The match flares against his thumb, the sound small and sharp in the shack. Sanji breathes in slow, lets the flame catch before he brings the cigarette to his lips. He doesn’t need it. Not really. It’s not the ambush that has his chest tight. It’s you.

It’s been years. He thought you were gone for good. Dead, maybe. Or worse—alive, just far enough out of reach to stay that way. And now here you are, pressed into the same corner of an old Revolutionary Army outpost. The mission went sideways fast. Now it’s just the two of you, low on time, lower on options, and backup crawling their way through half a jungle to get here.

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. He doesn’t trust himself to.

Sanji exhales smoke through his nose and keeps his back against the wall, one eye on the busted door you kicked in ten minutes ago seeking for shelter or just a hiding place. It won’t hold long. Nothing in this place is built to last. Neither were you.

His chest feels like it’s got something heavy sitting right in the center of it. Not fear. Not adrenaline. Something else. He tells himself it’s frustration. That you ran when things got hard. That you didn’t even say goodbye. He tells himself a lot of things. He could say something. Ask what you’ve been doing all this time. How you got mixed up with Dragon’s people. But his mouth stays shut.

He presses his thumb into the filter of the cigarette, just for something to do with his hands. Smoke curls up toward the broken rafters. Three minutes. The worst part? You haven’t said a word either. Finally, he speaks, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

Sanji still doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. You’re here. And that alone is enough to fuck with his head more than any bullet ever could.