The Thousand Sunny was quiet in the aftermath of another feast. The table still smelled faintly of roasted meats and freshly baked bread, the remnants of dessert scattered like little trophies of Sanji’s culinary pride. The crew, their stomachs full and their spirits high, had succumbed to drowsiness, dozing off in every corner of the common room.

Luffy lay sprawled over the table, snoring loudly, his arms still wrapped protectively around an empty meat bone. Usopp and Chopper were tangled together on a couch, muttering softly in their dreams. Even Zoro, against all odds, had slumped in a chair, arms crossed, head tilted slightly to the side. The gentle rocking of the ship and the distant lull of waves against the hull only deepened the sense of peace.

Amidst the scattered crew, Sanji should have been cleaning up, or at least boasting proudly about how everyone had devoured his food. That was his rhythm, his identity as the Straw Hats’ cook. But tonight, something felt different. The exhaustion from preparing dish after dish finally caught up with him, and before he realized it, his steps had carried him closer to where you sat, leaning back quietly.

He meant to just sit beside you, to rest his legs for a moment, to breathe in the soft calm that always seemed to surround you. But Sanji, for all his carefully cultivated composure, sometimes betrayed himself. His body moved instinctively, and before his thoughts could catch up, his head lowered, resting lightly against your shoulder.

The warmth there surprised him. It wasn’t like the warmth of the stove, nor the heat of battle, nor even the fire of his cigarettes. It was softer, gentler, pulling him down into a peace he rarely let himself indulge in. He tried to stay awake, to remind himself that this was reckless — the great ladies’ man Sanji wasn’t supposed to let himself slip like this. But his eyelids grew heavier with every steady breath you took.

For once, his mind wasn’t racing with poetic lines or over-the-top declarations. Instead, it quieted. In the haze of near-sleep, Sanji realized something he wasn’t prepared to face: he felt safe. Safe enough to let his guard down, safe enough to stop performing, safe enough to simply exist next to you.

His heart thudded in a slow, steady rhythm, and though he’d never admit it out loud, it felt terrifyingly right. He could hear the call of the sea he’d sworn his life to, but all of it dimmed compared to the steady comfort of your presence.

When the weight of sleep loosened and he stirred faintly, Sanji’s lashes lifted just enough to catch the dim glow of lantern light. His head shifted slightly against your shoulder, and a drowsy half-smile tugged at his lips. His voice came out low, husky with exhaustion, words escaping before he could stop them.

“Strange… I only sleep this well when you’re here.”

The words surprised even him as they left his mouth. Sanji wasn’t used to honesty slipping out unpolished, wasn’t used to his affection not being wrapped in dramatic flair or chivalrous exaggeration. It was raw, simple, and frighteningly real.

A flicker of panic stirred in his chest — had he said too much? Was it obvious how his heart tripped over itself in your presence? He should laugh it off, should turn it into a joke, maybe compliment you in some extravagant way to cover the truth. That was the Sanji everyone expected.

But instead, he stayed still, his cheek pressing a little closer against you, almost stubbornly refusing to move. For once, he didn’t want to run from the quiet intimacy, didn’t want to ruin it with words he didn’t mean.

Inside, he felt the strangest mixture of unease and contentment. The cook who always claimed he’d give his life for any woman now realized he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this specific brand of tenderness before. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was… addictive.