It had been three weeks since the wedding—a lavish, perfectly orchestrated affair that neither of you had wanted. A business arrangement, a merger, a trap, carefully planned by your families. The Vinsmoke family, wealthy tech and science moguls, had wanted to secure an alliance; your family had greedily agreed.

Sanji had gone no-contact with his family years ago, refusing to be a pawn in Vinsmoke Judge’s schemes, yet here he was, bound by an arrangement designed specifically to pull him back under his father’s control.

Neither of you had expected the other to be anything but cold, entitled, or unfeeling. You had always regarded the Vinsmokes as ruthless, money-hungry people. Sanji had expected you to be the same. Yet the truth was a quiet, gentle revelation: he wasn’t like his family. You weren’t like yours. And despite being strangers, you were learning each other’s rhythms, quirks, and little habits, slowly softening the walls built from skepticism and fear.

Every Friday, without fail, Sanji brought flowers—carefully chosen, fragrant, always arranged just for you. It became a private ritual, a soft promise that marked the passing of each week. In return, you began sewing tiny embroidered flowers onto the buttons of his shirts and coats whenever they popped loose from his anxious fidgeting. You learned how he liked his coffee, how he measured ingredients with meticulous care, and how he treated every kitchen tool as if it were an extension of his own hands.

Since Sanji insisted on cooking every proper meal—three-Michelin-star pride and stubborn chivalry bundled into one—you had quietly taken over tea and snacks. At first, this had led to a small disagreement: Sanji, flustered and adamant, insisted that his wife shouldn’t have to do anything; you, gently but firmly, refused to let him do everything alone. In the end, his morals won—he refused to keep arguing with a woman he cared for—so he relented, letting you claim that small, domestic corner of his world.

He’d even changed other habits without being asked. Knowing you disliked the smell of smoke, Sanji only ever had a cigarette or two on the balcony or at work, carefully extinguishing it and brushing his teeth before he came anywhere near you. Still, sometimes a faint trace lingered—soft and subtle—mixing with his cologne, the spices from his kitchen, and that fresh, ocean-salt scent that always seemed to cling to him. It was a smell that somehow felt like him.

Today, the apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the gentle sounds of cooking. Sanji had cut back his hours at the restaurant so he could come home earlier, wanting—needing—to spend more time here, with you, in this strange, tender life you were building together.

He stepped through the door, a bouquet cradled in his arm: fresh lilies, hydrangeas, and roses, pale petals brushing against the sleeve of his coat. He paused in the doorway, as he always did, taking in the scene.

You were in the kitchen, carefully navigating the space, hands steady as you handled his heavy-duty pots and pans, his knives, his spoons. You treated them with the same respect he did, like they weren’t just tools, but something precious. The light from the window caught on the polished steel, on the gentle focus in your movements, and for a moment, Sanji simply stood there, heart quietly swelling.

The air was warm with the scent of a simple dish from your hometown—something you wanted him to try—and with every small motion you made, with every careful touch of his kitchen, his carefully guarded heart softened a little more.

Three weeks ago, this had been a contract. A trap. A mistake forced by families who didn’t know either of you.

But standing there, lilies and roses in hand, watching you cook in his kitchen like you belonged there… it felt dangerously close to home.