossed waters. Every wave that threatened him was a punch in your gut. Every ragged breath of his was a knife against your ribs.

You hated the helplessness. You hated the restraint. You hated that the world was large, cruel, and indifferent, and that he, your nameless friend, your echo in the storm, was out there, suffering, and you could do nothing.

“I want to help you.”

Sanji scoffed, though weakly, the sound brittle, like dry leaves. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

Understandably, he raged. The rock was merciless, the sun relentless, and the hunger gnawed at him until every thought became a knife twisting in his chest. He cursed at you, barking and trying to push you away through the bond. “You don’t get it! You’re probably eating three meals a day, stuffing yourself while I rot out here!”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t even try. You just listened.

“I’m sorry,”  you whispered once, voice trembling as it traveled across the invisible thread that tied your minds. “I wish I could give you mine. “I wish I could give you mine. I’d hand it to you if I could.”

That silenced him. He didn’t thank you, of course. There were no polite courtesies to be found out here. But after that, the edges of his anger dulled, like waves wearing down stone. A small crack opened in the armor of bitterness he had wrapped around himself, and you filled it with words.

The longer it went on, the gentler you became. You told him stories, anything to distract him from the gnawing emptiness in his belly. You described the way the stars looked from your window, silver against the velvet black sky. You described the gardens near your house, how the roses smelled sweet after rain, how the sun warmed the stone paths. You told him about blankets fresh from the sun, the smell of bread baking, the way a breeze could make a room feel alive.

You became soft in ways you didn’t even recognize. You wrapped words around him like a quilt, stitching warmth into the emptiness, filling silence with presence. You were a hearth, a steady flame, the one thing unyielding in the chaos of his starvation.

And slowly, he let himself lean into it. Slowly, he let himself lean into friendship, allowing the bond carry more than panic, more than anger, more than despair. He began to speak in quieter tones, to answer with memories instead of curses, to breathe alongside your steadiness instead of against it.

It was not a sudden thing. There were still flares of rage, nights when he lashed at the bond like a trapped animal. But you were there. You were patient. You were soft. And he began to trust that you would not leave, that you would not falter.

And in that fragile, trembling trust, the first seed of hope took root.

One night, when his voice was quieter than usual, it came like a thread of smoke through the bond.

“It doesn’t matter if I get lost out here. My family won’t care.”

The words were so flat, so casual, so achingly resigned, that your stomach turned. Your hands clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, you thought he might retreat into silence. But the words came out anyway, like poison he had carried too long, each one leaving a bitter taste in your chest.

“Nothing. I don’t have anyone.”

You couldn’t breathe. Ten. He was ten. Ten years old. And he said it like it had been carved into his bones, a truth he had carried through fire and starvation. You pressed your hands to your chest, feeling the ache of helplessness, the impossible urge to reach across the seas and hold him.

“Can… will… will you tell me your name?”

He paused long enough for your heart to hammer against your ribs, long enough for the silence to throb. Then, quietly, almost afraid, he said, “Sanji. Just Sanji.”

Tears welled in your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. The bond hummed faintly with the tremor of your grief. “Sanji.” You whispered it again, letting the name roll over your tongue, grounding him, giving him weight, giving him life.

“Sanji.”

He startled at the sound, as if hearing it from you—really hearing it—made him real. His voice cracked. 

“Yes?”

“Thanks for giving me your name.”

From then on, the sharp edges between you dulled. He was still rude, still short-tempered, but you saw through it now. You understood why his walls were made of barbed wire. And he understood, in some quiet part of himself, that you weren’t going anywhere.

The rock was merciless.

The sun burned until the stone itself seemed alive with heat. The waves gnawed endlessly at the edges, as though the sea meant to swallow what little remained of them. Days bled into one another, each longer than the last, and the boy on the other end of your bond grew thinner in voice as surely as he was wasting away in body.

Sometimes he raged. His words cracked like a whip across your mind, hot with fury, raw with frustration. Sometimes he fell into silence so heavy you feared you’d lost him altogether. Always, you stayed. Always, you whispered back, held space for him, gave him a tether to the world you could not reach.

You filled the emptiness with the only things you had: stories, memories, ordinary fragments of life. The smell of fresh bread from the oven. The way butter melted into a warm crust and left your fingers slick. The sound of wind rattling dry leaves along the stone path outside your family’s house. The hum of your dad’s voice when he thought no one could hear.

He mocked you for it. He called you a snob, a spoiled boy, a nuisance who knew nothing of hunger. His contempt was sharp, yet fragile. You could hear it in the cracks, in the way he repeated your words back to himself when he thought you couldn’t hear. Each echo betrayed the loneliness behind his anger, the secret longing to be comforted, to be remembered as more than starving flesh on a rock.

One night, when the silence had gone on so long you thought he’d finally slipped beyond your reach, his voice came trembling, raw.

“He gave me everything. He shouldn’t have. I don’t deserve it.”

Your hands curled tightly against your knees, small and trembling, because you were nine years old and not nearly equipped to understand the enormity of what he carried. You had no answer for the depth of sacrifice, no words fit to mend the wounds carved so deep into a boy’s life by hunger and neglect. Still, you whispered the only truth you had, the one thing that felt solid in the shifting tide of despair.

“It’s not your fault.”

Days turned into nights. Nights bled into the thin light of dawn, and still, you stayed. You didn’t pretend the rock was soft, didn’t gloss over the hunger, didn’t flinch from the cruelty of the sea. But in the bond, you created small sanctuaries: the scent of bread, the feel of a sun-warmed blanket, the distant laughter of your father in a room you could never enter. He listened, at first because he had nothing else to cling to, but slowly because he began to crave it.

And one evening, almost imperceptibly, he let himself lean a little closer, letting your words settle into the raw spaces inside him. He still raged at the world. He still yelled into the wind, into the waves, into the void. But when he returned to the bond, he returned to you. Not because he had to, not because the hunger demanded it, but because he had discovered that your presence, your ordinary, human warmth, was a place where he could rest, even for a moment, without fear.

“Maybe you’re not as bad as the rest. Maybe… we can be friends.”

It wasn’t much. Not a confession, not an oath, barely more than a begrudging scrap tossed into your hands. But on that barren rock, beneath a merciless sky, it meant everything.

You marked the days in your journal—almost three months.

The silences were stretching too long.

You pressed your palms together under the thin covers, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might break free from your chest. You tried again and again to reach him, to pierce the distance that stretched between you. Nothing came back but the hollow echo of the bond. It was like shouting into a well and hearing only your own voice bounce back, faint and distant.

When his voice finally returned, it was ragged, barely more than a breath, and it made your chest tighten painfully.

“I can’t… I can’t keep this up.”

Your throat caught. You forced the words past the lump of fear rising there.

“Don’t say that. You can’t give up. You can’t—”

“What would you know about it?” His voice snapped suddenly, sharp and bitter, slicing through the fragile silence. “You’re safe. You’ve got food. You’ve never been starving on a rock with nothing but bones for company. You don’t know what it’s like.”

The bond trembled, frayed, and stretched thinner with every passing day, but you clung to it anyway. You could not let him fall into the empty dark.

When his voice scraped across the silence again, it was broken, raw, too ragged to be anger alone. “If I die out here, maybe it won’t matter. Maybe it’s better this way.”

Your breath caught in your throat, small and shallow.

“Don’t say that. You matter. You’re my friend. You can’t just—”

“You sound like a baby.” He spat, the insult sharp and hollow at once. It had no cruelty behind it this time, only the brittle edge of fear.

You pressed your fist to your chest, willing the ache away, forcing your voice to stay calm and steady even as your stomach twisted. 

“Then I’ll be a baby. I don’t care. You’re still not allowed to give up.”

He did not laugh, not really. But something in him softened, loosened, just enough for the truth to slip past the walls he had built so carefully.

“My family hated me.” The words came low and bitter, coated with a poison he had swallowed for years. “My father called me a failure. Said I was weak, useless, not fit to stand beside them. Told me I killed mom. Locked me away like I was filth. My brothers—”  His voice faltered, thick with shame. “They laughed at me. Hurt me. I thought… maybe they were right. Maybe I am nothing.”

“Sanji,” Your eyes stung with tears you could not shed, burning for him, for the boy who was only ten, yet carried the weight of a hundred lifetimes. “You didn’t deserve that. You never deserved that. You’re not a failure. You’re—” you whispered, saying his name with the gentleness that seemed almost impossible to find in your own small body. “You’re brilliant. The way you talk about food… the way you care about feeding people… You’re good.”

The bond went quiet, taut and trembling, as if holding its breath in disbelief.

He just whispered, barely audible, “…You think so?”

The bond went quiet, taut with disbelief.

“You’re good,” you told him. Steadier now, because he needed it steady. “I don’t care what they said. You care about feeding people. You care about making something beautiful out of nothing. That makes you good. Better than any of them.”

For a long while, he said nothing. You thought maybe he had turned away again, closed himself off, retreating behind the walls he had built so carefully.

But then, faintly, softer than the tide brushing the edges of the rock, a voice.

“…No one ever said that before. Thank you.”

You shut your eyes tight, holding on to him as hard as you could through the bond. 

“Then they didn’t know you like I do.”

The silence that followed was no longer empty. It was full, fragile, and uncertain, yet it carried weight and warmth.

The days blurred together. Hunger gnawed at him until even anger seemed too heavy to carry. You stayed anyway, whispering fragments of life to keep him tethered: the way the sun dappled through your window, painting the wooden floor gold, the scent of tea steeping and curling through the morning air, the faint creak of your house settling at night, the steady hum of your father’s voice as he worked unseen in another room. Every small detail, ordinary and human, became a lifeline.

One evening, when the wind had calmed and the waves lay like dark silk against the rock, his voice came trembling, hoarse and raw with wonder.

“Zeff says there’s a sea where every fish in the world gathers. All of them. Every flavor, every recipe. He calls it the All Blue.”

You smiled softly, pressing your hands to your cheeks as warmth unfurled in your chest. “The All Blue? It sounds… like a place made for you. I bet you’ll find it. I bet you’ll see it one day.”

There was a pause, then a hesitant whisper, almost a laugh, carried along the fragile thread of the bond. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you told him, letting the certainty of your voice wrap around him like a shield. “And when you do, you won’t be alone. You’ll always have someone who believes in you.” Your chest tightened. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering through the bond with all the certainty he didn’t yet have. 

A pause. His breathing came uneven, shaky, but it was alive. For the first time in weeks, maybe even months, his thoughts carried more than despair. They carried eagerness.

“All Blue,”  he murmured again, almost to himself, tasting the words like they were fragile treasures. “Maybe… maybe I really can live. When I find it, we can meet, and I’ll cook you the best food you’ve ever tasted.”

“You will,” you told him, fierce now, because he needed someone to say it without hesitation. “And I promise to eat every last bite.”

And in that moment, you made your promise, sealing it in the quiet between your hearts.

After three months, he was finally rescued.

You felt it before he said a word; an eruption across the bond. Yelling, the clatter of boots on wooden planks, the chaotic tangle of voices after so many weeks of emptiness. The sea had been his only companion, its rhythm steady and merciless. Now the noise of life came crashing back all at once, so loud it made your own ears ring as though you stood there beside him.

Relief poured through him in a wave so strong it left you dizzy. The sharp burn of salt and fear still clung to him, but under it all was the thrum of disbelief, the fragile, reckless hope of a boy who had finally been pulled from the dark.

“I made it,” he whispered, voice so thin you almost didn’t catch it. The words trembled with awe, with exhaustion, with the kind of wonder that comes only when someone honestly hadn’t expected to survive. 

“I didn’t die.”

Tears welled before you could stop them. For a heartbeat, you nearly broke. You almost told him the truth you’d buried since the day the bond had snapped and reformed into something you didn’t fully understand. The lie weighed heavily, sour at the back of your tongue.

But he sounded so small, so breakable, as if even the wrong word might unravel him. He needed certainty, not confession. So you smothered the truth and forced steadiness into your voice.

“Of course you didn’t,” you told him softly, as if it were a guarantee. “You’re going to find the All Blue.”

Age 12:

Recovery made Sanji restless. His body lagged behind the fire in his spirit, and through the bond you never had to guess at his moods. Every stubborn flare, every frustrated surge forward when his limbs trembled too soon, struck you like ripples across still water. His will to move burned bright, but his body had not yet healed enough to carry it.

“Careful,” you warned one morning when his thoughts tilted with dizziness. His pride had been swelling for days, and the pulse of impatience was impossible to miss. “If you fall flat on your face, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

A brush of dry amusement touched the tether, chased quickly by his voice. It was thin with exhaustion but still sharp, still determined.

“Please. I’ve survived worse than a tumble. Don’t worry your stupid head about moi.”

“That is debatable,” you muttered, though warmth crept in as relief. The chuckle that followed was faint but steady, and the sound carried like a lantern flame in the quiet of your mind.

He grew quieter then, his thoughts settling into a steadier rhythm, as if the very act of sharing them out loud helped.

“Old man Zeff says I’m a pain in the ass. But… he’s keeping me.”

“Keeping you? What are you, a stray cat?”

Pride flared across the tether, bright and sharp, almost enough to make you feel the grin tugging at his lips. His heartbeat quickened in the background, a rush of excitement thrumming through the connection.

“No. An apprentice cook. He’s the real deal, and he’s building something—a restaurant on the sea. A place where anyone can come from anywhere, sit down, and eat good food.”

The bond swelled with the image in his mind, so vivid it almost became your own. Ships drifted toward a floating haven, lanterns glowing across polished wood. Shutters opened wide to release warmth and laughter into the night air, while the scent of fire and spice curled into the salt-heavy wind. Beneath that vision was the sharp edge of hunger, carried quietly so you would not feel it too keenly. Yet even that hunger was tempered with pride. A boy once stranded on a rock with an old pirate now dared the ocean to bear witness to his dream.

“The Baratie,” he whispered into the bond, reverent. “That’s what he’ll call it. And I’ll be there. I’ll be the best damn cook anyone’s ever seen. Just watch me.”

Your heart clenched at the raw certainty in his voice. 

“Right now, you can barely stand.”

“Details,” he shot back, pride untouched. His voice brightened with a spark of mischief. “When I am strong again, I will cook. Something incredible.”

“Better than hardtack?” you asked, dry amusement coloring the words.

The tether flared with such mock-offense it nearly bowled you over. His indignation was a vivid rush, half fire and half laughter.

“I told you. It’ll be better than anything you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

The sound of your laugh escaped before you could help it, and it lingered between you like sunlight breaking through cloud. Beneath his bravado you felt the steady burn of his determination. It glowed fierce and unyielding, bright as a flame that no hunger, no pain, and no storm at sea could ever snuff out.

And when Sanji was well, he did cook again. A lot.

Recovery was slow. Zeff drove him hard, not with cruelty, but with conviction born of his own scars. Sanji cursed him constantly in his head, and often cursed you, too for listening.

“He is going to kill me with onions. I swear, I have chopped more in one day than I will ever need in a lifetime.”

“That’s called training, Sanji.”

“That’s called torture.”

The bond filled less and less with hunger, replaced instead by an endless stream of grumbling, complaints, and the fiery stubbornness of a boy determined to prove himself. Yet beneath the noise there was something softer. Gratitude laced through his thoughts in quiet waves, surfacing most often in the late hours when the kitchen fires had gone out and the sea hummed in the distance. He never said it outright, but you felt it all the same.

You were not the family that had cast him aside, or the sailors who had mocked his weakness, or even the teacher who barked orders with a peg leg and a scowl. You were simply there. Unmoving. Steady. And in that steadiness was a kind of healing neither of you had language for yet.

When his brain grew tired and his focus began to fray, you would casually picture the next step of whatever he was cooking and send it through the bond, a quiet reminder not to mess it up.

He usually swore at you, but the curses came softened with a warmth that made them sound almost like thanks.

And not once did you clarify that you were anything other than a boy. At this point, you were invested.

It was easier for him to believe you were just another boy, a friend who mocked and encouraged, who never left when others had. He needed to believe that he could have a companion who was male and not cruel, not dismissive, not a disappointment. And so you let him think it.

Time sharpened him. Hunger gave way to strength, and strength gave way to skill. By thirteen, his thoughts no longer trembled with despair. They carried a steadier pulse, burning with the heat of ambition and the rhythm of knives against chopping blocks.

One evening, in a lull between the chaos of the kitchen and the crash of waves against the hull, he shared the thought that had been lingering in the back of his mind. His tone was casual, but the bond hummed with a strange sort of finality.

“You know… I apologize, but I don’t think I’ll love anyone unless it’s a woman. I know we have a soulbond, but Zeff says it doesn’t always mean romantic. I think we’re one of those friend ones.”

“Ah–” 

You hesitated, your thoughts catching in your throat. Perhaps this was the moment—

“Yeah. It’s just how I am. Maybe it’s because of everything before, maybe not. But are personalities aren’t a match.” His voice was calm, steady, almost reassuring, but there was no hesitation in it. “So don’t take this the wrong way, but… you’re my best friend. You’ll always be my best friend. But that’s all it’ll be.”

You made yourself laugh, light and easy, though the sound scraped thin in your own ears. You did not let him hear the way your shoulders slumped, or the sharp, fleeting sting in your chest that you swallowed down before it could rise.

“I get it.”

And you did. At least, that was what you told yourself.

Later, when the bond dimmed to quiet for the night, you lay awake staring at the ceiling. His absence felt strange, as though he had shut a door behind him that you had not realized was there until it closed. The silence pressed down heavy, not the peaceful quiet of rest but something lonelier, something that made your ribs ache.

You told yourself it was nothing. That you were tired. That his words had been honest, and honesty was something to respect. But in the hollow stillness of your own thoughts, you kept circling back to the small, unspoken truth you could not yet name.

Somewhere along the way, you had grown too soft for him. Too careful with his moods, too invested in his laughter, too warmed by his stubborn fire.

Well, damn.

You might have a little crush on Sanji. And now you had no way out but forward, pretending you were a boy, pretending it was simple, pretending the crack in your chest was not there at all.

Age 13:

He officially recovered. His bones no longer ached with every step, the lines of hunger softened into wiry strength, and the tremors in his thoughts had quieted. He still stumbled sometimes, but now it was from throwing himself too hard into the kitchen, not from weakness. Zeff barked at him daily, and Sanji barked back with twice the volume. The bond no longer carried despair or pain but sparks of energy, confidence, and a kind of mischief that was new.

Sort of recovered, then.

“Okay,” he announced one evening, voice solemn in a way that made you suspicious. “We are bro’s now, right? Brethren. Comrades. Warriors of the woman-appreciating arts.”

“...What?”

“Let us forge a new bond. You and I, respectfully, will observe boobs together.”

You dropped your fork.

“Sanji, did you trip again?”

“I have feelings.”

“You have problems.”

But here was the thing. You also admired breasts. Just, not in the way he did. For you it was more… aesthetic. You thought they were fun—A+ symmetry. Excellent form. You respected the craft. Got to admire what could be.

So a strange little alliance formed. A truce of the tit-minded. A psychic pact of boob-based brotherhood.

His commentary ran through the bond like a sports announcer, and you nearly snorted into your sleeve. You teased him for the overblown dramatics, but the truth was, this odd little ritual became a comfort. His enthusiasm was ridiculous, yes, but it also meant he was alive, recovering, burning with something other than hunger or grief.

And so you let it happen. You were his audience, his partner in the art of admiration. You kept your responses wry and unflappable, though sometimes the bond carried a flicker of his gratitude, quick and embarrassed, before he buried it under another volley of praise.

It was absurd. It was juvenile. And yet, in its own way, it stitched the two of you closer together, and you found yourself craving it for no good reason. His chatter, his nonsense, even his ridiculous devotion to breasts—all of it was proof he was still moving forward.

“That one has an arc like a crescent moon. Silk top. No bra. Controlled bounce. Elite tier.”

“Shaped like fate and a bad pick-up line.” you affirmed, deadpan.

“You’re the only one who understands me.” His tone rang with mock-seriousness, but the flicker of warmth in the bond betrayed how much he meant it.

So you offered practical analysis: comments on symmetry, fabric choices, and the way posture could affect the line of a figure. Half the time it was to tease him, but half the time it was because you wanted to see his laughter brighten the bond.

He whined at you in return, overdramatic, like you were the villain for not properly revering the holy subject.

He was still “recovering,” or so he liked to say when Zeff shoved extra work his way. But you began noticing something else. He had started to call you “bro.” Not once or twice, but often, like the title itself was a shield he was building. A word that meant trust. A word that gave him permission to lean on you without looking weak.

And every time he said it, the word settled against your ribs with a strange weight. You laughed, you played along, you answered like it was nothing. But some quiet part of you ached with the reminder that for him, you were a brother and nothing else.

He was still “recovering.” But you started noticing he referred to you as bro.

A lot.

A suspicious amount, the kind of frequency that felt less like casual slang and more like a public service announcement. As if he needed to gently, repeatedly, remind you that he liked girls and not you. Man-dude-brotherhood-bro-man.

And the thing was, you understood. He obviously had a lot of feelings bound up in being that open and vulnerable, and you were not about to take that from him. Okay. Whatever. That was fine.

Until he pushed it.

“Thanks, bro. You’re my best friend, bro. If I ever meet you in real life, we should—like. Hang out. Very platonically.”

You froze halfway through chewing, the bond buzzing with his sincerity like it was meant to be comforting. For him, it was. For you, the words landed like a slap wrapped in a smile.

“Very platonically,” you repeated, trying to keep your tone dry, like you were rolling your eyes. Like your chest did not sting.

He chuckled, pleased you were in on the joke, utterly unaware of the quiet splinter his certainty had left in you.

Later that night, when the bond dulled into silence, you lay awake staring at the dark ceiling again. His laughter still echoed faintly in your head, golden and unguarded. You should have been glad for it. Instead you bit the inside of your cheek and thought, Platonically. Right. Got it.

And then it hit you with dawning horror. He had adopted you. You were not his secret, not his crush, not his great romance. You were his platonic emotional support soulmate.

Meanwhile, he was becoming increasingly unhinged about girls.

“She said she only dates guys over six feet. I am five feet tall. The betrayal.”

You rolled over in bed and muttered, “Drink some water.”

“Thanks, mon ami. You are always there for me, bro. Even though I—” his voice dipped with melodrama, “I mistook your kindness for years. You are solid.”

You almost felt guilty. Almost.

Then, at two in the morning, he moaned out loud over crab bisque. A long, drawn-out sound of reverence that carried through the tether like a lover’s sigh.

Any trace of guilt evaporated.

Because you realized something crucial.

If Sanji kept believing you were a dude, he would not try to woo you like a starved poet begging a sandwich to elope.

And instead… you got a strange little friendship.

A greasy, puberty-soaked, psychic disaster of a friendship.

He was still a menace. But he asked for advice. You traded notes on girls. You dared each other to eat questionable things from the pantry. He narrated the glory of cleavage like a poet describing sunsets. You offered practical commentary like a weary art critic. You were twelve. It was unhinged. It was messy. It was, against all odds, kind of sweet.

He still made you scream at least once a week, whether from the sheer volume of his dramatics or because he would not shut up about thighs at two in the morning.

But it was manageable.

And then you started growing things.

Things that were inconvenient.

Things that could not be explained away as bro.

Cue your puberty arc.

It began subtly, at first. A strange heaviness in your chest. A new awareness of your body that you tried to ignore. The bond didn’t carry physical details unless you pushed, but the emotions… those were harder to hide. You kept your side of the tether tight, guarded, but sometimes he caught the edge of your self-consciousness.

“Bro, are you good?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sound weird.”

“You sound weird.”

And just like that, the danger would pass.

But still—your shirts began to fit differently. Your reflection started betraying you. And all the while, Sanji was leaning harder and harder into his woman-obsessed arc, narrating the curve of every waitress and noblewoman like a scientist presenting field notes.

Age 14:

He told you he was growing. Taller, stronger, sharper with every pan he wielded. His voice carried pride now, not just stubbornness. You had grown used to the rhythm of his days; the way dawn began with the clang of pots and the mutter of Zeff’s curses, the sting of blistered hands pressed into the bond, the quick rush of satisfaction when a dish came out perfect.

You felt like you were watching someone stitch himself back together, piece by piece. His despair had been replaced by grit, then by fire, until at last there was something almost golden about him.

And then came the day he let slip a thought that hit you like a brick to the chest.

“You know what’s really going to make all this worth it? Women. Someday, I’ll cook for the most beautiful woman alive, and she’ll fall in love with me the second she tastes my food.”

The bond rang with his conviction, his delight in the fantasy. He was utterly sincere, the image as vivid as the flavor of butter and garlic still clinging to his thoughts.

You made a noise you hoped sounded like amusement. “A bold strategy.”

He laughed, bright and unguarded. “You’ll see. That’s what food is for, isn’t it? To make people happy. And women deserve the best.”

The warmth of his dream should have lifted you. Instead, you felt the weight of it settle into you, low and heavy. You told yourself you were only imagining the sting, that it was natural for him to think like this, that you had always known he saw you as a brother and nothing more.

He paused, the bond hitching slightly.

“You good? I just… you just felt a little down.”

You raised a brow at the ceiling. “Ah, no worries. Just, uh, the usual growing pains.”

He chuckled.

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t like girls.”

“I—” You scrambled, because the truth wasn’t an option. “…I guess I do?”

Technically, it was not a lie. You liked girls the way you liked a good meal or a piece of art. You could appreciate them, admire them, even joke about them with him. But not in the way he meant. Not in the way that made his pulse quicken through the bond.

He snorted, triumphant.

“Not enough, apparently. Me, though? I’m going to love every single one of them. Every woman I meet, I’ll treat like a queen. That’s my new vow.”

You shut your eyes, groaning silently into your pillow because of course. Of course his recovery arc had to include developing a crippling devotion to women. Of course he had to declare it like a knight swearing fealty before a holy relic. And of course, you had to feel that vow burn through the bond like a brand pressed against your ribs.

Because that crush thing you were inflicted with was getting worse.

Sanji’s voice in the bond had changed. It was lower now, rougher at the edges, less like a boy clinging to survival and more like someone bracing to chase life headlong. You felt it the way you felt a storm rolling across the horizon; inevitable, electric, impossible to ignore.

His hunger for food had steadied into discipline, but now his thoughts carried a new appetite.

“I saw her again today,” he murmured one evening, his mind hazy with fatigue after a long shift in the kitchen. “One of the regulars. Gorgeous. Perfect legs. I swear the world stopped when she walked in.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your hand flat against your chest as if that would steady the sting.

“She smiled at me, too,” he added, pride flooding the tether so hard you could practically hear him grinning. “Do you think that means something?”

You forced a chuckle. “Probably that she’s polite.”

He groaned dramatically, but underneath it there was a note of hope, the kind that lit him from the inside.

“Where’s your sense of romance?”

“Don’t be an ass. Focus on serving, not peeping.”

“What? You don’t notice women like that?”

Your pulse tripped. Years of pretending to be a boy and now you were cornered by this. The last thing you could do was ruin the illusion.

“…Uh. Sure. Yeah. All the time. Constantly. I notice… uh, women every day. You know. Classic guy stuff.” There was a pause, and you panicked, scrambling for cover. “But every guy knows women need to be worshipped and not drooled over. That’s, uh, guy wisdom. Girls don’t like creeps.”

Sanji hummed, satisfied, like a teacher hearing the right answer on a test. “Huh. I knew you couldn’t be completely hopeless.”

You resisted the urge to slam your head against the wall.

You thought that would be the end of it. But Sanji, once handed an inch, never settled for less than a mile.

One evening, while he was half-burning soufflés in the kitchen and muttering half-formed pickup lines under his breath, you lamented,“If you’re going to chase every woman you see, maybe practice being charming first. Otherwise, you’ll just look like a fool.”

You regretted it instantly.

Because Sanji took those words like holy scripture.

The very next night, the bond lit up with dramatic speeches, practiced lines, and exaggerated praise you could practically hear him rehearsing in front of a mirror.

“Ah, mademoiselle, your beauty eclipses even the stars themselves!”

 “Sanji—”

 “Your smile, a radiant dawn that banishes all sorrow from this cruel world—”

“Sanji.”

“Permit me, fairest one, to kneel before you and offer my undying devotion to your left shoe—”

He ignored you completely, the bond overflowing with passion as if the kitchen itself had become a stage. You could almost hear him flourishing a towel like it was a cape.

By the time he got to “your elegance rivals even the grace of a swan gliding across moonlit waters,” you were ready to scream into your pillow.

 “Bro, Stop. Please.”

“Non! A gentleman never stops wooing a lady!”

You buried your face in your pillow, grumbling. What had you done?

From then on, his puberty years became a parade of absurd declarations. Every girl who stepped foot in the Baratie instantly transformed into, in his mind, the love of his life. A rich woman with a feathered hat, a fisher’s daughter with sunburned cheeks, a traveler with two teeth missing—none were safe from his hopeless devotion.

And every evening, you were the first to hear about it. The bond swelled with his practiced speeches, his endless metaphors, his desperate need for critique.

“Too much?”

“Way too much.”

“Perfect. I’ll say it exactly like that.”

“For Zeff’s sanity, please don’t.”

But he did anyway. And then he came back, giddy or sulking, depending on how badly he had embarrassed himself, and you had to listen to the post-mortem analysis of every failed attempt.

You suffered in silence, because what else could you do? You had built your own prison. The lie of being a boy. The softness you could not take back. The friendship he needed too much to risk breaking.

And Sanji, blissfully unaware, leaned on you as his confidant, his partner in practice, his “fellow admirer of women.”

It was a special sort of hell.

You were just trying to brush your teeth when your soulmate started narrating—again.

“Her hands brushed mine. Soft. Like marshmallows dipped in grace.”

You spat into the sink. 

“She said thank you.” 

“I think I’m in love. Do I name a pastry after her? Is that weird?”

You gagged on your toothpaste.

“You are a child.”

“And?” His voice carried genuine confusion, tinged with indignation. “Love is timeless, bro.”

You wiped your mouth with a towel and glared at the ceiling. “So is stupidity. You cried last week because a girl said you had nice eyebrows.”

“It was INTIMATE.”

And you were far, far too deep to climb out now.

“Brother.”

“No.”

“We are kin. Warrior spirits bonded across time and soup.”

“Shut up.”

“I still see beauty in the world. I’ve merely changed lenses. My heart has expanded. Bro.”

“You cannot telepathically call me bro every five seconds and then immediately describe boobs as 'God’s softest punch.'

“Boobs transcend all.”

"This is true. But unnecessary to say every day.”

It did not matter. Because that night, while you were trying to go to sleep, Sanji started sending mental updates like a sports announcer covering cleavage.

“Ten o’clock. Red dress. Moderate sway. 8/10 bounce, but tasteful.”

You rolled onto your side and dragged the blanket over your head. 

“Correction. I need a witness. You are my witness.”

You buried your face into the review you’ve been editing, snorting. He did not stop. By the end of the week, he had expanded into nicknames, tossing them at you with the same fervor as his boob reports.

“King.”

“My dude.”

“Weaponized vibes.”

You cracked one eye open at the ceiling in the dark. “You are unbelievable.”

“I am a visionary,” he replied smugly.

It was ridiculous. It was exhausting. It was Sanji. And somehow, that alone made it bearable.

Age 15:

At fourteen, Sanji was a menace. And he was developing style.

“Oi’. Broski. Titties, man. Classic. Anyway, you see that one server in the green dress? Perfect. Like two scoops of gelato blessed by Aphrodite.”

He no longer just muttered about women. He sang their praises through the bond, reciting poetry so dramatic you could practically hear him falling to one knee with every word. Every customer who came through the Baratie became a goddess, a queen, a divine miracle who, apparently, required his undivided devotion.

“Her smile, my brother-in-tits. Her smile could cure wars.”

 “She asked you for water, Sanji.”

 “And I gave it to her with my whole heart!”

You had stopped trying to talk him down. Instead, you learned to play along. Not for the same reasons, but because it kept him busy.

“Well, she didn’t have much to look at. 

 A horrified gasp. 

“Are you blind? Her curves were—”

 “I just meant… they weren’t very… notable.”

A stunned pause, then laughter so loud it filled the bond. “You absolute gremlin. You do have a preference!”

You coughed, eyes darting toward your own chest. “I’m allowed to have a preference. Besides, girls with ass are better.”

“My soulmate is a degenerate. I can’t believe this.”

From then on, he teased you mercilessly, accusing you of being “hopelessly shallow.” You countered with smug commentary every time he got rejected. It became its own rhythm: strange, ironic, two “boys” talking like the world’s greatest connoisseurs of women when in reality one of you was just trying to keep your cover intact.

Meanwhile, your own world moved differently. Your dad’s work kept you seated at white-clothed tables and beneath chandeliers, tasting menus designed to impress lords and merchants. You learned to sit quietly while your father scribbled notes, dissecting flavors with the precision of a painter.

Sanji always listened when you described the meals. He was convinced you were wealthy and spoiled (neither true). Sometimes he even asked, eager and jealous, begging you to tell him the details so he could memorize the dishes. But one night, after you recounted the sauces and spices of a grand restaurant, you let the critic rumor mill slip:

 “I read the big critics don’t think the Baratie is popular enough to visit. Not yet.”

The bond went very still.

Then came the explosion.

“What?! Those stuffed aristocrats wouldn’t know real food if it kicked them in the teeth! The Baratie isn’t good enough? I’ve bled for every plate that leaves our kitchen! Zeff lost his leg for this dream! How dare they—”

You winced, though a smile tugged at your lips. 

“I didn’t say it.”

Technically, your dad did.

“I don’t care who said it! They’re wrong! They think food is about gold leaf and porcelain, but food is about heart. About feeding people until they’re whole again. You tell them—” He stopped short, realizing you probably couldn’t actually repeat any of this at the dinner table.

His voice softened, though the fire was still burning hot underneath. “…You tell them they’ll eat their words one day. When a real critic comes, they’ll beg for a seat at the Baratie.”

You shut your eyes, warmed by his conviction. 

“I’ll put in a good word.”

Which was about as much as you telepathically gave him, because he was not getting any memories these days. Not a glimpse. Not a hint. Your own body had begun betraying you. Puberty had hit like a freight train, and you were scrambling to keep the wreckage hidden. Your boobs were real now, undeniable, inconvenient—and Sanji, blessedly, had no clue.

At least… not consciously.

But he was getting weirdly twitchy. It was like his boob radar had somehow become telepathic, as if he could sense through the bond that something was off.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m doing things.”

“…Your voice is different. Lighter?”

You immediately dropped your tone two octaves, telepathically forcing it down until you sounded like a twelve-year-old Batman.

“It’s a cold.”

He didn’t buy it. 

“You didn’t rate Bodega Babe’s strut yesterday.”

“Didn’t see it.”

Silence. Then, in the most serious tone you had ever heard from him, “Bro… are you okay?”

“I’m getting a mustache.”

“…Liar. You're lying. I feel lies in my sternum.”

“You have heartburn from sipping tequila and flirting with that barista.”

“…Her apron said ‘Anna’ and she looked at me like she knew I was broken.”

“She was trying to see the menu behind you.”

He groaned like a widower in a tragic opera. “No. No, there was heat in her gaze. The way her eyes lingered… she knew my soul.”

“Bro. Just give up.”

“Never.”

Age 16-17:

By sixteen, the bond had become its own language.

You and Sanji had built an unspoken routine. Whenever you saw a woman you thought he would appreciate, you sent him the image; a mental snapshot, the slope of a shoulder in candlelight, a flash of laughter caught in passing, the swish of a skirt in summer air. In return, he sent you whatever goddess had graced the Baratie’s doors that day.

It became a game. A trade of devotion. His mind brimmed with waitresses and travelers, merchants’ wives and noblewomen who barely noticed him. Yours offered fleeting glimpses of strangers at white-clothed tables, a baroness with pearls, a maid balancing too many trays, a girl ducking into a carriage before the rain.

Each “delivery” came with commentary.

“Perfect symmetry, mon ami. Like gelato crafted by divine hands.”

“She was holding soup, Sanji.”

“And yet she elevated it.”

Or:

“She was laughing. Not at me, just… laughing. Freckles. She’s a goddess.”

“Her shoes were mismatched.”

“Unnatural grace and style. An icon.” Then Sanji upgraded the system. He started sending you boob reports.

“Saw some today. Real ones. Bounce: controlled. Shirt: lavender. Nine out of ten.”

You nearly dropped your spoon. “Sanji, I’m eating cereal.”

“Respectfully, I cried.”

The reports did not stop.

“Waitress, navy dress. Bend-and-reach maneuver. Ten out of ten. Possibly life-changing.”

You rubbed your eyes. “I was trying to book a ticket and had to hang up.”

“This is more important, bro. The geometry alone.”

By the third week, you were convinced he thought he was running an international broadcast.

“Breaking news: traveler in a sundress. Subtle sway. Excellent posture. That’s a nine-point-five.”

“Breaking news: shut up.”

And still, you laughed. Because underneath the ridiculous commentary, there was the steady thrum of his pride, his joy, his eagerness to share his world with you.

Then the nicknames began.

It became ritual. He would announce himself through the bond at random hours like he was stepping onto a stage. “Greetings, my Bro-mate, Chest Wingman, Prophet of Sauce. Today I bring tidings of cleavage most divine—”

“Shut it, Milk Brain.”

“I am wounded. A dagger to the soul.”

“Good. Emergency Mute Mode: activated.”

He laughed so hard you could feel it shaking in your own ribs, a joy so loud it almost made the ridiculousness worth it. Almost.

It was absurd. It was crude. It was also your favorite game.

Your dad caught you more than once staring off into space at dinner, brow furrowed, lips twitching. He thought you were daydreaming.

You were not daydreaming.

You were arguing telepathically with a tiny French pervert about whether boobs were better framed by overalls or sundresses.

You failed an entire tasting test because he yelled “CUP SIZE!” mid-aperitif, nearly making you choke on your water. Your father circled something in his notes with a frown while you fought not to slam your head on the table.

Through it all, you remained his mysterious “bro.” His fellow appreciator of form. His sacred partner in bounce. The Brotherhood of Boobs, sworn and eternal.

And it was ridiculous. He still thought you were a guy. Meanwhile, you were actively growing boobs of your own. It was getting harder to hide. But somehow, the Brotherhood endured.

“Look at her. She’s magnificent! That smile, that dress—”

“Her bust is the only magnificent part. Ass is zero out of seven.”

 “You shameless little bastard.”

 “Takes one to know one.”

You were “boys-boys,” as Sanji once put it, laughing until his sides hurt. Two comrades-in-arms, endlessly cataloging the wonders of womanhood like explorers mapping out forbidden lands.

And yet… it was not the exact truth for you. Not anymore. His laughter lit the bond in ways you could not laugh away. His pride, his joy, the way he let you glimpse his dreams and frustrations—it all pressed too close to the parts of you you could not admit.

The Brotherhood was real. But so was the ache it left behind.

Your own body was changing, and you hated it. You stood in front of the mirror some nights, pressing your palms flat against your chest, willing yourself to grow into the kind of curves Sanji adored. Triple JJJ’s, impossible, cartoonish, but still you wished. The reflection only disappointed you. Too slow. Too uneven. Too far from the illusion of the “bro” you pretended to be.

And worse: your heart stuttered for men, not women. You could admire a lovely figure, sure. You could acknowledge beauty the way one admired a painting or a jewel, but the fire Sanji felt, that restless hunger, never came to you.

But when a handsome waiter leaned over your table at one of your dad’s dinners, you went scarlet so fast you nearly choked on your drink.

And in the bond, Sanji’s voice was laughing and bright, oblivious.

She must’ve been stunning. Tell me, what did her legs look like?”

You forced a laugh, forcing the lie with it.

“Perfect. Great rear end.”

The word scraped your throat raw as it went out.

And Sanji, satisfied, launched into another ode about curves and goddesses, while you sat under the chandelier with your pulse still racing, wishing the truth did not feel so sharp.

Age 18:

It happened at a random dinner, or at least it felt that way to you. The chandeliers burned bright above, spilling gold across polished wood and crystal glass. The guests were not ordinary diners. They were the names behind columns, the voices that could crown a chef or sink an establishment in a single night. Each laugh, each whispered aside carried the weight of authority.

And then there was… the bird.

Amid the swirl of velvet coats and silk gowns sat a giant white bird. Not a roast pheasant on a platter. Not a metaphor. An actual bird. His feathers caught the candlelight in gleaming arcs, his wings folded with precise neatness as if they had been tailored for the chair he occupied. A crisp suit clung to his frame, the silver buttons polished, the fabric dark enough to make his plumage blaze like snow. A monocle gleamed on one sharp eye, and every so often, he tapped his beak against the rim of his wineglass like he was testing its acoustics.

“Is that… a giant bird?” you whispered.

As if on cue, the bird dipped his quill into an inkwell balanced beside the breadbasket and began scribbling in a leather journal, pausing only to sample the soup with exaggerated delicacy. The monocle flashed. The soup trembled. The bird sighed.

“Christ,” you muttered, leaning back. “I’m going insane.”

Sanji’s voice buzzed through the bond, curious. “What’s wrong?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Nothing. Just… an albatross in a tuxedo judging consommé.”

There was a pause. Then, delighted laughter. “Bro. Introduce me immediately.”

Your father noticed your stare. He did not look surprised. He only leaned slightly toward you, his voice pitched low so it folded into the murmur of the hall.

“Big News Morgans,” he said, with the calm certainty of a man naming the weather. His gaze lingered on the avian guest, then returned to you. “He is likely looking for new talent. Perhaps you could impress him.”

You blinked. “The bird writes?”

“With impeccable scandal. And he’s a man, likely ate a devil fruit. Be careful, but I hear he has a soft spot for hiring young women.”

The words carried more weight than the clinking glasses and murmured reviews around you. In a room full of critics, here sat the one who could spread a story across seas, who could make an unknown name a legend before dessert was cleared from the table. The very thought made your stomach tighten.

By eighteen, you had developed a skill your father now openly bragged about. You were no longer simply listening at the table. You were tasting, weighing, dissecting dishes with a tongue sharpened by years of watching critics work. You knew the way salt could drown rather than lift, the way an herb could be wasted if torn instead of bruised, the way fire left its mark in bitterness or brilliance, depending on the cook’s hand.

And Sanji, nosy as ever, chimed in across the tether. “Okay, but does the albatross wear pants, or just the tuxedo jacket?”

You bit back a laugh into your napkin. 

“Sanji. This bird could end your career before it starts.”

“Then I must woo him. Brother, tell him my soufflés weep for recognition.”

You had to block him, clamping down hard on the tether before you burst out laughing in front of half the nation’s food elite.

“Focus, my dear,” your father said, eyes bright. “Show these amateurs true taste.”

Your father leaned back, watching with a glint of approval as you delivered your verdicts. Sometimes you flayed a dish with a single phrase sharp enough to make the chef pale. At other times,, you praised with a precision that made even the most jaded critic pause, made even the proudest chef glow. You were not a mimic, not a parrot of the older voices around the table. You had developed a style all your own, one that cut straight to the marrow of a meal.

And hilariously, Sanji had no idea why you knew food so well. He could not stand it. 

“Bro, how the hell do you know what a reduction is? You’re a liar.”

“I read things.”

“You’re a fraud. You don’t even cook. You’re just sitting in some velvet chair sipping soup while real men blister their hands in the kitchen.”

“Real men don’t cry because a girl said their eyebrows looked nice.”

“Low blow, you snobby moron.”

He called you that three times a week now. Snobby moron. And every time, you grinned into your napkin, because it was the closest he had ever come to admitting he was jealous.

The bond crackled whenever you corrected him. He would plate something too quickly, a hint of bitterness lingering in the sauce, and your thought would slip through before you could stop it.

“Too much zest. It drowns the cream instead of balancing it.”

His pride roared back instantly. 

“What do you know?”

“Enough to taste your mistake without even touching the plate.”

“Liar,” he snapped, but there was a waver of uncertainty, a boy who hated that you could pinpoint the very flaw gnawing at his own tongue.

You did not gloat, but you did not soften either. You had been raised in a world where words could elevate or destroy, and when it came to food, there was no space for half-truths. Precision mattered. Honesty mattered.

Sanji seethed, furious that someone so far away could dismantle him more cleanly than Zeff’s barked orders ever could. His outrage poured through the tether like smoke, thick and bitter.

And yet beneath it, buried deep under the heat, there was something more dangerous. A reluctant edge of pride. Grudging respect.

Because the worst part, the part that made him hiss “snobby moron” like a curse and a prayer all at once, was that you were good enough.

And you were good enough.

That dinner had been loud with laughter and the soft scrape of silver on porcelain, but it was your words that cut clean through the noise. You had spoken without hesitation, your critique balanced between precision and bite, and the table had gone still enough that even the quartet faltered mid-note.

Across the hall, the great white bird leaned forward. His monocle caught the light as his keen eye fixed on you. For a moment, you wondered if you had overstepped, if your father’s approving smile was not enough to shield you from the sudden attention.

Then Big News Morgans laughed. It was a booming, unapologetic sound that silenced every other conversation in the room. He clapped his feathered wings together once, a gesture that was strangely elegant despite the force behind it.

“Big News! A sharp new talent,” he said, his voice carrying easily. “The tongue of a critic, but not the stale kind. Young, biting, fresh. I like it.”

Your father inclined his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Morgans’ gaze returned to you, pinning you in place as surely as talons. “You will dine with me again. And not just here. I want you under my wing.” His beak curved in something between a grin and a threat. “The world runs on words, and mine run faster than anyone’s. A voice like yours belongs in print.”

There was no question in his tone, only certainty. Around you, murmurs began to ripple, critics shifting uncomfortably at the thought of a seventeen-year-old being plucked from the table and lifted straight into Morgans’ empire.

You swallowed once, pulse quickening, then inclined your head. “If you think I am worth the ink.”

The bird’s laugh thundered again. “Ink is the cheapest part. Talent is the rarest.”

And just like that, you were hired.

You barely made it back to your room before you shoved the news across the bond, your excitement spilling over before you could rein it in.

“I got hired.”

There was a beat of silence, then Sanji’s laugh slid into your head, smug and sharp. 

“Of course you did. Rich kid like you? Daddy probably lined something up so you can sit in a big chair and look important.”

Your smile tightened. 

“It was not my father.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” he scoffed. “Let me guess. A nice office, some tea poured for you, perhaps a pretty secretary taking notes while you nap? Sounds exhausting.”

“You really are an ass.”

“I am just saying,” he replied, utterly unbothered, “People like you do not actually work. You just… attend things. Sit in rooms. Pretend it is hard.”

You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping. “You will eat those words.”

“Yeah? How? Mail me a snack schedule?” He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself.

You cut the bond with a sharp tug, leaving him in the dark. Let him stew. He had no idea what you were really capable of.

And so you sharpened your pen.

When a colleague’s notes on a restaurant crossed your desk, you recognized the name instantly.

The Baratie. Zeff’s floating dream. Sanji’s pride.

You should have set it aside. You should have let another writer take it. Instead, you read every line of the notes, every dish described in painstaking detail, every weakness scribbled in the margins. You pictured them in your head, weighed them as though the plates were set steaming before you.

Your words spilled onto the page like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

By the time you finished, your critique was scathing enough to sting but precise enough to stand the test of time. You did not lie. You did not invent. You simply pressed your advantage, every word honed sharper than the last. The seasoning was uneven. The bread lacked air. A sauce overreduced and saved too late. All true. All damning.

When the piece went to print, you sat back and stared at your reflection in the ink-stained window. The press clattered behind you, sheets still wet with fresh black letters, your byline gleaming at the top of the page.

Somewhere across the sea, Sanji would read it. Somewhere across the bond, he would not know it was you.

And yet you could already imagine his outrage, the way it would crash into you like a storm.

It was only a matter of time.

And you wondered, just for a moment, if you had gone too far.

A month passed.

Sanji read it.

And fumed.

The bond quivered like it might snap under the sheer heat of his outrage.

“WHO THE HELL DOES THIS CRITIC THINK THEY ARE?!” His voice blared into your skull, raw and furious. “They called our bread FLAT. FLAT! Zeff nearly broke his teeth on the counter when I read that out loud!”

You pressed your knuckles to your lips, fighting a laugh. “Well… was it flat?”

“That is not the point!”

“It kind of sounds like the point.”

“A point?” His fury spiked, every word shaking with disbelief. “A point?! He called us clowns! A clown in my own kitchen! Do you know what that means?”

You hummed lightly, hiding your grin behind the quiet. 

“Maybe they were just… honest.”

The bond nearly caught fire. 

“Honest? That was slander wrapped in smug punctuation! Zeff worked on that menu for days, and this smug quill-pusher tears it all apart as if it were a joke! He does not know a damn thing about sweat, about knives, about fire—”

“I mean, it wasn’t all bad. Maybe he has high expectations?”

“Shut up!” Sanji barked, though his voice cracked more like a sulky boy than a hardened chef. “He said the only redeeming thing was the dining hall! The hall! As if Zeff’s dream is just a pretty room, and my food is the circus inside it. I swear, when I find him—”

“What will you do, cook him to death?”

There was a beat of silence, the bond tight with sputtering indignation. Then he exploded again, louder than before.

“I’ll break his hands so he can never write again! I’ll throw him in the pantry and drown him in cream sauce! I’ll—”

Ah, vengeance.

You were already laughing, the sound ringing bright and merciless between you.

Sanji seethed, pacing like a caged lion on the other end of the tether, his fury spilling in jagged bursts you could barely keep up with. Every insult from the article echoed through his mind, as if he were being stabbed with them anew.

“You’re sounding very colorful for someone who insists he’s not a clown.”

That only stoked the flames higher. Sanji raged louder, inventing punishments, swearing vengeance, and declaring that he would track the writer down and force him to beg for forgiveness with a mouth stuffed full of failed soufflé.

To him, you were only laughing in the wings, needling him while some faceless, feather-penned villain ruined his reputation before it even had time to grow. He had no idea you had sharpened the ink yourself, that your words had been the blade.

And Morgans’ paper sold more copies than ever. The review spread like fire through the city, carried by hawks and whispered in taverns. Chefs argued, critics gossiped, patrons demanded to see the floating restaurant for themselves. Zeff scowled at the attention, Sanji boiled with humiliation, and Morgans smiled like a king counting coins.

Your name was not attached, of course. Critics like you purposely remained faceless, your power magnified by anonymity. Diners argued over which paper you belonged to, chefs cursed your unseen hand, and Morgans reveled in the sales spike each review brought.

Sanji had no idea.

However, that never stopped you from criticizing him inside his head. If anything, you relished the privilege.

“Too much pepper.”

He cursed you, seethed at you, accused you of being possessed by the ghost of some cranky Parisian food critic. But beneath every insult was the truth he could not shake: you were right.

And you knew it.

“What do you mean the soup was unbalanced?” he snarled one evening, practically shaking through the bond. “I balanced the stock perfectly!”

“Balanced for peasants, maybe,” you teased, lips curving against your glass of wine. But it lacked depth—no layering of flavor. A critic would call it pedestrian. I saw that oily sheen. No wonder the review was poor.”

“Pedestrian?! I’ll show you pedestrian! One day you’ll eat my cooking and beg for forgiveness, snob.”

You only laughed, and he could feel it, which made him angrier. Which made you laugh harder.

“Do you want some consolation boobs?” you offered sweetly.

There was a long beat of sulky silence.

“…yes.”

“Okay, but only if you stop moaning over soup.”

The bond went quiet, sulk melting into reluctant laughter, and you smiled into your wineglass.

Age 19:

You were both working. You were also both unwell.

Sanji had taken to writing tragic haikus about cleavage.

“Two orbs of sorrow / Lifted by the gods of light / My heart collapses.”

You were collecting them in a notebook titled He Needs Help But I Can’t Afford Therapy. It already had a table of contents and an appendix.

People thought you were talking to your imaginary friend. Which… you were. He just also happened to be real, French, and one wrong flirtation away from a restraining order.

It was the era of shame.

At least once a week, someone caught you mid-conversation with him.

A waiter: “Can I take your order, miss?”

You: “No, Sanji, you cannot compare her legs to linguine.”

The waiter: “…I’ll come back.”

Your dad: “What did you just mutter?”

 You: “I said… ah… metaphors are inappropriate in braise.”

Your dad: “…Right.”

Sanji, delighted, never stopped.

“Bro, listen: ‘Her beauty—like a fine béchamel, warm, silky, devastating.’”

“Stop.”

“Write that down.”

“I am not enabling you.”

You groaned into your sleeve, because the worst part was, you did write it down. And the notebook grew heavier by the day.

The era of shame grew.

Eventually, you gave up entirely. You were now a man. Resistance was futile. You leaned into the madness.

The two of you began sharing live field reports like wildlife documentaries—except pervier.

“Observe, brother, the rare Café Waitress in her natural habitat. Note the impeccable posture as she balances three lattes, each step a testament to grace.”

You whispered back, crouched over your desk, trying not to laugh. “Yes, and notice the bounce. Controlled. Efficient. The herd respects her dominance.”

“Magnificent.”

By mid-summer, the broadcasts had gone fully David Attenborough.

“Ah, Bro, a bookstore maiden approaches. Sundress, floral print, hemline breezy. Watch closely as she bends for the bottom shelf.”

“Copy that. Arc noted. Display: subtle. Would rank in the lavender blouse tier.”

“You are a scholar. A prophet.”

And the shame deepened. Because not only were you participating, you were good at it. Too good.

The notebook was no longer just a log of tragic haikus. It was an encyclopedia. A field guide. A collaboration.

You had stopped fighting. Somewhere along the way, resistance crumbled, dignity collapsed, and you accepted your fate: you were now a man. Or at least, you were Sanji’s man. His partner. His “bro-mate.” His fellow soldier in what had become the Brotherhood of Bounce.

Sanji, smug bastard that he was, had never been prouder.

It began casually, as everything did with him. A stray comment here, an enthusiastic note there. But by nineteen, the two of you had perfected an unholy art: live field reports. Delivered in solemn tones, with the gravitas of wildlife documentaries—except, of course, much, much pervier.

“Monday. Three seventeen,” he whispered into your skull one afternoon. “Lady at the fruit stand you saw. Bent over. Full coverage but optimal curve.”

You sighed, trying not to choke on your tea.

“That’s Brenda. She gave me a grape once.”

“Saint Brenda.”

And so it went. The Brotherhood developed a sacred code. This was no longer about lust. No—it had transcended that. This was about form. Motion. Physics. Respect. Perhaps even, in the strangest corners of your soul, a slight fear of God.

Naturally, a system emerged. Bounce Quality. Support Integrity. Style-to-Movement Ratio. Spiritual Impact. Reports came coded, assessed, debated, and filed.

“Babe in the hallway,” you murmured once, sitting stiff-backed at a dinner you were meant to be paying attention to. “Slow sway. Cardigan over camisole. Hidden but felt. Eight out of ten.”

Sanji’s breath caught. “Emotional resonance?”

You swirled your wine, contemplative. 

“Haunting.”

He practically clutched his chest. “Poetry, bro.”

You stopped blinking when he started screaming reports like battle cries.

“White blouse with buttons—UNSTABLE STRUCTURE. Wool sweater, minimal effect but loaded potential. Maiden of First Class just dropped a form. Heaven wept.”

You whispered, “Sanji, please,” into your sleeve during a fancy work event, praying no one noticed your shoulders shaking.

But more often than not,, you found yourself reporting in, too.

You were mid-bite into a sandwich once when instinct overtook you. “Middle-aged lady in yoga pants just power-walked past me. Unreal bounce. Like—built-in metronome.”

The bond went silent. Then, soft as confession, he spoke.

“…I love you, man.”

You scowled at your bread. “Don’t make this weird.”

“No,, I mean platonically. Like, I’d kill for your insight.”

“That’s worse.”

And still, you kept going. Once, you described a tank top so moving Sanji burst into song. Out loud. To himself. In public. He was slapped by the sous-chef for “inappropriate humming,” and you laughed until your ribs hurt.

By then, the system had been formalized. Reports came with sign-offs. He would end transmissions with: “Bounce: logged.”

You start replying: 

“Approved.”

“Noted.”

“Emotionally scarring.”

“Filed under religion.”

It was absurd. It was cursed.

He still didn’t know. He still thought you were a boy. He still thought you were just another cretin in this glorious puberty war. Meanwhile, you were growing actual boobs; real, undeniable, inconvenient. And every day, you prayed he never mentioned you in a field report by accident.

You lived in fear of the day he said, “Found the All Blue. We should meet. Like true bro’s. For good food. To judge the tits in person. Like true bros.”

Because you knew, when that day came, you’d have to bury your face in your pillow, punch it once, and scream yourself hoarse.

-X-Branching Out?-X-

Your days had settled into a rhythm, if a rhythm could be called exhausting. Mornings meant bantering with Morgans, the bird leaning back in his chair like a feathery king, dictating headlines with the imperious air of someone who knew the world bent around his words. Afternoons were for playing editor, scouring drafts, trimming excess adjectives, sharpening the knives of other critics’ work. Evenings were for planning. Restaurant review trips had to be mapped in secret, your face tucked behind menus and veils, slipping into dining rooms as if you were nothing more than another guest.

And then came the writing. Always the writing. Words bled out of you in midnight hours, your pen slicing through dishes with precision, your voice honed until it was sharp enough to make chefs sweat oceans away.

Sometimes, when the ink dried and the city slept, you let the bond tug you back toward Sanji. But it was less frequent now, a thread you picked up only when the silence felt too heavy. You could not tell him much. Not that you were a girl. Not that you were a reviewer. Not that you were the one critic whose words still festered in his chest like a wound he could not close.

Other reviews of the Baratie had surfaced in lesser papers. Pale imitations, lacking Morgans’ reach or your bite. But none carried the same clout. None traveled the seas with the speed of the World Economy News.

And Sanji held a grudge.

Against Morgans. Against the paper. Against the mysterious critic whose name never appeared in print but whose words burned themselves into his pride.

“They will come back,” he muttered once across the bond, his voice low and stormy. “That critic. They will write about us again. And this time, I will make them eat every single word.”

You bit your lip, staring at the draft on your desk, your own handwriting damning him all over again.

“…Maybe.”

However, it seemed you did not need to worry about critics for the moment, because something far more interesting happened. Sanji’s thoughts came crashing into yours like a tray of plates dropped from the second floor, loud, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. He was not thinking about sauces or balance or vengeance anymore. He was thinking about people. A whole table of them. And from the sheer drama pouring through the bond, you braced yourself the way one might before a storm or a stage play that promised disaster.

“You should see these guests. Zeff’s going to blow a gasket. There’s one with a Straw hat that walked in like the king of the sea. .”

You set your pen down, already suspicious. “Straw hat?”

“Yeah, loud brat with a stomach bigger than the sea. He ordered enough food to bankrupt a kingdom and then asked if we could put it on credit. Credit! Who does that?”

“Apparently your new best friend.” 

Sanji scoffed.

“Do not curse me like that. He smiled at me. Like I was family. He doesn’t even know me. I hate him.”

The way his thoughts tripped over themselves told you he did not hate him at all. Maybe even respected him.

“And the swordsman,” Sanji went on, fury building. “Green hair. Dead eyes. Orders more booze than food. Calls me waiter like I’m not an artist. Fell asleep at the table with his swords still out. I should strangle him with parsley.”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

“He is the bane of my existence. He chews like a cow and he has no appreciation for women. None. Zero. The man is a barbarian. If we were not in public I would have kicked him through the wall by now.”

“And the long nose?”

“Oh, him? He cried when the bill came. Actual tears. Claimed he had some tragic medical condition called Broke Disease. The chef almost kicked him overboard.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Sanji…”

“And then there is her.” His voice softened instantly, dazed and reverent. “Ginger hair. Eyes like midnight. She walks like the sea parts to let her pass. A goddess among mortals. She is the one. I will devote my life to her. I will die for her.”

You groaned aloud. “What did she say to you?”

“She asked for breadsticks.”

“…Breadsticks?”

“Yes. Breadsticks! And when I brought them, she nodded. Nodded, bro. Like I was nothing. Like I was beneath the very floorboards she stood on. I have never known such heavenly cruelty. I love her.”

Of course.

His thoughts flickered in and out for the rest of the day, bright bursts of absurd declarations followed by long silences that made you uneasy. At first you dismissed it as typical Sanji melodrama, but soon you began to sense that something was different. His thoughts were unsteady, restless; like a boy pacing in circles, waiting for a decision he didn’t know how to make.

“They’re idiots,” he muttered through the bond at one point, his voice ragged with fatigue and irritation. “Loud, reckless… that swordsman eats like a wild dog. And the captain? He’s insane.”

You almost smiled despite yourself.

“You like them.”

“I don’t!” His protest came too quickly, too sharp, as if he was trying to convince himself more than you. “They’re trouble. They’ll sink within a week. And yet—” 

He cut himself off, but the bond carried what his words did not: the hum of curiosity, the restless tug of something he couldn’t shake.

From what you could glean, the Baratie that day was chaos incarnate. Clattering pans and barking orders. The stomp of boots on deck. The perfume-slick laughter of women drifting in from the dining floor. Sanji thrived in it, a young man with fire in his hands and foolish poetry on his tongue. Yet beneath all of that, the bond hummed with unease.

You felt it before he ever said a word: the restless pacing of his thoughts, the way he turned one possibility over and over until it bruised.

And then he closed himself off. Not completely, but enough that you felt the pressure of his silence, like a locked door pressed against your palms. He was thinking something over. Something heavy.

“You okay?” you asked gently, pushing aside the mounds of paper on your desk so you could focus.

Sanji startled, his thoughts jerking open with a flash of panic. “I’m fine, it’s just…” He hesitated, the pause thick with things unsaid. “I was asked to join a crew. Those diners I mentioned earlier? Pirates. The idiot in the hat was their captain, and I guess they were looking for a cook. But I can’t just leave here—”

Zeff’s presence filled the bond, a looming figure shadowing every word. The Baratie was more than a restaurant to Sanji. It was his home, his proving ground, his stage. The dream he had bled for. Your own reviews had sent streams of new customers through its doors, and though Sanji cursed the critic responsible (unknowingly cursing you), he also thrived on their praise. Each full dining hall set his pride ablaze.

Yet beneath that blaze another feeling stirred, quieter but sharper.

Trapped.

The Baratie, for all its good, was also like a cage. Another call whispered to him every time he glanced at the horizon: the sea, endless and untamed, the promise of the All Blue waiting somewhere out there. Not to be served to him, not to dock at his door, but to be hunted, chased, claimed with his own two hands.

He finally admitted it one night, his voice heavy in the bond, words dragged out of him like secrets from the deep.

“They are going to the Grand Line. Where the All Blue is.”

You smiled into the quiet of your room, eyes sparkling despite yourself. He did not see what you saw. In his restless frustration and scorn, there was a pull he could not hide. Curiosity, hope, even longing.

“You do like them,” you whispered.

“I don’t,” he shot back, but the denial rang hollow, the bond humming with contradiction.

“You want to go,” you pressed gently, your voice soft but steady. “Go with them, Sanji. They’ll take you farther than the Baratie ever can.”

For a long moment, the bond was still. Then you felt it; the shudder of fear, the sharp ache of loyalty, the heavy weight of Zeff’s dream pressing down on him like an anchor.

And underneath it all, the tiniest flicker of possibility—bright, fragile, hampered by guilt.

“If I walk away after everything Zeff did for me… isn’t that betrayal?”

You had felt the question for weeks before he finally spoke it. It had gnawed at him quietly, surfacing in the restless pacing of his thoughts, in the way his pride wavered when the Straw Hats came to mind.

The question struck hard. You let him sit with it, let him wrestle with it in silence, because it was not an answer he could swallow if you fed it too quickly. He had to arrive at it himself.

And now, as he stood trembling in a kitchen that smelled of home and goodbye, the weight of onions and seawater thick in the air, you answered steady as stone.

“You can ask him. You should. But I don’t think Zeff saved you so you could live his dream. He saved you so you could find yours.”

The bond went silent, not in resistance, but in shock. Like he had never once considered that possibility. He bristled, clinging to the fear that had always shadowed him. 

“And if I never find it? If the All Blue’s just a dream?”

You closed your eyes, whispering into the dark. ‘

“Then at least you’ll have lived trying. And that’s worth more than staying still.”

He didn’t answer, but the bond shifted. No longer storm-tossed, no longer thrashing against its own cage. Quieter now. As if the sea inside him had found its tide. You felt the change ripple through him. The Straw Hats’ laughter bled faintly into the bond, bright and chaotic, full of life. For the first time, he let it in.

The bond went still. For a heartbeat, you thought you had lost him to silence.

Then he laughed. Sharp, defiant, brittle with the weight of tears he refused to shed. 

“Tch. Don’t think you’re the reason I’m going, dude. I’m only going because the All Blue’s out there, and so are a million beautiful women waiting to be swept off their feet.”

You smiled into your pen, a smear of ink on your fingers and cheek, even as your chest ached with something you could not name.

“Whatever you say.”

The bond pulsed once, warm with a pride that was almost tender, and then it faded back into the background hum of pots clattering, voices shouting, and a boy stepping toward a future he could not yet see.

But the next morning, he was packed and ready to go.

The Straw Hats were waiting at the dock, their ship bobbing bright against the horizon like a promise. Zeff barked at him in his usual gruff way, calling him an ungrateful brat, a fool, a cook barely fit to chop onions. The crew jeered, waving pans like banners, throwing insults meant to hide the shine in their eyes.

On the deck, Sanji bowed low to Zeff, his forehead almost touching the boards. His voice broke against his will as he thanked the man who had given him both a dream and a life. He swore he would never waste either. The cooks heckled him louder, hiding their grief behind mockery, and Zeff kicked him in the ribs one last time just to prove the point.

And then he turned. His hand waved in the sea wind, legs steady even as his heart stuttered, and he walked toward the Straw Hats.

Every step carried the echo of your whisper. Every step was yours as much as it was his. And when he turned at last to follow them, his heart pounding with fear and fire.

“Go, Sanji. Chase what you love. Chase the All Blue.”

The bond thrummed, bright and wordless, and for the first time in years, he did not argue.

The next day, you booked a trip to the East Blue.

"Almost done, my sunshine angel!" Sanji calls from the kitchen window. He’s got that goofy heart-face again "Just a few more minutes, mon amour!"

You giggle "Okay! I’ll wait with my stomach screaming!"

"Don’t scream too loud," Zoro mutters from where he naps on the deck "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Grumpy swordsman alert!" you tease, poking his leg as you skip past him.

He grunts. Doesn’t move. Classic Zoro.

Nami looks up from her map "You’ve got too much energy. You sure you didn’t sneak any cola from Franky’s stash?"

You gasp, hand to your chest "I would never! I’m innocent!"

Luffy laughs as he climbs up the mast "She just runs on sunshine!"

You beam at that. It’s true. You love them all so much. Being part of the Straw Hat crew is like a dream come true. You’re always ready to help, to smile, to cheer someone up, even when the seas are rough.

But today… today feels just a little strange.

At night, after dinner, Robin finds you sitting by yourself near the rail.

"You’re writing again?" she asks, soft voice blending with the wind.

You nod, hiding the paper quickly "Just a letter."

"To your cousin in the Marines?"

"Yeah," you say "But it’s not like I tell them anything important. I just wanna know if they’re okay."

Robin nods slowly "Be careful. Not everyone sees things like you do."

You blink "What do you mean?"

She just smiles, sad and mysterious "That sunshine of yours… don’t let anyone steal it."

You laugh "No one can steal the sun, Robin."

But you keep your letter hidden that night, folded under your pillow.

A week later, everything falls apart.

"How did they know?!" Nami slams her hands on the table "The Marines were waiting for us at the next island—again! That’s three times now!"

"We even changed our plans" Zoro growls "There’s no way they should’ve known."

Luffy’s quiet. Too quiet.

Franky crosses his arms "Somebody’s talking."

"What are you saying?" You ask, blinking “No one here would do that!”

Brook looks at you gently "Miss Y/N… it’s true someone might be giving them hints, even if they don’t mean to."

You feel the room tilt.

"I talk to someone in the Marines… but I never tell them anything important! I swear!"

Sanji’s smoking. He doesn’t look at you.

"You write letters, don’t you?" Nami’s voice is sharp now "Maybe they read them. Maybe you say more than you think."

"No!" You stand up. Your hands shake "I would never hurt you guys. I love you!"

Robin’s voice is cool "We know how much you care. But the pattern is real. We can’t ignore it."

"You think it’s me." You look around the table "You all think it’s me."

No one answers.

Luffy’s still quiet.

That hurts the most.

You whisper, "Captain?"

He looks up "Just… give us some time, Y/N."

And with that, you’re dismissed.

Your chest feels like it’s caving in. Like someone reached in and squeezed the sun right out of you.

Later that night, you sit alone again. No dancing. No singing. Just silence.

You don’t write a letter. You don’t smile.

Just sit.

Because when your family doubts you… what’s left to shine for?

The ship is quiet tonight. Too quiet. Like it knows you’re leaving.

No stars in the sky, just heavy clouds. Wind brushing your skin like cold fingers. You shiver, but not from the breeze.

You stand in the dark hallway, holding a small bag. Just the basics. You don’t need much. You never did.

You pause for one second. Just one.

Inside the boys' room, you hear snoring. Zoro. Maybe Usopp too. Or even Luffy.

In the kitchen, nothing but silence. Sanji must have gone to bed early.

Robin’s reading in the library. She won’t hear you pass.

They didn’t believe you.

No. You can’t stop. If you say goodbye, you’ll cry.

If you cry, you’ll stay. And you can’t stay.

They looked at you with those eyes. Like you were a traitor. A liar. A risk.

And you’ve been through this before.

You thought this crew was your family. Your safe place. Your light.

But now all you feel is cold.

Back then, when people you loved turned their backs on you. Back then, when “trust” was just a word, not a promise.

You swore if it happened again, you wouldn’t wait around to feel it twice.

So you don’t.

You don’t look back.

You lower a small boat into the sea. No sound, just soft ripples.

Your heart is beating loud though. It almost drowns everything else.

Not once.

When the sun rises, Luffy yawns and stretches.

“Morning!” he calls, walking toward the kitchen “Hey, Y/N! You awake?”

No answer.

“Probably sleeping in,” Usopp mumbles as he walks by “She always does after a storm.”

Robin glances around “She’s not in the girls’ room.”

Sanji checks the kitchen “She’s not here either…”

Jinbe frowns “Where’s her bag?”

Chopper runs around, checking corners “She’s not anywhere! She’s gone! She’s really gone!”

Nami’s eyes go wide “No note? No nothing?”

Silence.

And then Luffy steps outside. Looks out at the open sea.

He whispers, voice hoarse, “She left.”

No one knows what to say.

Because they all felt it.

They all doubted. And now… the sunshine is gone.

Three Years Later

Location: Pyros Island – North District, in flames

“Move in! We don’t let them escape again!”

The shout cuts through fire and gunpowder smoke.

The Strawhats are in the middle of chaos, racing down broken stone streets, dodging cannon fire, punching through enemy ranks. This was supposed to be a stealth job. Take down a weapons lab. Get out.

It isn’t... because you’re here.

You step out from the shadows, cloak whipping behind you, no longer in bright colors or sunny dresses. You're in black and crimson now... worn gear, face half-covered by a mask. Your eyes sharp.

Not the sunshine girl they remember.

"Stop!" Sanji shouts, eyes wide “That’s—!”

"Y/N...?” Nami says your name like it’s a memory slipping out by accident.

Zoro freezes “No way...”

Luffy stares at you from across the smoke-filled plaza, fists trembling at his sides.

But you don’t say a word.

Instead, you pull your blade.

Your team moves with you, mercenaries, ex-revolutionaries, no flag but fire. You're not with the Marines, never were. But you’re on the other side now. That much is clear.

Brook deflects a strike from one of your allies “Miss Y/N?! Is it truly you?”

You don’t answer.

Too fast. Too close. Luffy launches forward.

“Y/N, stop! Why are you—”

You clash.

Your blade hits his fist, sparks flying.

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends” you snap. Your voice is colder. Steady. But underneath, your hands are shaking.

“You left us,” he says “Without a word!”

"You doubted me first, how could I stay?" you spit back, eyes flashing.

Robin tries to reach you “You were hurting. We didn’t see it then. But we do now. We—”

“Don’t.” you hiss, swinging at her, forcing her back “You don’t get to say that now.”

Everything’s burning. Everything’s loud. You see fire in every direction. Screams. Crashes.

You hear the crew shouting your name, over and over.

"Y/N!"

"Sunshine, please!"

"Don’t do this!"

You clutch your head suddenly.

They’re louder. But they’re not saying the right things.

Why now? Why not then?

You blink and the battlefield shifts.

Suddenly, they’re laughing. Mocking.

You see their faces, twisted... Zoro glaring, Nami whispering, Luffy turning away.

“You talk to Marines?”

“She’s a spy.”

“We can’t trust her.”

You hear your own voice screaming. No, no, no, that’s not what happened!

You stumble back, vision swimming.

Your chest aches. You can’t breathe.

“Shut up!” you scream, though no one is talking now “Get out of my head!”

Luffy runs toward you again “We didn’t mean it! We were wrong! I was wrong!”

You see the real Luffy this time, his eyes wide, real, full of pain.

But you still can't move.

Too many voices.

Too many memories.

Too many lies you told yourself just to survive.

You drop a smoke bomb and vanish in the clouds.

You hide deep in the ruins. Knees pulled to your chest, eyes wide, breathing heavy.

“…I thought I forgot” you whisper to no one.

But you didn’t.

You remember every laugh. Every dinner. Every hand on your shoulder.

And the way they looked at you that day.

Back on the battlefield, the Strawhats stand in silence, the fire dying down.

“She’s not our sunshine anymore...” Sanji mutters.

“No,” Luffy says, fists clenched “She is. We just broke her light.”

Luffy crashes into the ground, breath knocked out of him. His hat flies off.

“Damn it!” he groans, pushing himself up.

Zoro stands bloodied, blade shaking in his grip “There’s too many.”

Sanji is on one knee, coughing hard “They’re surrounding us.”

“They’re fighting harder because of her,” Nami says between clenched teeth, weather staff crackling with weak sparks “They think we broke her. Maybe we did.”

Brook’s coat is torn. Franky’s chest plate is dented. Chopper’s trying to hold everyone together, but his hands won’t stop shaking.

Robin is quiet. Her arms bloom around them like shields, trembling and breaking just as fast.

They’re losing.

They’ve never lost like this.

Not like this, where it feels like they deserve it.

You’re still in the ruins, clutching your head, listening to ghosts.

"We were wrong."

"She’s not one of us anymore."

"She left."

"You were the traitor."

"We were wrong."

"We were wrong."

You blink hard.

They're still fighting.

They're losing.

Because of you.

You rise.

You shouldn’t. You don’t owe them anything. You told yourself that over and over. Built a whole new life around it.

But seeing them bleed, fall, break apart, something inside you won’t let you stay still.

Even after everything.

Even after they didn’t.

You run through the burning alleys, pushing past fallen stone and crying civilians. Your blade is heavy in your hand, your body is slower than it used to be, but your heart is beating with something again.

You see Luffy hit the ground a second time.

You see a blade fly for Nami’s back while she tries to shield Chopper.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your sword blocks it. Sparks fly.

“Get away from her” you growl.

Everyone freezes.

"Y/N...?" Nami whispers, eyes wide.

You stand between them and the enemy, panting, blade up “I’m not here to fight you anymore.”

The enemy soldiers pause, confused.

You glance back at the crew “You guys still suck at watching each other’s backs.”

“…Sunshine?” Sanji breathes, like he’s scared the name will make you vanish again.

You smirk weakly, turning back toward the enemy “Don’t get used to it.”

Then you charge.

Luffy is the first to move after you “HEY! THAT’S OUR IDIOT!”

Zoro grins through blood “Still crazy, huh?”

Nami laughs, even as tears fill her eyes “She came back…”

“Let’s go get her back for real” Robin says, voice like steel.

"Now we’re talkin’, super-style!” Franky shouts, getting to his feet.

Chopper wipes his tears “You’re still our sunshine!”

They all surge forward again, stronger, together, because you’re there.

Because you're home.

After the last of the enemy falls, you collapse on your knees, breathing hard. Ash clings to your skin, and your arms are shaking.

Luffy walks up slowly, holding out a hand.

You look up at him.

"Still want me?" you ask quietly, voice breaking.

Luffy nods, smiling just a little, just enough.

“Always.”

You take his hand.

And this time, you stay. Or at least that's your plan.

The flames have died down. The enemy is running. The people are cheering.

But the war isn’t over.

Because the commander hasn’t fallen yet.

And he’s aiming right for Sanji.

He’s too slow this time. Too injured. Too distracted by you, by the way you laughed earlier, helped Nami, the way your eyes softened when you called him to help you when you got surrounded “Curlybrow!”

He looked at you like he wanted to say something.

He never got the chance.

“SANJI, LOOK OUT!”

You see the blade flash. You see him twist too late.

You move.

Faster than you thought possible. Faster than fear, faster than pain.

You throw yourself in front of him.

You feel the cold stab of steel through your side.

Then through your chest.

Everything stops.

"Y/N—!!!"

Your knees hit the ground. You smile, eyes wide with shock and tears “I'm still fast… huh?”

You fall.

Sanji catches you.

“No, no, no—” His voice breaks instantly, arms shaking as he lowers you down “No! What the hell did you do?!”

“…Guess I owed you guys something big.”

Zoro takes the enemy out for good.

“You idiot!” Sanji shouts at you “You absolute...! Why?!”

You laugh, a cough mixed in “You were the only one who didn’t look at me like a traitor after it happened… You never doubted me, did you? That helped me... So I figured, this time, I’d be the one to help you.”

Sanji’s breath hitches “Don’t say stuff like that. You don’t—you don’t get to do this! Not after you just came back!”

You look past him. Luffy is yelling your name. Nami is sobbing, gripping her staff like it’s all she has left.

Zoro clenches his jaw, his sword sheathed. He already knows.

Robin’s hand covers her mouth.

Even the others can’t move.

You smile at all of them.

You shine, even as your blood soaks the stone.

“I missed you guys… so much.”

Sanji holds you close, forehead against yours.

“We never stopped looking for you” he whispers, tears streaming down his face.

You smile faintly.

“I know. I was the one too scared to face you again.”

The sky is clear now.

No smoke.

No fire.

Just the warmth of the sun rising on the horizon.

Your fingers twitch toward it.

“I'm happy now…”

And then, you go still.

No one says a word.

The Strawhats stand together, for once not in victory, but in grief.

The battlefield is silent.

Because their sunshine is gone for real now.

It started with a lingering cough. Every now and then, Sanji’s throat would tickle slightly, producing a weak cough. But that was something easy to brush off. Sanji worked through it, despite it being a nuisance.

It was easy to ignore the lingering pain in his throat when he'd busy himself with cooking. It became a bit more difficult when his body started to feel warm all the time. It definitely hindered Sanji when his head was pounding constantly. Regardless, he tried to push through, to continue to cook for his crew.

The only reason he went to Chopper because of your persistence. Even then, he didn't allow for any thorough examination, under the guise that he just had to get back to work. Still, you insisted he sit still, allowing Chopper to do his work.

"Sanji, your temperature is really high! You should be getting rest." Chooper says, walking to his medicine cabinet.

You sigh, placing a hand on Sanji's shoulder. "I knew it, honey. You're doing too much."

"I appreciate the concern, but I must get back to the kitchen." Sanji says, standing a little too quickly. "Dinner needs to be made soon."

As much as you tried to convince him to stay, Sanji stood and walked out of the room. You sigh in frustration, turning to Chooper.

"I appreciate your help. I'll take him his medicine."

You had spent days trying to convince Sanji to see Chopper. You were quick to notice when he started acting off; his balance was off, his movements were slower, he had a harder time thinking of dinner plans. All of these were out of character for him.

Unfortunately, Sanji also had a difficult time reaching out for help. He created this persona in your relationship that made him seem tougher, like he would never need help from you. It was incredibly irritating. All you wanted was Sanji happy and healthy and yet, he refused your help constantly.

This is one thing you wouldn't let up on.

A couple hours after leaving, Sanji was back in the kitchen, cooking dinner. His body slowly started to feel worse the more he cooked. The room was spinning, he felt like he couldn't stay still. Still, he pushed through.

There was a dark, awful feeling in his chest when he thought about taking a break. What could he possibly provide while sick? What would his purpose even be? He couldn't be of any use if he was sick and in bed. He just can't. Sanji would never allow himself to be useless.

He starts moving too fast for his body's liking. As Sanji reached for the fridge, he felt is heart rate spike. His eye rapidly blink as the galley starts to spin around him. These dizzy spells were normal right now, but the black spots in his vision were not.

"Sanji?"

A voice reached Sanji's ears before he tripped, his arm slamming against the floor. There were muffled yells and shouts, but nothing registered clearly as his eyes sealed shut.

You grip Sanji's hand gently, watching as Chopper does his work. It had been well over twelve hours since he passed out and everyone was worried sick. You especially.

You felt a twang of guilt, like a disgusting feeling twisting in your gut. You felt like you could have prevented this by just insisting further he rest. But alas, what good would it be for you to guilt yourself so? You know your boyfriend wouldn't allow it.

Another part of you was so frustrated with Sanji. His refusal of help was becoming annoying. What's more, it's becoming detrimental to his health. You wished he'd just listen to your pleas, listen to your concerns. But now was not the time for that lecture.

More than anything, you were begging for him to be okay.

"There!" Chopper rips the end of the bandage from the roll. "That will keep his cuts and bruises covered until they heal."

You smile tiredly. "Thank you, Chopper."

"You know, you should also be getting some rest! Staying up this much is not good for your health." Chopper says as he puts away the remaining supplies.

You hum, thumb rubbing against Sanji's knuckles as you stare at his face. You had already analyzed his features for any signs of discomfort. There were none; in fact, Sanji looked more at peace than you had ever seen him.

"I will, Chopper. Don't worry."

You bid the doctor farewell as he goes to do his rounds for everyone on the ship. Once the door shuts, your eyes instantly move back to Sanji.

All you can really do right now is watch him. Despite how exhausted you were, doing anything else felt wrong. You had to know if he was okay.

You let your head fall onto the bed, laying on your cheek as you continue to watch Sanji. Your eyes felt heavy. Maybe just closing them was okay?

It couldn't have been more than thirty minutes you were asleep when you felt the bed shift. Slowly opening your eyes, you see Sanji, awake and weary. You immediately sit up.

"Are you alright? How do you feel?" You ask, raising your intertwined hands to your mouth. "Oh Sanji, I'm so glad you're okay."

Sanji's voice was raspy as he spoke to you. "Je vais bien, mon amour. Je suis toujours là." One of his hands lifts to your cheek, gently caressing the skin.

He's okay..

"How long have I been here?" Sanji asks, clearing his throat with some coughs. He glances down, noticing the bandages that adorn his arm.

You sigh. "About half a day. Everyone's been so worried."

Sanji felt a twang of guilt in his gut. The last thing he wanted was to burden the crew with this kind of thing. He especially didn't want to burden you, not when he's supposed to take care of you.

He could see it, the bags under your eyes and the worried glint in your expression. He had done the opposite of what he intended.

Before he could speak again, Sanji launched into a nasty coughing fit. You reach onto the bedside table, grabbing a glass of water Nami brought by earlier. You hand it to him, urging him to drink up. Luckily, he was too weak to put up any kind of fight.

It was then that you recalled the food you made him. It was a bit cool by now, but it was still there.

Once he was finished, you tilted your head with worry. "How do you feel? I made you some soup, in case your stomach was empty.”

"Mon très cher, you don't have to-"

You cut him off. "Sanji, please stop with the heroics." Tears spring to your eyes as you grip his hands tightly in yours. "You fainted in the kitchen and hurt yourself badly. You've let yourself get so sick and so exhausted that your body couldn't take it anymore. You needed help then and you need help now. So please, just let me take care of my lover."

Your frustration had pent up into genuine tears, and Sanji felt incredibly guilty. He pushed himself, thinking he was helping you and the crew. Instead, he was only making things worse.

He gently rubs his thumb on your palm and takes a deep breath. "My angel, I'm so sorry. I never meant to make you worry so, and I especially didn't mean to overdo it. I simply wanted to keep myself useful for the crew."

"Useful..?" You question softly.

"Useful. I never want to burden you all with my shortcomings."

Your frustration melted into heart shattering sadness. You couldn't believe Sanji felt this way.. like a burden.

"Sanji, you were never a burden." You say, wiping your tears. You move to sit on the bed instead, facing Sanji. "You feed the entire crew, day and night. You fight like crazy and never break a sweat. And most importantly, you care about all of us like your life depends on it. Getting sick doesn't make you a burden, it makes you human."

Sanji had truly never thought of himself that way. His focus was on making up for his own shortcomings, which is why he loves and serves so fiercely. Yet, here you were, telling him he was everything but a burden.

What did he ever do to deserve your love?

"I love you, Sanji, and want you to come to me when you need help. In sickness and in health, okay?" You finish, releasing your grip on his hands.

"Alright." He agrees. A difficult adjustment would have to be made for him, but he'd happily rewire his entire body if it made you happy.

You stand, gently kissing his forehead and rubbing his shoulder. "I'll go grab Chopper. He needs to do an examination on you."

"Merci, mon amour." He called out when you reached the door. “And when you return, how about a nap, hm?”

Sanji's road to recovery was longer than he liked it to have been. Chopper insisted he take at least a week to fully recover, to which you basically enforced the doctor's orders. But, it was good for him. He felt relieved knowing the crew cared and simply wanted the best.

You spent the entire week with him, tending to his every need. Any food he wanted? He got. Massages for his aching muscles? Absolutely. You even read to him, per his insistence. Though, his main request was to sleep and nap with you, his angel.

Once he was finally back in his kitchen, doing what he loved, he couldn't help but smile at the loud crew scarfing down his food. It was his loud crew, and he knew he could count on them.

And as the two of you make eye contact, you smile softly, reminding him of the love that would never call him a burden.

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