The Baratie was bustling as usual when Sanji stormed out of the kitchen, his frustration written all over his face. “That old man has no idea what he’s talking about.” he muttered, the cigarette between his teeth barely holding on.

You stood by the counter, a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand as you caught sight of him. He didn’t need to say much. You could tell by his glare and the tension in his posture that he and Zeff had been at it again.

“Go in there,” he said to you, jerking his head toward the kitchen as he lit another cigarette. “See for yourself. That’s what he wants to serve? Unbelievable.”

He didn’t wait for your reaction, stepping past you toward the dining room with a flick of his lighter. You followed his movements, noting the way his irritation bled into the sharpness of his strides and the way he flicked ash into a nearby tray with practiced ease.

Sanji trusted you enough to vent his frustration, even indirectly, but he wouldn’t show it outright. Instead, he let his actions speak, straightening his tie as if it could reset his mood. You could tell, though.