#{ optimistic

trust that everything will fall into place without you forcing it there.

I have met so many creatures and I plan to meet so many more :)

This Day2 of kinkober and is a collaboration with @wildandsmile. The prompt is coming untouched. Enjoy!

The galley door swung open. Sanji balanced three plates on his left arm, a steaming pot of coffee in his right. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the morning chill. Breakfast service was a battlefield, and he was its lone general. He slid a plate of fluffy omelets toward Luffy without breaking stride. "Eat up, Captain. Don't gulp."

Luffy's rubbery arm shot out, snatching the plate before it touched the table. "Meat! Where's the meat?" he mumbled through a mouthful of eggs. Sanji didn't pause, already pivoting toward Zoro snoring against the mast. "Swordsman! Your fish is getting cold." He nudged the moss-headed swordsman's boot with his own. Zoro grunted, one eye cracking open. "Coffee first," he rumbled, reaching blindly for the pot Sanji held just out of reach.

Sanji's polished shoe tapped impatiently against the deck as Zoro fumbled for the coffee. "Swill's getting cold too, moss-brain," he muttered, finally relenting and pouring the dark brew into the swordsman's outstretched mug. The steam curled upward, carrying the bitter scent that mingled with the salt air. His gaze swept the deck, cataloging the usual chaos: Usopp animatedly retelling last night's watch to a half-listening Chopper, Robin turning a page of her book with serene detachment. Breakfast service was a well-oiled machine, each plate delivered with silent precision. Until he reached you.

Sanji’s polished shoe tapped impatiently against the deck as Zoro fumbled for the coffee. "Swill’s getting cold too, moss-brain," he muttered, finally relenting and pouring the dark brew into the swordsman’s outstretched mug. The steam curled upward, carrying the bitter scent that mingled with the salt air. His gaze swept the deck, cataloging the usual chaos: Usopp animatedly retelling last night’s watch to a half-listening Chopper, Robin turning a page of her book with serene detachment. Breakfast service was a well-oiled machine, each plate delivered with silent precision. Until he reached you.

He placed your plate down with uncharacteristic hesitation. Scrambled eggs dusted with chives, toasted sourdough precisely golden, and a small ramekin of his special berry compote – all arranged just so. You looked up, meeting his eyes. "Thanks, Sanji. This looks perfect." Your voice was warm, appreciative, but utterly ordinary. Yet, it landed differently. It wasn't the ravenous demand of Luffy, the sleepy grunt of Zoro, or the distracted murmur from Robin. It was *attention*. Directed solely at him and his craft.

Sanji froze, the empty serving tray suddenly heavy in his hands. That simple acknowledgment – genuine, undemanding – hit him like a misplaced kick. He’d perfected the art of the invisible service, anticipating needs before they were voiced, becoming part of the ship’s background hum. Yet here you were, pulling him sharply into focus. Your eyes lingered on the compote’s vibrant swirl, a small, appreciative smile playing on your lips. It wasn't the usual indifference or the chaotic demands he navigated daily. This was *seeing* him. The chives weren't just scattered; they were finely minced, the toast wasn't just browned; it was brushed with garlic-infused butter. Details usually lost.

Sanji’s breath hitched. The serving tray slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the sun-bleached deck. He didn’t hear it. All he saw was the quiet focus in your eyes as you lifted a forkful of eggs – *his* eggs – and the way the morning light caught the subtle appreciation in your expression. It was a tiny thing, a heartbeat of connection in the usual breakfast clamor, but it unraveled him. His knees buckled, not in exhaustion, but in a sudden, overwhelming rush. He dropped to one knee before your seat, the wood cool against his trousers. A warm trickle bloomed at his nostrils. He swiped at it absently, his gaze locked on yours, leaving a faint crimson streak across the back of his hand. "Y-Your satisfaction," he stammered, voice thick, "is my only purpose."

Your fork paused mid-air. A surprised laugh bubbled up, light and genuine. "Sanji! Get up, you goof," you said, cheeks flushing slightly pink at the sudden, dramatic display. Before you could say more, a blur of orange intercepted. Nami’s sandal connected sharply with the back of Sanji’s head with a solid *thwack!* "Idiot cook!" she snapped, hands on her hips. "Stop bleeding on the deck and get back to work! You haven't brought *my* coffee yet!" Sanji crumpled forward with a groan, momentarily stunned, the nosebleed dripping onto the planks.

Sanji scrambled upright, one hand clutching his throbbing head, the other frantically mopping his nose with a handkerchief pulled from his breast pocket. "N-Nami-swan! My deepest apologies!" he stammered, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the blood-spattered deck. His eyes darted past Nami's furious glare, seeking yours again – a flicker of desperate hope that you hadn't been completely repulsed by his spectacle. The warmth of your earlier smile seemed like a distant memory under the navigator's scowl.

Sanji straightened, the handkerchief now a crumpled, crimson mess in his fist. He avoided your eyes, focusing instead on the smudge of blood staining the deck near your feet. "Disgraceful," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. The familiar rhythm of service felt jarringly alien now. He needed to move, to *do* something. "Nami-swan! Your coffee, arriving with the swiftness of your beauty!" he declared, spinning towards the galley with forced exuberance, the stumble in his step betraying his fluster. The door swung shut behind him with a sharper click than usual.

Inside the galley, Sanji braced his palms against the cool countertop, head bowed. The clatter of dishes and the hiss of the stove filled the small space, but his mind replayed only the sound of your laugh – light, unburdened, *not* mocking. He’d become a spectacle, a joke bleeding on the deck, yet you hadn’t looked disgusted. Just surprised. Warm. He grabbed Nami’s favorite porcelain cup, fingers trembling slightly as he poured the rich, dark brew. The aroma usually centered him; now it felt like an accusation. He’d lost composure over a simple "thank you." How pathetically starved he must have seemed.

Dinner service was a controlled storm – clattering plates, shouted requests, the sizzle of the grill. Sanji moved with sharp precision, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his usual flair subdued. He avoided your corner of the table entirely, focusing laser-sharp on refilling Brook’s tea or sliding seconds toward Franky. The earlier humiliation still burned. Yet, when the crew began to disperse, full and loud, you pushed back your chair and walked towards the galley hatch where he was scraping a pan with unnecessary force.

You leaned against the galley doorway, the warm light spilling around your silhouette. Sanji’s shoulders tensed before he even turned, the scrape of his spatula faltering mid-stroke. He kept his back to you, smoke curling furiously from his cigarette as he focused on the stubborn bits of seared fish clinging to the pan. "Kitchen’s closed," he said, voice tight. "Unless you need something. Do you need something?" The question came out too fast, almost defensive.

You didn't move. "Just wanted to say thanks again. For breakfast. And dinner." Your voice was quiet, cutting through the metallic scrape of his cleaning. Sanji's knuckles whitened around the spatula handle. He'd crafted tonight's seared tuna with stupid, trembling care – the sesame crust perfectly even, the ginger glaze shimmering – only to deliver it via Usopp while hiding in the galley. Hearing you acknowledge it now felt like salt in a wound he couldn't name. "It's my job," he mumbled, finally turning. Ash drifted from his forgotten cigarette onto his immaculate apron.

You took a step closer, the scent of sea salt and ginger still clinging to your clothes. Sanji stiffened as your shoulder brushed his arm, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through him. He could feel the soft pressure of your chest against his bicep, warm and real, as you reached past him toward the counter. Your fingers closed around a small, perfectly round *mochi* dusted with toasted coconut – one of the spares he’d set aside for Robin’s late-night tea. "Found it," you murmured, your breath a warm tickle near his ear. You held the treat up between you, a soft, yielding sphere of pale green matcha. "For the chef," you said, your voice low and intimate in the galley’s quiet. "Seemed lonely back here."

Sanji stared at the mochi in your hand. The delicate green sphere seemed to glow under the galley lights, a stark contrast to the crimson stain still smudged near his collar. Your fingers brushed his as you pressed it gently into his palm. The warmth of your touch lingered like a brand. He opened his mouth, a reflexive "thank you" forming on his lips, but the scent of toasted coconut and sweet matcha flooded his senses – *your* scent, mingled with the offering. His vision swam. A familiar, insistent warmth pulsed behind his nose. Before he could speak, a bright red droplet splattered onto the pristine white mochi, blooming like a grotesque flower against the pale green. He jerked his hand back as if burned, the treat tumbling onto the countertop.

Your fingers moved before thought, snagging a clean dish towel from the counter. You pressed it firmly against Sanji’s bleeding nose, your thumb brushing the sharp ridge of bone beneath his skin. Sanji groaned, a deep, shuddering sound muffled by the cloth and your touch. His eyes squeezed shut, not in pain, but from the overwhelming sensation of your fingers against his face – warm, grounding, terrifyingly intimate. He swayed slightly, leaning into the pressure almost imperceptibly, the scent of ginger and sea salt replaced by the metallic tang of blood and the clean cotton smell of the towel. His hand rose instinctively, hovering near yours as if to hold it there, before clenching into a fist at his side.

Sanji stood frozen, your fingers pressing the towel against his nose, the rough cotton strangely comforting against his skin. He could feel the heat radiating from your hand, the slight tremor in his own breath echoing in the sudden silence of the galley. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the lingering sweetness of matcha and coconut, creating a dizzying cocktail. He kept his eyes shut tight, afraid of what he might see if he opened them – pity, amusement, or worse, indifference. Your thumb shifted slightly, applying firmer pressure, and a choked sound escaped him. "S-sorry," he managed, voice thick and muffled. "This is... unbecoming."

Your other hand came up, cupping his jaw firmly. Sanji flinched at the sudden contact, eyes flying open wide. "Stop apologizing," you said, your voice low but steady, holding his gaze. Your thumb swept firmly across his cheekbone, wiping away a stray smear of crimson with the towel. The roughness of the fabric contrasted sharply with the gentle pressure of your palm against his stubble. Sanji's breath caught, frozen under your touch. He could feel the calluses on your fingers – navigator's knots, maybe, or rigging work – anchoring him in the moment. You worked methodically, dabbing at the bloodstains near his collar, the towel soaking up the warmth. "It's just blood," you murmured, tilting his chin up slightly to check his nostrils. "Not the end of the world." The casualness of it, the utter lack of revulsion, left him lightheaded all over again.

Sanji’s breath shuddered as you released his jaw and turned toward the deep sink. The sudden absence of your touch left him hollow. Water hissed from the faucet, drowning out the frantic drumming of his own pulse. He watched your hands move beneath the stream—rinsing away his blood, soap foaming white against your skin. The curve of your spine beneath your shirt, the damp tendril of hair clinging to your neck… it was too much. A low groan tore from his throat as his hips bucked forward involuntarily, pressing hard against the counter’s edge. Pleasure detonated like a silent grenade—wave after wave of white-hot release flooding his trousers, soaking through the fine linen. He gripped the countertop until his knuckles bleached bone-white, trembling violently as shame and ecstasy fused into one searing brand.

Sanji gasped, the sound ragged and sharp in the humid galley air. His body shuddered violently against the counter, every muscle locked rigid as the aftershocks tore through him. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe past the crushing weight of humiliation pressing down on his chest. The damp warmth spreading through his trousers felt like a brand, searing proof of his complete, catastrophic loss of control. He kept his face turned away, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached, staring blindly at the soap bubbles swirling down the drain where your hands had been. The scent of his own release, sharp and unmistakable, cut through the lingering matcha sweetness like a knife.

You finished rinsing the soap from your hands, the water running clear. Turning off the faucet, you shook droplets from your fingers before wiping them dry on your trousers. Sanji remained rigid against the counter, his face averted, shoulders hunched as if braced for impact. The silence stretched, thick with the scent of salt, blood, and something sharper, more intimate. You stepped closer, not touching him this time, but your presence was a quiet anchor in the galley's stillness. "Sanji," you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife through sea mist. "Thank you again. For breakfast. For dinner." You paused, letting the words settle. "You're... really incredible at this." The compliment landed plainly, without flourish, yet it carried the weight of undeniable sincerity.

Sanji flinched at your voice, a tremor running through him. He dared a sideways glance, his visible eye wide and haunted, rimmed with shame. Your expression held no mockery, no pity – just a gentle warmth that felt impossibly forgiving. Before he could stammer another apology or crumple further, you leaned in. Your lips brushed the sharp curve of his cheekbone, just above the faint smear of crimson your towel hadn't caught. The touch was feather-light, hesitant, a whisper against his skin. It lasted only a heartbeat, a stolen moment charged with shyness and a startling tenderness.

You pulled back quickly, cheeks flushed pink as the dawn light filtering through the porthole. "See you at dinner," you murmured, the words barely audible above the gentle creak of the Sunny. Before Sanji could process the lingering warmth on his cheekbone, you slipped through the galley doorway, leaving only the scent of sea salt and ginger behind. The latch clicked softly, sealing him alone with the humid air thick with blood, matcha, and the sharp, undeniable musk of his own humiliation. He remained frozen against the counter, fingertips trembling where they still gripped the edge, your feather-light kiss burning brighter than any stove flame.