Zoro stepped into the treatment room and found a hot guy waiting in his chair.
He paused, a surge of attraction kicking hard through his pulse. The guy hadn’t noticed him yet, head tilted down as he scrolled through his phone. Golden-blond hair tumbled around his shoulders and over his chest. A darker blond goatee framed his mouth beneath a straight nose with a slight point at the end. He filled Zoro’s chair without dwarfing it, dressed in a white button-down rolled at the cuffs, exposing strong forearms. A black tie hung loose around his neck, and the shirt collar was open two buttons down, revealing the shadowed dip between his collarbones and a hint of chest hair.
Zoro swallowed thickly, his finger tightening around the sterilization pouch in his hand. The crinkle of the protective wrap drew the guy’s attention from his phone. Blue eyes, framed by eyebrows that curled asymmetrically, swept over Zoro, and he looked briefly startled. Zoro stared into those eyes for way too long to be proper. Heat rushed into his face. He probably looked like a tomato with green hair – dyed to make him less intimidating, as if that had ever worked – and he jerked his gaze away and cleared his throat.
“Hi, I’m Zoro. I’ll be your hygienist tonight,” he said, setting the instrument pouch on the tray and turning his attention to the computer station. The monitor displayed his appointment block, and he clicked on his six p.m. slot. The dental office stayed open late one night a week and closed early on Fridays.
The new patient record filled the screen. Sanji Kuroashi. Born the year after Zoro. Former smoker. Unfairly hot. Zoro had to clear his throat again before speaking. “I have you down for a cleaning. Have you had any problems recently with your teeth or gums?”
“No.”
Zoro clicked through the medical history, keeping his focus on the screen. His pulse still raced beneath his skin. “This says you used to smoke. How long ago did you quit?”
“Over a decade now.”
His voice had a low rasp to it that slid down Zoro’s spine, and Zoro might need to excuse himself. He had never been affected by a patient like this before, and he had been working as a hygienist for twenty years.
He took a slow breath in, held it a few beats, then exhaled just as slowly. “I see you had bitewings taken six months ago, so we can get right to the cleaning.”
He grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves from the box and drew them on. With the monitor no longer giving him a safe place to look, he picked up the waiting bib and turned. Sanji was watching him now, gaze curious, and Zoro made himself meet it squarely. “Let’s get this around your neck.”
He stepped closer to the chair and lifted the bib, which was always a pain with long hair. He hated catching anyone’s hair in the chain.
Sanji solved the problem by gathering it up with long fingers and holding it out of the way. Zoro secured the chain behind his neck and straightened the bib over his chest. The blond hair was released and immediately tumbled back around his shoulders, and Zoro had to take another steadying breath. This was bad. He didn’t hook up often, but he wasn’t a monk. He was a forty-eight-year-old gay man with a full-time job, a house, and the Grindr app.
Zoro moved behind the chair and reached for his mask and loupes. He put both on, grateful for the barrier. It protected him from more than aerosol and close-up mouth work. “I’m going to lower the chair,” he said, putting his foot on the pedal. After a beat, he pressed down and watched the chair recline until it reached the height he wanted.
He sat on his stool, wheeled around the chair, and pulled the tray closer. He opened the sterilization pouch and laid out the instruments on the paper-covered tray: mouth mirror, explorer, periodontal probe, scalers. Then he slipped a barrier sleeve over the ultrasonic scaler handpiece and fitted a fresh saliva ejector onto the suction line. He picked up the mouth mirror and explorer, fortified himself, and swiveled on his stool to face his patient.
Seeing Sanji reclined under the exam light, even with a green disposable bib around his neck, did things to Zoro. He licked his lips behind his mask. “Go ahead and open your mouth, Mr. Kuroashi.”
“Call me Sanji,” Sanji said, with a faint smirk. “If you’re going to play with my mouth, we should at least be on a first-name basis.”
Zoro’s stomach swooped. Damn it. He was a professional. He needed to get this under control. “Okay. Sanji. Go ahead and open.”
Sanji slid his tongue across his lower lip in a way that had to be deliberate, then parted his mouth. Zoro adjusted the exam light, ignored the heat climbing his neck, and bent closer to do the initial check. He used the mirror and explorer to look for anything obvious – chips, dark spots, existing fillings, visible inflammation along the gums, anything he needed to note before probing.
Sanji’s teeth had definitely been whitened. Former smokers often had staining, but Sanji’s teeth were bright and even, with a few old fillings and a slight rotation to one of the lower front teeth. His breath smelled like mint toothpaste, as if he’d brushed right before coming in. He probably had a good smile.
“I’m going to check your gums now,” Zoro said, glancing over the rims of his loupes. Those blue eyes met his, and Zoro’s breath caught. He forced his attention back to his job. Starting at the back molar, he began calling the probing depths under his breath. “Three-three-three, three-two-three, two-two-two, two-two-three…”
He had been doing this long enough that the numbers stayed in his head without much effort. When he finished the lower arch, he rolled to the computer station and used the barrier-covered mouse to enter the periodontal charting.
“I’m curious,” Sanji said when Zoro was entering the third set of numbers. “How does a man who looks like an ex-rugby player who fought a bear become a hygienist?”
Zoro paused. He knew what he looked like – big, brawny, scarred from a misspent youth. He had one working eye and three gold drop earrings hanging from his left ear. He finished entering the last two sets of numbers before answering. “Steady job, decent pay, good benefits.”
Sanji huffed softly. “Spoken like a middle-aged man.”
“I am a middle-aged man,” Zoro said, wheeling the stool back to the chair.
“That hair says otherwise.” A smirk appeared on Sanji’s mouth. “Unless you’re having a midlife crisis.”
“I’m not having a crisis.” Zoro scowled behind his loupes. “It’s been this color for years.”
“And a lovely shade of aquarium moss it is,” Sanji said.
Zoro’s scowl deepened. “Kids like the color.”
The smirk softened slightly. “Probably reminds them of their favorite cartoon character.”
Zoro grunted. “Open. I need to do the upper arch.”
Sanji opened his mouth, eyes bright with amusement. Zoro ignored the way it made him feel and started the next set of probing depths. “Three-three-three…”
Once he finished, he wheeled back to the computer to enter the numbers. Sanji took the opportunity to ask, “I take it you lift?”
“Yes,” Zoro said as he continued keying in the charting.
“Is the gym around here?” Sanji asked. “I’m new to the area and have been looking for one.”
Zoro hesitated, finished the row, then told him the name of his gym, which should help kill this persistent attraction once Sanji got the Look. Hopefully, the guy wouldn’t turn out to be a complete homophobe. “Kamabakka Gym. It’s a queer gym over on Momoiro.”
“I’ll have to check it out.”
Zoro turned from the monitor in surprise and met another one of Sanji’s smirks. His pulse surged again. “You’re, uh–” Shit. He wasn’t supposed to ask if someone was gay. His mind scrambled for cover. “A lifter?”
“I like to keep in shape,” Sanji said, that low rasp of his as warm as whisky sitting over rocks.
Zoro’s gaze swept reflexively over Sanji laid out in the chair, and he had to jerk his attention away from the sheer inappropriateness of it. Heat spread over his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. He was grateful the mask and loupes hid most of his face. “Maybe I’ll see you there,” he said, and if his voice cracked in the middle, he wasn’t going to acknowledge it.
“Hopefully,” Sanji corrected, and it was all Zoro could do not to combust.
Zoro took another slow breath, reminded himself that he was closer to fifty than twenty, and reined in his libido. He needed to get through this appointment like the professional he was, and cleaning teeth had never been sexy.
“I’m going to start scaling now,” he said, sliding his stool back to Sanji’s side.
“Do your worst,” Sanji said with an impertinent wink.
It was going to be a long appointment.
Sanji left with a courtesy bag of toothpaste, floss, and a toothbrush, plus a card for his next six month appointment. His fingers brushed Zoro’s when he took it, and heat rushed back into Zoro’s face. With the mask and loupes gone, Zoro had nothing to hide behind. Every stupid inch of it was on display.
He was glad Sanji had been his last appointment. He was going to go out back and bury himself.
Once Sanji was gone, Zoro cleaned up his station. He stripped off the protective barriers, wiped down the surfaces with disinfectant, and dropped the used instruments into the sterilization bin. The unused instruments went back where they belonged. He checked tomorrow’s schedule – four appointments, three familiar patients and one coverage slot – then shut down the monitor. He grabbed his old blue backpack from the staff room, lunch bag empty inside it beside the book he was reading and a spare set of scrubs, said goodnight to his coworkers, and headed out.
The drive home was uneventful. The GPS kept him more or less on track, with only a few extra turns.
Home was a mid-century modern house, all glass and angles, in a historic neighborhood. He had been working on it over time, bringing it up to code and modernizing what needed modernizing while preserving as much of the original design as he could. The minimalist decor had a Japanese edge in honor of his heritage. His katana collection stood in a display case, his one expensive folly left over from his stupid youth.
He put his lunch bag in the kitchen for tomorrow. His book went with him to the bedroom, and the backpack stayed on its hook by the garage door. Then he stripped out of his scrubs, tossed them in the laundry hamper, and went to take a shower.
He stepped beneath the hot spray and let it beat down on his stiff shoulders and aching back. Being hunched over all day was one of the drawbacks of being a hygienist. One of the benefits, apparently, had been Sanji, reclining in Zoro’s chair, all blue eyes and smirks and that blond fall of hair.
Zoro braced one hand against the tile and tipped his head forward under the water. He wanted to run his fingers through it. Wanted to clench it in his fist, use it to pull Sanji close, keep him there while he kissed those sinful lips until the smirk disappeared.
His burgeoning erection twitched. He had been half-hard since the appointment, trapped behind gloves and a mask and every professional boundary he had ever obeyed. Now there was nothing professional about it. Just steam, hot water, and the memory of Sanji stretched out in the padded vinyl chair.
Zoro grabbed the body wash, worked it between his palms, and let his mind go where it had been trying to go all evening.
The fantasy came easily. Sanji in the chair, chin tipped up, hair loose around his shoulders, that green bib gone and his white shirt open at the throat. Zoro imagined climbing over him, imagined the chair creaking under their combined weight, imagined his hands buried in all that blond hair as he kissed him deep. Sanji’s body would be warm under him. His mouth would be soft. His beard would scrape when Zoro dragged kisses along his jaw.
Zoro’s breath roughened. Water ran down his neck and over his shoulders, but the heat under his skin had nothing to do with the shower.
He imagined Sanji’s hands on him. Long fingers at his waist. Rolled sleeves brushing his sides. That loose black tie hanging between them as Zoro pressed him back into the chair and took his time with him. In his head, Sanji looked exactly the way he had in the office – blond hair slipping around his face, blue eyes fixed on Zoro, mouth curved like he knew what Zoro had been trying so hard not to think about.
Zoro’s hand moved faster. The image shifted. Sanji was above him now, still dressed in that white shirt and loose tie while Zoro lay naked against the cool vinyl. The chair put him on display in a way that made his stomach tighten. Sanji’s hair fell forward as he leaned over him, pushed into him, stretching him, filling him. His voice was there, too, low and rough, saying Zoro’s name close enough that Zoro could almost feel it against his skin.
Zoro pressed his forehead to the tile. His shoulders tensed. The fantasy blurred into heat, water, Sanji’s mouth, Sanji’s hands, Sanji’s hair sliding between Zoro’s fingers. He chased it with his jaw clenched and his breath breaking hard through his teeth, until the thought of Sanji looking at him from that chair finally shoved him over.
He came with a shudder, one hand braced against the wall, steam thick around him and Sanji still fixed behind his closed eyes. For a minute, Zoro stayed under the spray, heart pounding as the water ran over him. Then he groaned. He was absolutely fucked.
He wished he’d gotten Sanji’s number. Couldn’t at the time, though, due to professionalism. Now that the appointment was done, there was nothing stopping him from seeing Sanji other than the fact that he didn’t have a phone number, address, or invitation. Zoro would never use records for personal gain.
With a sigh, Zoro finished cleaning up and went to make himself dinner.
Kamabakka Gym was very pink. Pink patterned carpet squares. Pink walls. Pink benches. Even the weights came in varying shades of pink, from the dumbbells on the rack to the plates stacked beside the squat cages. A mirror lined one full wall of the space, reflecting the cable machines, treadmills, ellipticals, and the long row of benches beneath fluorescent lights. Upbeat music played over the speakers, half-swallowed by the clank of plates, the low hum of machines, and the occasional thud of a weight settling back into place. The air smelled of rubber mats, disinfectant wipes, hard work, and sweat.
Zoro sat on the end of a bench, pausing between reps. He used a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. Dressed in compression shorts and a tight tank, he was more than halfway through his workout. He hit the gym four evenings a week, alternating legs and upper body. He usually worked out from six to eight, which wasn’t ideal for sleep, but the alternative was getting up at four in the morning and going to a twenty-four-hour place instead.
Zoro liked this gym. He felt comfortable and safe surrounded by his fellow queers, could get in a good lift, and didn’t have to worry about a confrontation if he checked another guy out. He wasn’t into bodybuilders like himself, but he still liked muscle. He liked men who took care of themselves. Every once in a while, he hooked up with someone here, especially around Pride, which seemed to turn every gay man Zoro met into a horny fuck.
Friday nights, the gym was usually pretty empty. A few men moved between the machines, and a woman ran on one of the treadmills, her footfalls steady under the music. Zoro didn’t like going out to bars and clubs. He wasn’t the most outgoing person, and his job meant he socialized all day at work. By the time evening rolled around, the thought of trying to strike up a conversation with a stranger made him curl his lip. It had gotten worse the older he became. After work, he wanted to lift, go home, and read his book in bed. His weekends were busy with chores, upkeep, and home remodeling. Grindr was the best app ever invented, as far as he was concerned. He could make it clear he just wanted sex, no strings, and he didn’t even have to leave his house.
Zoro reached up, grabbed the lat pulldown bar, and started another rep. He focused on his breathing, on going slow instead of using momentum to move the weight. The stack was set almost too heavy. He followed the format of pumping until the muscle gave out, resting, then going again before moving on. No set number of reps to follow. The increased weight made it so he actually worked.
He finished his last pulldown with a tremor in his arms, barely able to complete it. Then he sat there, tank top clinging to his back with sweat. He snatched his water bottle from the floor and drank as his heart rate settled.
When he lowered the bottle, movement in the corner of his good eye caught his attention. He turned his head and felt his pulse trip.
Sanji was standing a few machines away, wearing running shorts, a tight tank, and a smirk. His hair was tied up in a topknot, and the shorts exposed solid thighs that rivaled Zoro’s. He caught Zoro’s stare with a wink, then folded forward to touch his toes before rising again with one foot in hand and lifting it straight over his head.
Saliva pooled at the corners of Zoro’s mouth, and he had to swipe it away quickly with the towel. Holy shit, Sanji was flexible. Zoro’s imagination immediately ran off into inappropriate places for a public gym.
His palms went sweaty for a reason that had nothing to do with lifting, and he made himself get up and turn away. He wiped down the bench for the next user and moved on to the next machine.
When he glanced over again, Sanji was doing a few regular stretches, and Zoro shoved down the disappointment. He was at the gym to work out – at least for now.
Zoro went into his next set of reps with determination and refused to look at Sanji until he was done. Like a reward for good behavior.
Shit, he had it bad.
Zoro managed to get through that machine and the next before he allowed himself another peek. He shouldn’t have, because Sanji was on the leg press with three-quarters of the weight stack loaded. Zoro could do half, maybe two-thirds on a good leg day. It was probably the hottest thing Zoro had ever seen.
Sanji noticed Zoro noticing, and a lazy smirk came his way. Zoro’s face heated, and he quickly moved on to the next step in his workout, well away from where Sanji was lifting.
By the time he finished his workout, Zoro was a ball of tension layered in sweat. He guzzled down the rest of his water, draped his towel over his shoulder, and dared to look for Sanji again.
Sanji was doing leg raises on the Captain’s Chair. Smooth, slow movements, no momentum. His tank had hiked up, revealing abs cut hard under the gym lights, and Zoro had to swallow. He might have to jerk off in the gym shower, or he wouldn’t be able to drive home.
He turned on his heel and made his way to the locker room. It wasn’t much of a space: rows of lockers with padlocks on them, benches in between, and a separate area for the toilets, sinks, and showers. Everything was pink. Most nights, Zoro just did a quick wash at the sink before heading out. His car didn’t care if he smelled.
He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors. Flushed face, bright eye, breathing a little too quick. His sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead and temples, the longer strands curling behind his ears. His earrings shimmered when the light caught them. A few wrinkles lined his forehead and creased along his mouth. After the workout, his muscles were pumped beneath his tank.
He wondered what Sanji saw when he looked at him. Good? Bad? Indifferent? The scars didn’t make him the most handsome, but he had made his peace with them long ago. Would Sanji actually be into him if Zoro dared to ask for his number? He’d have to do it to find out.
The door opened, and footsteps sounded on the pink tile floor. A moment later, Sanji himself came into view. Zoro met his eyes in the reflection, and the surge of attraction was immediate all over again.
Sanji leaned against the row of lockers, holding Zoro’s gaze. “You going to ask me to come home with you, or am I going to have to do all the work?”
The blood that didn’t rush into Zoro’s cheeks went straight to his crotch. His breath stuttered, and his voice wasn’t smooth at all when he answered, “With me.”
Sanji smiled, slow and sinful. “I’ll grab my stuff.”
It became a near race to see who could open his combination lock and retrieve his belongings first. Sanji brushed against Zoro bodily when they made their way out the locker room door.
Outside, the air was cooler. Night darkened the sky, and streetlights pooled across the parking lot. Locks flashed as car doors unlocked. Sanji’s car was parked three spots down from Zoro’s.
“I’ll follow you,” Sanji said, before heading to his own vehicle.
Zoro could only nod and continue to his car.
The drive home felt infinite, even though the GPS kept him on one path for once. He pulled into the garage when the door opened, and Sanji’s headlights swung into the driveway behind him. His shorts felt too tight.
Sanji’s car door sounded loud as he shut it. He sauntered into the garage, meeting Zoro the second Zoro closed his own car door. Heat radiated from his chest inches away. Zoro’s fingers clenched around his gym bag, heart speeding up.
“Into the house, moss-hair,” Sanji said, the low rasp in his voice making the insult sound like a sensual tease.
Zoro wasn’t completely shy, but he wasn’t forward either. He didn’t mind following someone else’s lead. Especially when that someone else sounded like Sanji and looked like sex personified.
They barely made it into the house. The garage door rumbled shut behind them. Zoro’s bag dropped onto the kitchen floor. Sanji’s mouth was on his the second they crossed the threshold, hands gripping his shoulders, his waist, his hips. He crowded Zoro against the fridge, then the counter, then the wall of angled glass windows at the back of the house.
Garden lights glowed outside through the uncovered windows. The house was otherwise dark. Sanji pressed against Zoro with a hunger Zoro matched, sharing breath and heat, chasing each other’s desire.
“Bedroom,” Sanji demanded against Zoro’s lips, and Zoro managed to gather his scattered thoughts enough to lead the way.
The primary bedroom had angled windows, a king-sized bed, and wood battens across the ceiling and along the wall. Sanji pushed Zoro onto the bed, climbed over his lap, and ground down. Zoro exhaled hard, fingers clenching at Sanji’s hips. The faint light from the garden gave him just enough illumination to see.
Sanji looked down at him, want clear in his shadowed face. “Condoms?”
“Drawer,” Zoro rasped, gesturing blindly at the nightstand.
Sanji shifted off him, opened the drawer, and withdrew the strip of foil packets and the lubricant. He tossed both onto the bed beside Zoro, then ran his hands up Zoro’s thighs and under the edge of his tank top. He pushed it up to Zoro’s armpits, rough palms skating over his skin. He grabbed handfuls of Zoro’s pecs, squeezing them, thumbs rubbing over Zoro’s peaked nipples. “I’m going to ride you until you pop, then fuck you until you can’t walk. You good with that?”
Zoro made a sound that would have been embarrassing any other time, but he was too far gone to care. “Yeah.”
“Good,” Sanji said, then dove in to kiss him until Zoro could barely breathe.
Zoro’s shorts and briefs went first, dragged down to his ankles and left there. The air hit his skin, and then Sanji’s mouth followed, licking a stripe up his length, making Zoro’s thoughts scatter before the condom was even rolled on.
His feet stayed planted on the floor, shoes and socks still on. It should have been ridiculous, pulled him out of the moment. Instead, he tipped his head back and stared blindly at the wood ceiling while Sanji took him apart with his mouth, slow at first, then with enough purpose to make Zoro’s thighs tense. His fingers found Sanji’s hair and held on. The topknot started to come loose beneath his grip, long blond strands slipping free and catching between Zoro’s fingers.
Then Sanji was over him again, bare from the waist down and straddling his lap, his hair half-fallen around his face. He braced one hand against Zoro’s shoulder, reached between them, and sank down onto Zoro with a slow, steady patience that broke into a moan deep in his chest.
Zoro realized Sanji had been getting himself ready while his mouth had been on him. The thought hit hard enough that Zoro’s hips jerked. Sanji’s breath stuttered, his fingers digging into Zoro’s chest as he settled fully into place. For a second they both froze there, heat locked between them, Zoro still half-dressed and trapped by his own clothes around his ankles, Sanji above him with his shirt rumpled, his hair falling down, his mouth parted.
Then Sanji moved. He rode Zoro like he had promised, hands planted on Zoro’s chest, hips rolling in a rhythm that made Zoro’s breath turn rough. Sometimes Sanji sank down with a slow grind that made his lashes lower. Sometimes he rose just enough to make Zoro’s hands tighten on him, then came back down with a soft, wrecked sound. Zoro touched whatever he could reach – Sanji’s hips, his thighs, the narrow line of his waist, the loose fall of blond hair when Sanji leaned close enough for Zoro to pull him into a kiss.
The kiss caught him as he broke. Zoro came with the breath punched out of him, one hand clenched in Sanji’s hair and the other gripping his hip hard enough to hold him there through the last shudder.
Sanji kissed him through it, hot and messy, then pulled away with a gasp. For a moment he stayed over Zoro, breathing hard, forehead nearly touching his own. Then he moved again, sliding off him with a low sound and dragging Zoro’s shorts and briefs the rest of the way over his shoes.
The shoes stayed on. Zoro noticed. Somehow, through the haze, he noticed the absurdity of lying at the edge of the bed still wearing shoes and socks while Sanji knelt between his legs with another condom in hand, hair loose now, tank clinging to sweat-slicked skin, eyes dark.
He should have said something. He had no breath for it. Sanji’s hands were quick and confident, warming him up with slick fingers and low, rough murmurs that brushed against Zoro’s skin more than his ears. Zoro’s knees were pushed back, his body opened under Sanji’s weight and attention, and the first press of him made Zoro’s head fall back again. The sound that came out of him was long and low, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.
Sanji caught it with a kiss, then gave him more.
This was harder, dirtier, full of the bed creaking under them and Sanji’s hips driving forward, full of heat and breath and the sharp grip of Zoro’s hands against Sanji’s back. Sanji’s hair fell around them in loose strands, brushing Zoro’s cheek, his mouth, his scarred chest. Zoro caught a handful of it and pulled, and Sanji groaned against his jaw before moving faster.
The room narrowed to the sound of them. Heavy breathing. Skin against skin. The slick drag of movement. Sanji’s voice rough near his ear. Zoro’s own broken sounds as Sanji shifted him, adjusted him, found the angle that made pleasure crack through him in bright, violent waves.
Zoro clung to him through it, shoes still on, knees held back, body shaking under Sanji’s. The second climax took him by force, rolling through him until he lost the ceiling, the room, the last useful thought in his head. Sanji followed after, burying close with a harsh, breathless sound, body pulsing hard against Zoro’s as the condom caught the end of it.
For a while, neither of them moved. Then Sanji shifted with a spent groan, careful and clumsy at once. Condoms were dealt with. After that, Sanji came back to him, kissing him messily, all panting heat and slackened mouths, until he collapsed beside Zoro on the bed.
Sweat cooled on their bodies. Sanji’s hair lay loose across the comforter and over Zoro’s shoulder, pale strands clinging damply to his skin. His hand settled heavy over Zoro’s scar, warm and possessive without trying to be.
“This is when I miss cigarettes the most,” Sanji murmured against the curve of Zoro’s shoulder.
Zoro wrinkled his nose. “I prefer a nap.”
Sanji’s breath warmed his skin when he laughed. “Napping’s good, too. If you don’t mind me sticking around.”
“Stay,” Zoro said, too fast. Heat climbed into his ears. “I mean, you don’t need to rush out.”
Sanji’s mouth curved against his shoulder. “Then I won’t go anywhere for a while.”
Sanji didn’t go home until morning.
They dozed, showered, then lounged in Zoro’s bed with the TV on low, talking about everything and nothing while they learned about each other. Sanji was a bank manager who had been offered a transfer when a head position opened at the local branch. When Zoro asked why banking, Sanji grinned and said, “Steady hours, decent pay, good benefits.”
He loved to cook and had practically grown up in a restaurant, but the restaurant business itself had never been a joy. “You can’t cook what you want. You have to make what’s on the menu day in, day out. The hours are long and never easy. And everyone’s either smoking, high, or fucking in the walk-in.”
He was quick with a retort, his tongue sharp with sarcasm, and his lips ready to curve into a smirk. He was bi, not gay. Preferred women and “incongruous, hulking moss-ball dental hygienists” over men in general. Liked the cut of a suit, the taste of good wine, and the way Zoro still blushed even though he was forty-eight.
Zoro told him about his life, his hobbies, and the idiotic origin of his scars. “If I could go back in time, I’d tell myself underground swordfighting isn’t the smartest idea.”
Sanji laughed at that. And Zoro had been right – he had a good smile.
Before he left, Sanji made breakfast. Eggs Florentine, using the spinach Zoro kept for his lunch salads and hollandaise sauce he made from scratch. Zoro knew how to cook – he was a single adult who wasn’t made of money – but nothing he made tasted as good as Sanji’s food.
Zoro got Sanji’s number and a kiss that curled his toes before Sanji drove off.
Forty minutes later he received a text.
Busy later?
His response was immediate.
I am now. With you.
Zoro stepped into the treatment room and found a hot guy waiting in his chair.
Golden-blond hair tumbled around his shoulders and over his chest. A darker blond goatee framed his mouth beneath a straight nose with a slight point at the end. He wore a yellow-and-black striped button-down, the black tie hanging loose around his neck. Two buttons were open at the collar, revealing the shadowed dip between his collarbones and a hint of chest hair.
Sanji looked up from his phone, and his lips curved into a smile. “Moss. You’re running late.”
“Yeah. I stepped in to help Conis,” Zoro said, and started cleaning up his station. “How was your appointment with Makino?”
“Fine. Teeth all clean.” Sanji watched him as he worked. “Still don’t see why I had to switch hygienists.”
“It’s unprofessional. And weird.”
“Not a kink, huh?”
Zoro shot him a flat look.
Sanji smirked. “But this chair is.”
Heat flooded Zoro’s cheeks. “I never should’ve told you that,” he muttered, wiping down the counter.
Sanji stood and came closer. He pressed his hand against Zoro’s lower back, fingers warm through Zoro’s scrubs. “You still coming over tonight?”
Zoro pressed into the touch. “Yeah.”
“I’ll make us steaks and potatoes, then,” Sanji said. He kissed Zoro on the cheek, quick and familiar and still enough to knock Zoro off balance. “See you in a bit.”
Zoro watched him leave, still feeling the kiss on his cheek and the warmth of Sanji’s hand at his back. Six months later, wanting him had gotten easier, but it hadn’t gotten smaller. It had settled into his life instead, into work nights and gym nights and Sanji’s texts asking what time he’d be done.
Lately, Zoro had started thinking about the future, too, about Sanji’s lease ending in a few months. He’d be forty-nine by then, and he might have found the person he wanted to see fifty with, and all the years beyond.
Zoro pushed off the counter and went back to closing down the room. There were still surfaces to wipe, barriers to strip, and instruments to send back, and after that there would be Sanji’s apartment, dinner, and Sanji looking pleased with himself when Zoro walked in.
Once he was done, Zoro gave the empty chair one last look before he turned off the light. Six months ago, Sanji had waited in that chair with no idea what he was starting. Tonight, Zoro was starting to hope he never stopped.
End