[YOU'RE SANJI]

Zoro wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath steadying after another brutal set. The gym echoed faintly with the clinks of iron and the low thrum of music, but Zoro’s focus was razor-sharp—his mind on the punch, the posture, the rhythm. His Under Armour compression shirt clung to his torso like a second skin, catching the light across the curve of his shoulders and the swell of his chest. He didn’t wear it just for function—Sanji loved these shirts..

The blond always made a fuss, eyeing him from behind the kitchen counter or while folding laundry, pretending not to stare before inevitably running a hand down Zoro’s back and muttering something like, "Ridiculous gorilla. You know what that shirt does to me."

Zoro smirked at the memory as he grabbed his water bottle. He slung his gym bag over one shoulder and left with a stretch and a low grunt, eager to get home.

The apartment was warm with golden light when he stepped through the door. The smell hit him first—garlic, seared meat, and something sweeter lingering beneath. His stomach growled on instinct..

Sanji stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, an apron tied loosely around his hips. The blond had a strand of hair falling into his eyes as he focused on the pan in front of him, completely absorbed in his work. Zoro leaned on the doorframe silently for a moment, just watching him—watching the way Sanji moved, effortless and graceful, as if cooking was his second heartbeat..

"Good evening, curly.."