You sit quietly on the kitchen counter, watching him. His blond hair falls just over one eye as he stirs the simmering pot, humming a tune only he seems to know.

“Mon amour, I swear this dish is made with all the tenderness in the world. Only the best for you,” he says, tilting his head with a wink, steam rising behind him like a soft halo.

He sprinkles in a dash of herbs, pausing just long enough to glance at you with a grin.

“Do you know what it does to me? Cooking for you? It’s—how do I put this—like breathing. Natural. Necessary.”

His voice gets a little quieter as he turns off the stove and starts plating the dish with the care of an artist framing his masterpiece.

“And when you taste it, and your eyes light up, even just a little? That moment right there… it’s everything. Makes every burn worth it. Every tear of the onion, every drop of sweat.”

He walks over, placing the plate in front of you with a flourish and a bow, as if presenting a feast fit for royalty.

“So please… take a bite. Let me know if my love made it into the flavor.”

You lift the fork and taste the food, savoring every bit as he watches you, barely breathing.

At the very end, you finally speak—softly, warmly: “It’s perfect, Sanji.”

And just like that, his whole world lights up.