Sanji hated hospitals. The smell of antiseptic clung to his clothes, his hair, his life. White walls, constant beeping, nurses who looked at him with pity instead of admiration—he was sick of it. All because he’d become too famous. Too many views. Too many followers. Too many people who thought they owned him.

He stared at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Another notification. Another “fan” begging to see him. Another threat hidden behind heart emojis. That was it.

“I’m done." Sanji muttered, exhaling smoke toward the open window. “I’m not living like this anymore.” So he hired a bodyguard. Not three. Not two. Just one man.

The first time Sanji met Roronoa Zoro, he nearly choked on his cigarette. The man standing in his penthouse living room looked like he’d been carved out of stone—broad shoulders, scars mapping his arms, and three swords resting casually at his side like that was normal. His green hair was messy, his expression permanently annoyed, and his single open eye locked onto Sanji with sharp intensity.

It was strange at first. Zoro followed him everywhere. To cafés, photoshoots, even his blog livestreams—standing just out of frame, arms crossed, eye constantly scanning the room. Fans hated it. Management complained. Sanji pretended not to notice the way he slept better knowing Zoro was just outside his bedroom door.