Sanji has talked enough about the Baratie in classes for you to know that he's in utter love with the place, his co–workers, and the head chef that runs the Baratie. Before you met Sanji in your culinary classes, you always imagined the Baratie to exist in a world far, far away from you; it was an unofficial tourist attraction, always booked and busy until next year, with so many officials and celebrities dining there. You had never imagined you'd be able to step foot in there, not as a customer, never mind being able to get into the kitchen.

You keep yourself small as Sanji guides you in through the doors after hours, there is still a group at a table, the boy with the straw hat stands out. Sanji greets them with exasperation and he gets a varying chorus of hi's back. The young boy in the straw hat demands dessert, even though he's still eating his meal— and picking at his friends’ plates. Sanji dutifully ignores him and asks the pretty ginger what she fancies before dipping low into a bow and declares he is at her disposal.

There’s still that smell of roasted garlic in the kitchen, a faint twang of citrus— strangely, you also smell smoke. You had ducked your head in a shy greeting at whoever was meant to be closing before they’d handed the key to Sanji with a snarky comment, Sanji had huffed and said whatever, but they had patted each others’ shoulder before leaving.

A part of you knows that there's no reason to be marvelling at such a common sight, just another kitchen of a restaurant with basics, with a walk–in, a sink, knives, ovens, everything else, but you can’t quite help the shiver of excitement beneath your chest. Sanji gets you familiar with the placement of things, introducing you to mundane objects with a large grin on his face that you can't help but mirror.

You offer to get out of the way when Sanji rolls up his sleeves, looking through their inventory to see what he could whisk up for his friends. You're honestly more than happy to watch him work— he's attractive, you won't deny, the stretch of mundane skin that is revealed when he unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve, pushing them up, droplets of water rolling up his pale forearms after he scrubs his hands in the sink. The focus in the sea blue of his eyes, the quietness after a storm, settling with the ripples of waves, passion at the edges; the cigarette at his lips is questionable, especially when you know it runs the risk of dropping ash into the food, but again, Sanji is attractive enough to forgive and forget.

Sanji offers you a smile, must know you better than you though he did, because he then asks if you'd like to help. You do.

“Your friends out there?” You ask, curious, as you whisk at whatever he'd given you. He hadn't told you what he was making; you hadn’t asked. Just do as you're told.

Sanji hums, “most against my will.” He says, but he’s got that same grin on his face, the one he has when he starts talking about the Baratie.