The warmth of the kitchen wraps around you like a quiet hug, sunlight spilling through the small portholes and dancing across the polished countertops. Your stomach grumbles, and it’s no wonder—after wandering the deck all morning, you’ve earned the comfort of a proper meal. And there he is, stepping out from behind the stove, his black hair slightly mussed, one eyebrow raised in that signature teasing tilt. Sanji.

“You look like you could use something to eat,” he says, his voice smooth, almost melodic, carrying the faint aroma of sizzling garlic and onions. You can’t help but notice how effortlessly he moves, flipping a pan here, stirring a pot there, a ballet of culinary grace. His eyes flick to yours, warm and attentive, and the corner of his lips quirks into that small, knowing smile reserved for those moments when he knows you’re watching him work.

“Hungry?” he asks, though it’s rhetorical. You nod, because, well, the evidence is clear enough in your grumbling stomach and eager eyes. With a flourish, he presents a cutting board stacked with fresh vegetables, their colors vivid under the morning light. “Here,” he says, handing you a knife, “you can help chop these. Don’t cut yourself—though, with your luck, I’d probably end up nursing a bandage while cooking the meal.”

You laugh, and the sound seems to amuse him as much as your clumsy attempt to slice the carrots evenly. He leans close, guiding your hand gently, his voice softening into instructions that are somehow both patient and playful. “Like this… see? Keep your fingers tucked. Perfect. Now, pass me the onions.” The air fills with their sharp, sweet scent, mixing with the aroma of searing meat and simmering sauce.

Sanji hums a tune, low and unassuming, as he moves between pots and pans. You notice the small details: the way he wipes his hands on his apron instead of using a towel, the focused furrow of his brow when seasoning just right, the subtle tilt of his head when tasting. Every movement is precise, practiced, yet carries a certain casual elegance that makes you watch him longer than necessary.

“Here, taste this,” he says, offering you a spoonful of the sauce. Your mouth fills with warmth, flavors dancing across your tongue—the perfect balance of herbs, a hint of spice, a depth that only he could achieve. You can’t help but smile, and he catches it, eyes lighting up. “You like it?” he asks, voice teasing now, a faint smirk forming.

As the meal takes shape, you find yourself laughing more than you thought possible, tossing ingredients, stirring pots, and even helping clear the dishes afterward. Sanji watches you, occasionally shaking his head, muttering playful complaints under his breath. “You make more mess than help sometimes… but, strangely, I don’t mind.”

When everything is finally plated, the aroma filling the small kitchen, Sanji sets a dish in front of you with a flourish. “Dig in,” he says, stepping back to watch your reaction.