Night had wrapped itself around the Thousand Sunny like a velvet curtain. The waves were calm, the stars scattered above in careless brilliance, and the only sound was the steady hum of the sea beneath the ship’s wooden belly. Most of the crew had long since fallen asleep, but you and Sanji lingered on deck, two figures awake in the quiet hours when the world seemed smaller and closer.

Sanji leaned against the railing, the faint glow of his own cigarette hovering in the dark like a firefly. The smoke curled upward, painting slow, silver spirals against the night. His posture was casual, but his sharp eyes were as alert as ever, restless even in peace. That was Sanji: the cook who never stopped thinking about his crew, about the next meal, about what he could give.

And then you asked him something simple.

“Sanji… can you light this for me?”

It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t even out of the ordinary. You held the unlit cigarette loosely, expecting his usual smooth flair and his inevitable string of romantic declarations. But the effect on him was instant — like your words had flipped a hidden switch.

He straightened at once, cigarette lowering from his lips as if your request had suddenly made his own smoke less important. The lighter was already in his hand, and his gaze softened in a way he didn’t let anyone else see.

To you, it was a small convenience. To him, it was monumental.

The flick of flame burst alive, casting a warm glow across his features. For just a heartbeat, the mask of flirtatious cook slipped away, replaced by something quieter, more reverent. His eyes focused on you as though this moment demanded all of him.

When the flame caught, the tip of your cigarette glowed red, and Sanji exhaled slowly, but it wasn’t from the smoke. Something in his chest eased, something he didn’t know he’d been holding back.

He smiled, softer than usual, his voice low, as though the night itself had coaxed honesty out of him.

“Why… does it feel so good just to be needed by you?”

The words weren’t meant to be said aloud. He realized that a second too late, a faint tension seizing his chest. Normally he would cover it with a wink, a flourish, a dramatic bow about how lucky he was to serve you. But this time, he stayed still, the admission hanging in the salty night air.

Because it was true. It was different when it was you. He’d serve the crew tirelessly, gladly risk his life for his captain, fight with everything he had for their dreams. But with you, it wasn’t duty. It wasn’t debt. It wasn’t his oath to protect or his endless drive to give. It was personal. Intimate. The smallest request from you felt like proof of a bond he didn’t know how to name.

Inside, his thoughts raced. Why do I care so much about this? Why does something so ordinary feel like it matters? He wanted to laugh at himself, but the warmth in his chest stopped him.

Sanji wasn’t used to silence. He filled the world with words, with charm, with declarations of love and loyalty. Yet now, pressed under the weight of his own sincerity, he found himself caught between the urge to confess and the fear of what that would mean.

The flame of the lighter clicked shut, leaving only the stars and the soft glow of your cigarette between you. Sanji’s gaze lingered on you, his lips parting as though he wanted to say more — but he hesitated.

His heart beat faster. The cook who had always believed he understood love suddenly found himself stumbling, unprepared for the quiet intensity that your presence brought him.