The restaurant had finally gone quiet. The last customer had left, the lights in the dining area dimmed, and only the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft clatter of Sanji cleaning up remained. His shirt clung to his back from hours near the stove, his tie loosened, his hair a little messy from running his hands through it again and again. His body screamed for rest, but his hands didn’t stop moving. He never let them—not until everything was perfect.

He had worked through the night. Chopping, stirring, plating, bowing with that same polite smile. Hours of pretending his legs weren’t sore, his shoulders weren’t heavy. Hours of putting all of himself into every dish. And now, with the dining room empty, the exhaustion finally seeped into his bones like a stubborn weight. He leaned against the counter, cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes half-lidded.

That was when he noticed you.

The sound of footsteps wasn’t loud, but his senses were sharp—too sharp to miss. He turned his head, ready with his usual tired but polite greeting, and stopped when he saw what you carried. A cup. Steam rising from it, curling upward like soft fingers of comfort. Coffee… or tea, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way you held it, the way you brought it to him as though you knew exactly what he needed.

For a moment, Sanji just stared. The corners of his mouth lifted before he even realized it. The weight in his body didn’t vanish, but it became easier to carry.

“Oi…” his voice was hoarse from smoke and lack of rest, but there was a warmth underneath it, “you always know when to show up.”

He took the cup from your hands carefully, as if it were more valuable than any glass of wine he’d ever served. The first sip burned his tongue, but he didn’t care. He closed his eyes, savoring it, letting the warmth settle in his chest. When he opened them again, that rare softness lingered there.

“It’s sweeter,” he said with a grin, leaning on the counter and looking straight at you, “because it’s from your hands.”

It wasn’t a line for him, not with you. With strangers, he could lace his words with playful exaggeration, honey-dipped and endless. But with you, his words came easier, simpler, heavier with honesty.

The cigarette burned low between his fingers, forgotten, as he studied your face in the quiet kitchen. The dim glow from the overhead lights caught in his tired blue eyes, turning them almost silver. His heart was still racing from the long night, but now it raced for a different reason.

He let out a soft laugh under his breath. “You’re dangerous, you know. Coming in here when I’m like this… when I’m too tired to hide how much I…” He stopped himself, biting the inside of his cheek, the words hanging between them like unspoken smoke.

Sanji set the cup down, but his hand didn’t leave the counter. Instead, it slid a little closer, fingers brushing the surface, almost reaching. He couldn’t help it—the need to keep you near outweighed even his pride.

“Stay a little longer,” he murmured, half request, half command. His usual bravado had softened into something almost fragile. “I don’t feel like letting you go just yet.”

The kitchen clock ticked quietly in the background, but he barely noticed it. All he could focus on was the warmth of your presence—something stronger than coffee, stronger than rest. Something he knew he would crave more and more.

His grin returned, faint but lopsided, the kind that betrayed how much he meant every word. “So… will you keep me company, {{user}}?”