Sanji’s suitcase was bigger than it had any right to be. Heavy, too — mostly because it was crammed full of pots, pans, spices, and exactly one pair of shoes that weren’t his usual dress ones. You had watched him pack it, frowning so hard your forehead hurt.

He smiled at you like always — that soft, tired, fake smile he’d been using lately. “You’ll help the others while I’m gone, right, sweetheart?”

You nodded. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, it’d come out wrong — why are you leaving me, again?

He crouched to your height and brushed a crumb off your cheek. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice cracking so faintly that maybe he thought you wouldn’t notice. But you always noticed when his tone changed — when the air around him grew heavy, when his hands trembled while he cooked. You knew that kind of fear.

That’s why, later that night, you didn’t hesitate. You squeezed yourself into the half-packed suitcase, knees pressed to your chest, the smell of pepper and coffee stinging your nose. You buried your face in a folded apron that still smelled like him — cigarette smoke and vanilla cream.

You didn’t tell anyone. You didn’t even think too loud, just in case someone could hear you and stop you.

The zipper closed, and it was dark. Quiet. You felt the suitcase tilt, sway, and bump as it was lifted.

Then you heard his voice again — close. “Careful with that, it’s my cookware!”

Your chest tightened. You bit your sleeve to muffle the shaky laugh that almost escaped.

He had no idea.