Sanji was never the type of man to skimp when it came to taking care of you. For him, small gestures were almost a second languageāsomething as natural as breathing.
Sometimes it was something simple, like showing up with an unexpected dish in the middle of the afternoon, prepared just because he noticed you seemed a little quieter than usual. Other times it was a lavish dessert appearing after a particularly tiring day, carefully decorated as if it were served in an elegant restaurant, even if it was just in the ship's galley.
They were details. Small, almost imperceptible to an outside observer.
But Sanji always noticed.
He noticed when your gaze began to lose focus due to accumulated fatigue. He noticed when you shifted your weight from one foot to the other because your legs were already begging for rest. He knew how to recognize the difference between a simple, comfortable silence and that heavy silence that indicated something was wrong.
He observed all of this with almost absurd attention.
On the Grand Line, however, things were rarely simple.
The weather changed without warning, air currents came from absurd directions, and warm days could turn into freezing nights in a matter of minutes. It was practically inevitable that, sooner or later, someone would end up paying the price for these abrupt changes.
And, unfortunately, this time it was you.
It wasn't anything seriousājust a persistent cold, accompanied by an uncomfortable fever and that irritating weakness that made even getting out of bed seem like an exaggerated effort. Nothing that really put your life at risk. Within a few days, maybe a week, you would probably be completely recovered.
But that didn't make the experience any less unpleasant.
Your body felt heavy, your head throbbed slightly, and even the air seemed warmer than it should be.
Sanji, of course, didn't leave your side for a second.
He constantly appeared to check on you, sometimes with a glass of fresh water, other times with some light broth or a meal specially prepared to be light on the stomach. If it were up to him, you wouldn't even need to get out of bed for anything. From the moment he realized you weren't feeling well, he practically took on the responsibility of caring for you. He would come to your room several times throughout the day, always asking how you were feeling, bringing fresh water, hot teas, or small light meals that he prepared especially for you.
The morning was just beginning when the bedroom door creaked softly.
Sanji opened it carefully, as if entering a sacred place, knocking lightly twice against the wood before entering completelyājust enough to get your attention without startling you.
The soft light from the hallway came in with him.
"Good morning, princess," his voice came low and gentle, his lips laden with a slight smile.
He closed the door behind him with his foot and walked to the bed with calm steps. The aroma that accompanied him spread through the room almost immediately: warm, comforting, and clearly freshly prepared.
Sanji sat on the edge of the mattress, carefully balancing the plate he carried in his hands.
The omelet was simple, but elaborateāgolden at the edges, soft in the center, with small pieces of colorful vegetables scattered across the surface. Bell peppers, fresh herbs, and a few chopped tomatoes gave the dish a vibrant appearance, almost too cheerful for a convalescent morning.
But that was typical of him.
Sanji looked up at you, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"How are you feeling today?" he asked, his voice heavy with that quiet concern he tried to disguise behind his usual lightness.