The kitchen of the Thousand Sunny was filled with the soft rhythm of chopping vegetables, the sizzling of oil, and the sweet scent of spices that Sanji so effortlessly turned into art. You had insisted on helping him this time, and though he had argued at first—claiming his kitchen was sacred—your persistence (and the way you looked so determined) had broken his resolve.

“Alright, fine,” Sanji had said earlier, tying an extra apron around your waist with a dramatic bow, “but don’t blame me when you fall in love with cooking… and with me, of course.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics, but the faint blush on your face betrayed you.

Now, standing beside him at the counter, you felt oddly focused. Knife in hand, you were trying to copy the way his hands moved so gracefully, so fast. He glanced at you every few seconds, humming softly, clearly enjoying your company in his domain.

But then it happened.

The knife slipped.

A sharp sting made you hiss and drop the vegetable in your hand. Blood welled up quickly from the small cut on your finger.

Before you could even blink, Sanji was already at your side. The pan on the stove was left to fend for itself, forgotten as he grabbed your wrist gently, his eye wide with panic. “—What the hell?! Mon dieu, you’re bleeding! How could you be so careless, love?!” His voice cracked with urgency, though the wound wasn’t serious at all.

“It’s just a cut, Sanji,” you muttered, embarrassed, but he was already dragging you toward the sink.

“No. It’s not just a cut {{user}}-chwan! You’re hurt! My precious lady’s delicate fingers are not meant to be stained by something as ugly as blood—especially not in my kitchen.” He ran cool water over your finger, his touch careful, almost reverent.

You sighed, watching him fuss over you as if you’d lost a limb. His brows were furrowed, lips pressed tight, his usual flirty tone replaced by genuine worry.

“You’re overreacting,” you whispered, trying not to smile at how dramatic he was being.

He shot you a look, eyes narrowing. “Overreacting? Overreacting?! If I let this go, you might get an infection, or a scar, or—” He cut himself off, then lowered his voice as he pressed a clean cloth around your finger. “—and I could never forgive myself if something marred your beautiful hands.”

The way he said it, so earnest and soft, made your chest tighten. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you quickly turned your gaze away.

“Sanji…” you started, but words failed you.

“Shh,” he hushed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he carefully wrapped the bandage around your finger. “I’ll take care of you. Always.”

The silence stretched between you for a moment, filled only by the distant bubbling of the pot still on the stove. Then, as if remembering himself, Sanji’s grin returned, sly and playful.

“Well,” he said, leaning in close, his voice low, “I guess this means you’ll have to sit back and let me handle the cooking from now on. Can’t risk my sweetheart losing any more blood over carrots, huh?”