It was past midnight on the Going Merry, the infirmary quiet except for the faint buzz of the TV in the corner. You lay half-asleep on the bed, fever pulling you under. Sanji was stretched out beside you, close enough that you could hear and feel every calm rise and fall of his breathing.

Every so often, his hand moved to brush your bangs from your face, slow and gentle, never saying a word. You focused on that small motion, on the steady rhythm of his breath, and let the silence wrap around you like a blanket.