My Heart Beats Green for You

Zoro Roronoa hadn’t eaten since the hotel’s continental breakfast and a headache pressed behind his temple. Even though he was tired after days on the road, he was too hungry to settle for takeout. He fixed his hair in the window’s reflection before pulling open the restaurant door. The air smelled of butter and seared scallops, layered with the fresher salt of halibut, lobster, and ribeye. His stomach growled, reminding him just how long it had been since breakfast.

“Hey, Duval. Room for me tonight?”

“Always, Mr. Roronoa.” Duval wore the crisp uniform of the All Blue, a black dress shirt with dark slacks. Asevery time Sanji appeared host he added a blazer, while the waitstaff wore indigo aprons with sleeves rolled to the elbow. He gave Zoro the once-over, eyes narrowing just enough to promise another remark.

Zoro followed as Duval led him through the room. The All Blue opened only in the evenings, closing again at midnight, and even at this hour the place was alive. Nearly every table was filled – couples leaning close, a family tucked into a corner booth, a pair in sharp suits bent toward each other over wine. Conversation rolled like a steady undercurrent, punctuated by glass clinks and the occasional laugh. Pendant lights cast amber pools across polished wood, the sheen of the floor catching glints of glassware and silver. Indigo accents broke the stretch of exposed brick, warmth against the darker tones.

“I am looking fabulous tonight, but you, Mr. Roronoa, look a bit wan,” Duval said as he stopped at a small table near the back. Above the bar behind them, a chalkboard listed the night’s Lake Michigan catch in curling white script: perch, walleye, and whitefish.

“Jet lag,” Zoro said, pulling out his chair. He caught one gentleman’s gaze snagging on him as he sat, though everyone else kept to themselves.

“That would do it.” Duval set the menu on the table with a flourish. “Cucumber does wonders for bags beneath the eyes. Enjoy your dinner.”

Zoro was long used to Duval’s running commentary on his appearance, along with advice he never followed. He let the words drift past and glanced toward the specials board at the back, the chalk script curling brighter where the pendant lights hit it.

Camie appeared almost at once, her smile bright as she placed a drink in front of him. “Mr. Roronoa, good to see you back. How was your trip?” She set down a glass of Hibiki whisky, neat, something the All Blue started carrying after he’d asked for it. He was surprised at first, but the owner liked to keep repeat patrons happy. Zoro came here three or four nights a week when he was home. 

“Work went fine. Travel sucked,” Zoro told her. “I’ll have the Land and Lake special, with the walleye. Medium.”

“I’ll get it right in.” Camie took the menu and slipped away.

Zoro lifted his glass, savoring the smooth burn as it went down. He let his gaze drift over the room without much interest – the clink of silverware, hands joined across plates, the low rise of voices at the business dinner. The man who had clocked him earlier still stared. Zoro sighed under his breath. He was wearing his glasses instead of his contact lens, but it was hard to disguise his build, his green hair, and the scar cutting through his left eye.

He checked his watch, impatient already though Camie had only been gone a few minutes. He tugged at his navy linen henley, sleeves shoved up, matched with dark jeans. The All Blue drew a dressier crowd, but they never turned anyone away, which was good. Suits made him feel like a stuffed sausage trussed in a tie.

The stare hadn’t gone away. Sure enough, the man finally pushed back from his table and came over. Not everyone did, but it happened often enough. “Excuse me… I don’t mean to bother, but aren’t you The Ronin?”

Zoro gave a polite nod. “I am.”

The man lit up. “Oh man, I still remember your fight with Moxley in ’22 for the belt. That was insane. Absolute legend.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you think I could get a selfie?” The phone was already in his hand.

“Sure.” Zoro slipped off his glasses as the man leaned in. He didn’t smile. The Ronin never smiled, and that was who the man wanted. Not Zoro.

The photo snapped, the man gushed a bit more, then returned to his table. Zoro watched him blur out of focus, the rest of the dining room dissolving into the same indistinct haze. His vision had never been good. The ring’s dimensions were the farthest he could see clearly; beyond that, the world turned to fuzz. The glasses he carried were thick, the lens lopsided for only one eye.

He drank again, pulled out his phone, and checked messages. One from PR. One from Talent Relations. A dumb meme from Guevara. And one from Luffy. Zoro opened it.

U doing all out?

Zoro thumbed a response. Yes cameo.

Luffy’s dots appeared at once. No ring?

Not cleared

Sux

Yes

Full gear?

Maybe. If physio continues going well

Lemme know so I can arrange PPV

K

A stream of emojis followed: 🎣🐟🐟🐟🔥💪🤘. Luffy’s shorthand for caught so many fish, I’m badass.

Zoro set the phone aside, drank again, and stifled a yawn against his hand. He wanted his own bed. Hotel mattresses always left him stiff, though at least he wasn’t chained to them as much anymore. Back in the grind he’d been gone 250, sometimes 300 days a year, living out of airports and anonymous arenas. AEW had cut that down to closer to a hundred, which had felt like a mercy at the time. Now, with medical retirement, his travel was down to a handful of weekends and mid-week drop ins – conventions, the odd cameo – and most nights he actually came home to the same bed. Compared to the demanding pace before, the downtime still felt strange.

A flicker of motion tugged at the edge of his vision, pulling him back from the fatigue of travel and into the room again. He noticed a shape moving toward him and slid on his glasses. He’d been expecting Camie. Instead, Sanji arrived – tall, shoulders squared, dressed in a sharp navy suit with a pinstriped shirt and matching tie. Golden hair fell in deliberately across one eye, the light catching at the edges, and a neatly trimmed royale goatee sharpened the line of his jaw.

Zoro’s stomach swooped, palms instantly damp. He should have kept the glasses off.

Sanji set his dinner in front of him with a smirk that said he’d been waiting for this moment. “So my mold problem has returned. Where were you this week?”

It took Zoro a moment to force words out. “New York.”

“Trust you didn’t find a better restaurant there,” Sanji said, smirk still in place.

Zoro shook his head, wiping his palms against his jeans. The confidence rolling off Sanji only made him more aware of his own awkwardness.

“You back in town for a while?”

Zoro nodded.

“I’ll let you get to your meal. Better when it’s hot… but I do appreciate something that can hold up to a slow savor.” Sanji started back toward the kitchen, voice low with amusement as he called over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow night.”

The kitchen door swung shut behind him. Zoro slumped, exhaling unhappily. “Two words that time,” he muttered. “Manuke na ore.”

With a sigh, he picked up his utensils and dug into the walleye, figuring he might as well stick the fork in himself. Maybe one day he would manage a normal conversation with Sanji.

And maybe one day, he would find the courage to ask him out.

Zoro entered the gym for his morning workout, scanning his membership card at the door. He kept the same routine when he was home, eight to ten, after the office crowd had cleared out but before the lunchtime rush. It was quieter, and he saw the same people every workout. The regulars barely looked twice at him now. Just another big guy moving through his sets.

But September always threw the routine off. All Out brought fans into the city, and the season meant a wave of new memberships. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed him and came over.

He shrugged off his hoodie as he crossed to the lockers, tugged his lifting belt from the hook, and headed straight for the platforms. The air still smelled faintly of disinfectant and chalk, the hum of treadmills fading under the clank of plates and the low rasp of lifters counting reps. After a stretch, he wrapped his hands, set his stance, and the bar came up smooth through the first pull. One set bled into the next, the rhythm dragging him into a quiet, almost meditative state where breath, weight, and motion narrowed into a single line of focus.

Halfway through a deadlift, he caught movement at the edge of his vision. A kid at the next rack, fresh faced, with a brand-new membership tag still clipped to his bag. Wide eyes locked on him, recognition written all over it. The kid whispered to his buddy, phone half-lifted.

Zoro sighed, reset his grip, and finished the pull. He’d been through it a thousand times – first the stare, then the approach.

Sure enough, the kid finally edged closer, a nervous grin tugging his face. “Uh… sorry, man, but you’re… you’re The Ronin, right?”

He set the bar down and nodded. “Yeah. That’s me.”

The kid lit up, snapped a selfie, asked the usual questions. Zoro gave him the usual answers, did PR proud by talking up All Out. Within minutes he’d be on the kid’s feed, another sighting of The Ronin in the wild.

He wiped down and moved to rows, but the prickle at the back of his neck wouldn’t fade. The kid had rejoined his friend, their heads bent together, voices low with excitement as they scrolled through their phones. Zoro slung his towel over his shoulder and forced his focus back onto the lift, though the weight of being watched clung stubbornly.

That used to terrify him more than he’d admit. Not the fans, but the risk of what they might see. He’d come to terms with being gay after high school, but he’d never come out. WWE made sure of that. In locker rooms where slurs flew casual as tape rolls, management whispering about “marketability,” he kept his head down, hands tightening on laces while the silence pressed harder than the laughter.

AEW was different. More inclusive. There was even a wrestler who was openly gay. That alone made Zoro breathe easier. Still, he kept his own life locked down. Keeping things private was hard enough when everyone was watching, and he wasn’t about to make it harder. Besides, he was also… stupidly shy.

The Ronin persona made things easier, keeping everything on the surface. Fans, press, hype at the mic – that was his job, not his love life. In some matches he didn’t say a word, just stood in the ring like a dark samurai, letting his actions carry the story. Sometimes the villain, sometimes the hero. The katana he carried out was real, a relic of Shikoku and of a friend he’d lost too young. On nights when the crowd blurred into a single roar, his hand would tighten around the hilt, memory pulling him back to practice halls in Japan, the echo of wooden floors, the sting of sweat and varnish. It was the one piece of home he refused to let go.

He trained hard in kendo until his family moved to the States when he was fifteen. With no kendo at the new high school, he tried wrestling instead – and that was where he met Luffy. Loud, relentless, dragging him to every local show he could find, Luffy glued himself to the TV whenever a match aired, and soon Zoro was right there with him. By the time they graduated, he couldn’t shake it – the roar of the crowd, the crack of bodies hitting canvas, the pulse of a fight that never ended. The quiet rhythm of the dojo still lingered in his bones, but the fire came from the ring, and wrestling promised something more.

He built a life out of it – wrestling school, the indies, a hard-won tryout, then NXT, fast-tracked to WWE. By twenty-two he was The Ronin, top tier in the business even if he never made the jump to Hollywood like Cena or Bautista. It was the career he wanted, but the closeted part of himself came with it, sealed as tightly as the persona he carried into the ring.

Now he was retired, sidelined by a neck injury. And for the first time, he wondered if it was time to peek out that closet door. The thought made him feel clumsy, like a teenager again, which was ridiculous at his age. Still, it was there. And it was because of Sanji.

The All Blue had slipped into his routine not long after he’d moved to Harborside, on the north end of Chicago. By the sixth visit, Sanji finally appeared – cutting through the dining room with unshakable confidence, blond hair catching the light, a sharp suit framing his stride, and a sharper tongue ready to match. Zoro had noticed him before, but that was the first time Sanji spoke.

“So you’re the plant who comes in daily for fertilizer,” Sanji had said with an amused look from behind his curtain of blond hair. “I hope the Hibiki whisky is to your taste.”

“Yeah,” Zoro croaked. Great. Real smooth. He’d cut a promo last week in front of twenty thousand people, but one blond in a suit and suddenly his tongue didn’t work.

“Good. If you’re going to be rooting yourself in my restaurant, I’ll keep it in stock. Enjoy your meal.”

Sanji turned away, unhurried. Zoro stared too long at the fit of black trousers, heat crawling up his neck. He realized two things: he’d just been insulted about his hair, and he couldn’t remember the last time an insult made his pulse spark.

To his surprise, it turned into a thing between them. Three nights out of five, Sanji slipped from the kitchen, dropped a jab about his hair, asked a quick question, and vanished again. Always smoke, fish, and spice clinging to him. Always in a closely cut suit. Always confident. And Zoro, when he managed words at all, always sounded like an idiot.

Which was ridiculous. He spoke for a living. He knew how to talk. Just not to Sanji. Around him, he went tongue-tied, overheated, like he’d never strung a sentence together in his life. Every time Sanji appeared, he clammed up. Sweating through silence, fumbling his chances. He may as well have nailed a sign to his closet door: closed indefinitely.

Back at the gym, a clank from the next machine jolted him out of the memory. He’d lost count. Pathetic. He dragged a towel across his face and moved on, telling himself to shut Sanji out of his head and focus on the workout. Easier said than done.

By the time he made it back to the condo and into the shower, his body throbbed unevenly, the session leaving him off-balance. Hot water pounded over his head and shoulders, scalding the knots in his muscles, and he cursed himself for acting the fool. He needed to get his mind back where it belonged. Even though he was only doing a cameo for All Out, he had fan events, promos, and media to handle. Pining after a man wasn’t part of the schedule.

Zoro lay in bed, the room dark, his phone the only glow. He’d lasted the whole day, but now, restless and wide awake, he was searching for Sanji on Instagram. The thought had never crossed his mind before, mostly because he barely touched social media himself, letting someone else handle his accounts. But curiosity gnawed at him, and with nothing else to distract him, he gave in.

He found Sanji through the All Blue’s account. It popped up immediately: glossy shots of plated fish and cocktails, sleek presentations and glowing reviews. Zoro scrolled deeper. Mixed in with the food were staff photos, servers grouped in their suits, Camie grinning in every frame, and Sanji, always sharp in black. Sometimes leaning at the bar with a glass in hand, sometimes caught mid-laugh, smoke curling from a pan behind him. Zoro lingered too long on those, swiping back more times than he wanted to admit.

Then came the group shots. A staff dinner, Sanji with his arm draped around a woman in sequins. Another post, a late-night toast, Sanji shoulder to shoulder with a man in a leather jacket, his hand resting easy on the guy’s back.

Zoro stared at that one longer than he should have. His thumb hovered, swiping past, then back again. For a moment, hope sparked that maybe Sanji was like him. That maybe the hand meant more than it looked.

But the longer he stared, the faster that spark soured. What if Sanji was seeing the guy? Or worse, the woman, sequins catching light like they belonged beside him. Probably her. With Zoro’s luck, Sanji was straight.

He shoved the phone face-down on the nightstand and rubbed at his eye. Idiot. He shouldn’t even be looking, shouldn’t be hoping. Wanting something like that only set him up to crash harder.

If he had it wrong, if Sanji wasn’t what he hoped, then Zoro – The Ronin, stoic, unshakable legend – would make a fool of himself for chasing after something impossible. Coming out had always felt like stepping blindfolded into a fight. In WWE it would’ve killed his career. Even now, retired, the fear clung like an old injury that wouldn’t heal. He could picture it too easily – the headlines, the backlash, the fans turning on him overnight.

He pressed a forearm over his eyes, the dark inside his head crowding tight. It was safer in the closet. Always had been. Safer to stay quiet, to keep his head down. Safer than risking everything just to reach for someone who probably didn’t want him anyway.

Still, the image stuck – Sanji’s smile, the hand on a stranger’s back – and it burned enough that Zoro didn’t sleep for a long time.

All Out arrived, and Zoro was inundated with work and fans stopping him on the street. He’d stuck to staying indoors as much as possible. Even retired and without a match, he was extra busy that weekend, and it left him wrung out. He’d been out of the ring for close to a year now, but fans still clamoured for his attention. He always put one hundred percent into everything he did. He was a professional, and proud to represent this company.

But once October hit, Zoro was in a downswing. He had a weekend convention and a few local wrestling school drop-ins. Plus the usual PR work. He had a couple meetings with Talent Relations for a potential storyline in case he was cleared for a Special Attraction Match by Full Gear.

He knew he’d never go back to the ring full time. His neck was too messed up to risk it. But he missed it. He missed the energy, the fight, the exhilaration, the fun. He missed talking beats with his match partner, trying new things while still being true to the fans’ expectations. He missed the athleticism and conditioning and grit it took to work the grind. 

It only took one bad fall. One beat where he was supposed to land out of the ring. One chair moved out of place. And it was over.

He was lucky. The damage done could have been much worse, and the company still wanted him working even in a limited capacity. They’d spun his disappearance from the ring into a story, The Ronin felled but not forgotten. Fans lapped it up, turning him into a legend even though AEW was too new for that sort of thing. 

Healing had taken time, and physio was taking longer, but Zoro was better than he’d been a year ago. He was hoping he’d be cleared soon, and even if full time was out of reach, he still wanted to be in the ring however they’d allow it.

Today had been promising. He had nearly full range of movement and the pain was minimal. Most days ended with a low ache in his neck, but nothing intolerable. Maybe he really would be cleared for Full Gear. Maybe he could take part in a match, even if he couldn’t bump.

By the time he left physio, his stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since morning. He decided to stop for coffee and a half-dozen oatmeal muffins on the way home. Gaper’s delay on the Edens had made him later than usual, but dinner was still hours off.

He found a spot near the coffee shop by his condo and parked. The crisp October air bit at his cheeks as he checked for traffic before crossing the street.

Harbor & Bean always seemed busy, no matter when he stepped inside. Warm light spilled across reclaimed wood counters, Edison bulbs casting a soft glow while ferns dangled from macramé hangers overhead. A wall of rotating art ran the length of the room; this month it was black-and-white street shots, rain-slick sidewalks and neon blurs that made him think of Tokyo at night.

The air smelled of espresso cut with pumpkin spice, the row of kombucha jars behind the counter bubbling in bright colors he ignored. He went straight for the case by the register, scanning past lavender-lemon and dark chocolate sea salt until he spotted what he came for: oatmeal muffins, wrapped in plain brown paper.

The barista didn’t even blink when he asked for six. By now, they had his order half-memorized – the green hair and scar made him hard to forget, and his appetite even more so. 

He shifted the bag of muffins into one hand, coffee in the other, and scanned the room. Harbor & Bean was crowded, like always: joggers still in sweatshirts camped by the windows, freelancers with their laptops spread across the long communal table, earbuds shutting the rest of the world out. A pair of students hunched over notebooks near the back, scribbling between sips of iced lattes.

Zoro didn’t care about the noise, but he needed space. With his build, squeezing between chairs meant knocking into things, and he wasn’t about to risk sloshing coffee all over someone’s MacBook. His eyes landed on a small two-top tucked against the wall beneath one of the framed photographs, an overhead shot of Tokyo’s crossing, umbrellas blooming in every color against the pavement below.

He moved toward it, weaving between chairs with the same precision he’d once used in the ring. When he reached the table, he set the bag down, sat heavily, and took the first bite of muffin before the chair even stopped creaking beneath him.

He was halfway through his second muffin when his gaze snagged on a figure in line. It said something that he recognized Sanji by the cut of his trousers, specifically, how they fit his ass. Zoro nearly choked on a mouthful, coughing hard enough to turn heads. Including Sanji’s. Heat flared across his face as he grabbed for his coffee and washed the bite down. He caught the twitch of Sanji’s lips before he turned away.

Zoro hunched, trying to fold in on himself, which was laughable with his bulk. He could make a break for it, but that would only draw more attention. Instead, he took another swig of coffee, the bitter steam curling up against his nose, and dragged his finger through the stray crumbs left on the muffin paper. His pulse still hammered sharp in his chest. He hadn’t expected to see Sanji here. He never did before. Then again, traffic had slowed him down. Normally he hit Harbor & Bean for his muffin fix much earlier.

He risked a glance from beneath his lashes. Sanji was at the counter, leaning on one hip while he waited for his order, black trousers and a fitted vest cutting clean lines over an orange shirt. Very October. He wondered if Sanji stopped here every day around this time, or if this was a one-off. He wondered if he was on his way to work, or just stealing a break before opening. He wondered why Sanji always had to look so damned good.

He wondered why Sanji was walking this way.

Zoro straightened so abruptly his chair groaned under him. The scrape of wood on tile felt louder than it was, blush stealing across his cheeks. He reached up to take off his glasses, aborted halfway, and forced himself to stay still.

Sanji stopped behind the opposite chair, smirk in place. The faint warmth of roasted beans and steamed milk curled up from the lid of his cup. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite walking hedge. Should I be offended you’re cheating on me before dinner?”

Zoro blinked. “Huh?” Cheating?

Sanji gestured at the bag of muffins with his cup. “The muffins.”

Zoro looked down, blank for a beat, then caught on. “Oh. Uh–” He fumbled for a response. Yes? No? This was a snack? He ate a lot? 

Sanji let out a soft laugh before he could decide and tapped the chair. “Mind if I sit?”

Zoro swallowed and nodded. As Sanji slid into the chair, Zoro ran a self-conscious hand over his hair, wondering if physio had left it sticking up. Worse, he hadn’t showered yet. Fuck. Heat prickled at his neck. He ducked his head and tried to sniff discreetly at his pits.

Sanji set his cup down, crossing one knee elegantly over the other. “Haven’t seen you here before. And I stop by at this time every day.”

“M’late,” Zoro mumbled, his brain shrieking Sanji’s sitting with me. “Traffic.”

Sanji’s brow arched. “So you drive to Harborside just for muffins and… stay for dinner?”

“No. Here. I live.” Zoro cringed the second the words left his mouth. English may have been his second language, but he was fluent. Here. I live. Pathetic. He forced another try. “I live here. Condo.”

Sanji clicked his tongue. “Pricey. Guess your fan club wasn’t just a ploy to impress me.”

Zoro frowned. “Uh…”

Sanji’s smirk deepened. “What is it you do, anyway? We’ve got a bet going in the kitchen. My money’s on professional marimo stand-in. Others bet soap star or bodyguard.”

“Wrestler,” Zoro said, frowning harder. “I look like a soap star?”

Sanji laughed, low and husky, the sound curling heat into Zoro’s gut. “Wanze’s just hoping you knew RhonniRose Mantilla and could snag him an autograph.”

Zoro blinked, clueless, and gave a short shake of his head. 

Sanji leaned back, sipping his coffee. “So, a wrestler, huh? You wear those little briefs?”

Zoro flushed. “No. Black tights.”

Sanji’s lips twitched.

“They’re not, like, women’s tights,” Zoro blurted, heat climbing his neck. “They’re skin-tight pants. Manly. Real manly tights.”

That earned him a full smirk. “Manly tights.”

Zoro groaned inwardly. He finally strung a sentence together and it came out that. “Shut up.”

“I think I’ll have to see these manly tights for myself,” Sanji teased. “How popular are you, exactly? Can I find your picture online?”

Zoro shifted uneasily. The thought of Sanji looking him up made his stomach lurch with both dread and strange excitement. “…Yeah.”

Sanji already had his phone out. “Say ‘manly tights.’” The shutter clicked before Zoro could even grunt his protest, Sanji’s laugh spilling after. “Perfect. That’s my new wallpaper.”

Zoro couldn’t decide if he was insulted or flattered. He defaulted to, “Fuck you.”

Sanji grinned, thumbs flicking quickly over his phone. Then his eyes widened, gaze dragging over the screen a fraction too long. “I take it back – definitely manly tights.” He kept scrolling, mouth quirking as his brow climbed higher. “Holy hell, it just keeps going.” A few fast taps, and then he stilled, staring at the screen. “There are over twelve million results for your name.”

Zoro shrugged, only slightly embarrassed. “Was good at my job.”

“Was?”

“Am,” he corrected. “Just… not in the ring right now.”

Sanji tilted his head. “You’re benched? Or whatever they call it?”

“Medically retired,” Zoro said. “Still do promos, fan events, stuff like that. When I’m cleared, I’ll do limited matches.”

“That mean you’ll show up at All Blue less?”

“Depends how much they use me.” His workload might climb, but it would never reach the grind it had been before the injury.

“Pity.” Sanji lifted his cup, peering at him over the rim. The steam curled between them. “The greenery really brightened my dining room.”

Zoro narrowed his eyes, unsure if it was a compliment or another jab. He stuck with, “Fuck you.”

Sanji took a slow sip, the faint hiss of the lid breaking the silence. Zoro stared before he could stop himself – the angle of Sanji’s jaw, sharpened by the neat cut of his beard, the way his fingers curved around the cup – and heat prickled up his neck. He dropped his gaze fast, suddenly fascinated with the muffin wrapper, his thumb worrying at the paper edge until it tore. Every part of him felt too big for the chair, like the whole café could see what was happening across the table.

Sanji finally checked his watch and rose, slipping his phone into his pocket. “As much as I’d love to stay and insult you more, prep calls.”

Zoro felt a sharp twinge of disappointment. For once, he’d actually managed to talk to Sanji like a somewhat normal person, and now it was over. “Okay.”

Sanji balanced his coffee in one hand. “See you tonight?”

Zoro nodded.

“Good.” Sanji tapped the chair twice and sauntered off, tossing a breezy, “Later, Ronin.”

“It’s Zoro.”

Sanji shot him a grin over his shoulder. “I know.”

Zoro, once again, couldn’t tell if he was supposed to be infuriated or pleased. He solved it by tearing into a third muffin instead.

It wasn’t until he got home that the adrenaline crashed over him, leaving his hands unsteady as he dropped his keys on the counter. Sanji had sat down with him. They’d talked. Actual sentences had come out of his mouth. Six months it had taken, but he’d done it.

He sat on the edge of his bed, chest still tight, pulse hammering like he’d just gone a pay-per-view bout instead of having coffee. The memory replayed whether he wanted it to or not – Sanji’s smirk, the sound of his laugh, the way his eyes had caught the light when he’d leaned back in the chair. Zoro scrubbed a hand over his face, heat crawling up his neck all over again.

The thought of trying again tonight – of maybe even asking Sanji out – hit him like a blindside clothesline. His stomach twisted, breath snagged, and for a second he almost laughed at himself. He’d wrestled for half an hour straight, fought through blood and exhaustion in front of thousands, and none of it had ever left him this wired.

And maybe that was the point. It wasn’t the ring doing this to him anymore. It was Sanji. And for the first time, the idea of stepping out of the closet felt less like fear and more like longing, tugging him forward toward something he wanted more than he’d ever let himself admit.

Zoro didn’t ask Sanji out.

He dressed better than usual, put in his contact lens, fixed his hair. He’d planned to at least try. But a family of wrestling fans had booked most of the restaurant, and Zoro, ever the professional, ended up at their table celebrating a ten-year-old’s birthday. At least the pictures would be good PR.

He saw Sanji when he came by to check on the party and drop off Zoro’s food. For a heartbeat Zoro thought he caught a softer smile meant for him, though it was probably his imagination.

Zoro had a fan convention that weekend and was gone for three days. When he came back, the thin thread of momentum he’d managed to build felt like it had slipped through his fingers. Still, he went to the All Blue, anticipation tight in his chest, only to find Sanji staying in the kitchen.

Three days passed, and Sanji still hadn’t come out.

On the fourth day Zoro finally asked after him. Camie returned with an apologetic smile, saying Sanji was too busy to step away.

By the following week, Zoro got the hint.

He didn’t know if it was because he was boring, or unappealing, or if Sanji had realized Zoro was interested and wanted nothing to do with it. Didn’t really matter. Seven days without showing his face said enough.

Zoro told himself he shouldn’t feel heartbroken. He’d only managed one halfway-decent conversation with the guy. Still, it was the possibility that gnawed at him, the idea of reaching for something he’d wanted for a long time but had been too afraid to come out for. 

He stopped going to the All Blue. Switched to the Inkwell Brew Pub instead. The food wasn’t as good, but it was easier. The bright, noisy space was more like a constant family party, a foil to All Blue’s intimate glow. Zoro ate at the bar, ordered whatever was on tap, posed for selfies, offered polite fragments of conversation. More wrestling fans and out-of-neighborhood locals ended up at the Inkwell than at Sanji’s place.

He pulled back into himself. Days blurred into the same loop of gym, physio, and meals. He asked the company for more work, packed his weekends with fan conventions, and spent long hours at the Chicago wrestling school mentoring. October slid into November, then into the bite of December. He wasn’t cleared for Full Gear, and the disappointment sat heavy in his chest, stretching into the quiet hours when he came home alone. After a while, he told himself he didn’t need a personal life. All he needed was to train harder, keep busy, and try to forget about love.

January came with blustering snow and miserable flights. He spent the first stretch of the month bouncing between a fan convention and a string of media spots out of town, the type of travel that left his shoulders knotted and his body running on airport food and stiff hotel beds. By the time he finally caught a break, he was grateful to be home. The flat gray sky pressed low over the slate-gray churn of Lake Michigan. He was tired, worn down, and craving something hot that wasn’t takeout or bar food.

All Blue was closer than the Inkwell. It had been long enough that he didn’t care if he saw Sanji or not. They’d never been a thing – it had been stupid to pin his hopes on one person. All Blue had the better food, and it was time he got over himself and went back.

Bundled against the wind chill, Zoro trudged through the slush from his condo to the restaurant, breath puffing white in the air. He stepped inside, stamping snowmelt from his boots, and the rush of warmth hit him all at once. His glasses fogged instantly; he pulled them off with a muttered curse, blinking against the sudden blur.

Even without clear sight, the place came back to him in pieces: the golden wash of light over dark wood, the warm thrum of conversation, the faint clatter from the kitchen. Scents curled through the air – butter, garlic, seared fish – familiar enough to make his stomach tighten with hunger. He realized how much he’d missed it, the quiet pull of this restaurant, the comfort he hadn’t found anywhere else.

“Mr. Roronoa, it’s been a while,” Duval said, while Zoro unzipped his winter coat. “Table for one, I still presume?”

“Yeah.” Zoro didn’t bother to look into the dining area to determine the crowd, since he couldn’t see much past Duval.

“Follow me.” Duval took a menu and led Zoro past diners to a different table than the one he’d always had before. This one sat near the front window, more exposed than his usual quiet spot at the back near the kitchen. “Here you are. Enjoy your meal.”

As Duval walked off, Zoro couldn’t help noticing the absence. No self-care lecture, no familiar edge of banter, just the cool politeness of a host treating him like any other diner. He brushed it off. It had been a while since he’d set foot in All Blue.

He shrugged off his winter coat and draped it over the opposite chair, then slid into his seat. His glasses went back on, the lens still faintly fogged, and he had to crane his neck to catch the specials scrawled on the board. After months of bar food and chain restaurants, the thought of a proper meal tightened his stomach with anticipation.

A waiter appeared – a face Zoro didn’t recognize – to take his drink order. “Hibiki, neat,” he said.

The waiter paused. “I’m not sure if we carry that. I’ll find out.”

Zoro’s brow pulled down as the man left. Maybe he’d done too well cutting Sanji out of his head. Nobody even remembered his usual order.

The waiter returned minutes later with a glass of whisky. “Turns out we did have that brand. I’ve never heard of it,” he added as he set the glass down. “Are you ready to order or do you need a few minutes?”

“I’ll have the seafood salad special and a sirloin, medium.”

“Very well. I’ll put that right in.” The waiter gave him a mild smile before heading off again.

Zoro turned to the window. From this seat, looking anywhere else in the room would’ve been obvious. Outside, January’s dark had already settled in, streetlamps gleaming against the steady drift of snow. Couples hurried by, arm in arm, ducking their heads against the cold. Their breath fogged into the air, gone in an instant.

He let his mind slip to his own week ahead. A cameo at Dynamite on Wednesday. Time at the wrestling school Thursday and Friday, sitting in on afternoon sessions. The weekend was open for once. Maybe he’d take the El downtown, kill some time at the Museum of Science and Industry. The Spider-Man exhibit was still running, and he wouldn’t mind checking it out.

“Hn, Duval told me he seated a head of spinach, but I had to see for myself.”

The rasp of the familiar voice behind him sent Zoro’s pulse spiking, the thud of his heartbeat loud enough to drown the restaurant noise. When Sanji stepped into view it hit like a sucker punch, knocking the air right out of him. He’d thought absence might dull the effect, but it had only made it worse. His throat went dry, his skin felt too hot under his winter layers, and his muscles locked tight in his chair. Sanji, in a black fitted suit and tie with a yellow shirt, smirked like nothing had changed.

Sanji set a casual hand on the table. “It’s been months, cilantro. I’m hurt. Did you find someone better to date than me?”

Zoro stared, heat flooding his face, thoughts stumbling over themselves. Dating? Had one coffee counted as that? Had he already screwed it up? “We’re dating?” he blurted, breath coming too short, ears burning. How the hell had he missed that? He knew he was inexperienced, but seriously – he couldn’t be so clueless he didn’t know when he was on a date.

Sanji’s expression soured. “You look like you’re about to panic. Don’t worry your homophobic head, your manliness is safe. I meant you found a better restaurant than here – which I doubt. My food’s perfection on a plate.”

“Did you just call me homophobic?” The laugh bubbled up despite his nerves. Him, homophobic? He was a fucking homosexual.

Sanji’s gaze narrowed. “Why? You gonna make something of it? You might be some minor celebrity, but I don’t tolerate shit in here.”

“No, I’m not– shit.” Zoro chuckled, dropping his head, pressing fingertips to his forehead. Unbelievable. He’d been so deep in the closet Sanji thought he was homophobic. “I thought I missed the fact that coffee was a date.”

Sanji stilled, eyes still sharp on him, suspicion flickering into something else. He tipped his head, studying Zoro like he was trying to decide if the man was mocking him or being serious. “Would you want it to be a date?” he asked, tone even, giving nothing away.

Zoro froze. The words blindsided him, hollowing him out from the inside. He glanced up over the rim of his glasses, pulse hammering in his ears. Sanji didn’t look offended, but he didn’t look amused either. There was something wary there… and maybe anticipation. The question coiled in Zoro’s chest, impossible to shrug off, terrifying in its simplicity.

“I–” he hesitated. This was it. Saying it out loud would mean admitting, to someone else at last, that yes – he was gay. Panic surged up fast and hot. If he let it out here, there’d be no taking it back. PR would have to know. The fallout would come. His love life would be dissected on social media. He’d hear the slurs whispered in locker rooms, shouted from the cheap seats.

But if he let it out here… maybe Sanji would really want to date him.

He wiped damp palms against his trousers, drew in one fast, fortifying breath, and pushed the answer out on a rough whisper. “Yes.”

Sanji held him in a silence that stretched so long Zoro thought the floor might give out beneath him. His gaze stayed steady, unreadable, holding Zoro in place until the quiet was almost unbearable. Then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, soft before it turned sly, warmth slipping through the tease. “How about another coffee tomorrow, then? Officially?”

Zoro’s heart kicked like a mule, the jolt leaving him almost dizzy. A flush climbed his throat, his hands clammy against his thighs, and for a second he couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or bolt for the door. The response caught in his throat, but he let it out at last, quiet and a little shy. “Okay.”

“Good. I’ll see you around two.”

Sanji’s hand lingered on the table before he turned. Zoro should’ve let him go, but the question that had been gnawing at him since October shoved its way out before he could choke it back. “Why didn’t you come out?”

Sanji paused, brow quirking. “Come out? Sexually, you mean?”

Zoro’s face went scarlet. “No.” Damn it. He could never talk right around Sanji. “I meant out of the kitchen. Back in October. I waited, but you never came.”

Recognition flickered across Sanji’s face. “Ah. I was short-staffed. Wanze was sick, my pâtissier was on her honeymoon, and my entremetier quit.” He stopped, realization dawning. “That was the week you disappeared.”

Zoro ducked his head, ears blazing, suddenly fascinated by the amber swirl in his whisky glass. The rim was cold against his fingertips, the liquid catching the golden light from the sconces. He gritted his teeth against the crawl of embarrassment under his skin.

Sanji chuckled, low and knowing. “Could’ve had a date back in October, huh? Damn. Oh well, c’est la vie. Gaimon will bring your food shortly.”

He left, and the restaurant noise rushed back in – silverware chiming against plates, muted laughter from a nearby table, the faint sizzle and clatter drifting out from the kitchen doors. Zoro sat there, trying not to combust. His heart still hammered, every muscle coiled tight. He was embarrassed, overheated, and stupidly giddy all at once. For the first time, the promise of a real date hung in front of him, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or hide under the table.

It terrified him – but beneath the fear ran a sharp thrum of pride, like he’d finally set one foot outside the closet.

Zoro changed four times before finally stopping himself from being ridiculous. He put in his contact lens – at least then Sanji wouldn’t have to stare at his one eye blown up lopsided behind thick coke-bottle glass. The thought made him twitch, stupid that he cared. He tried taming his hair so it looked less like an unmowed lawn. Noticed his roots needed a touch-up and checked his phone for the next appointment. Then he glanced at the clock and saw he still had two hours to kill. So he stripped down and worked out until sweat burned off the nerves jangling under his skin, leaving just enough time to shower, redress, fix his hair again, and head out.

Harbor & Bean was quieter on a winter weekday, the sky outside swollen with the threat of snow. The laptop diehards and post-yoga crowd filled the warm space, their low chatter and clinking cups blending with the hiss of the espresso machine. Zoro stamped the slush from his boots and shrugged out of his coat. He was a few minutes early, yet Sanji was already there, waiting at a table for two by the window.

Zoro’s pulse spiked, heat crawling up his neck. Sanji had shed his winter coat, and was dressed in a dusky pink shirt and black vest, the collar open casually where a tie should have been. He looked good – exceedingly good – and Zoro’s palms began to sweat.

Sanji’s curved smile only made it worse. Zoro jabbed a thumb toward the counter, grateful for the excuse to escape, and tore his gaze away as he joined the line. He stared at the muffins like they held answers, but his head wouldn’t quiet – everything tangled together: nerves, anticipation, even the heat curling low in his gut. He was actually on a date. With a guy. With the guy he’d been hung up on for almost a year.

Zoro risked a glance back. He hoped the date went okay. He hoped Sanji liked him. He hoped he could string more than two words together.

The line moved. Zoro ordered black coffee and six apple-and-almond bran muffins. By the time the bag and cup were in his hands, he was more wound up than when he’d walked in. He reminded himself that if he could talk to strangers on the street, he could manage one conversation with someone who mattered.

He swallowed hard and threaded through the tables. Sanji’s smile greeted him again, and Zoro’s heart slammed against his ribs, nearly bruising them. “Right on time, arugula. I appreciate someone who knows how to read a watch.”

Zoro’s face heated. He mumbled, “Don’t get lost anymore.”

Sanji’s brow lifted. “That sounds like a story I need to hear and give you shit about.”

Flustered, Zoro set down his coffee and muffin bag, peeled off his coat, and draped it over the chair back. The chair groaned under his weight when he sat. He shoved the rolled sleeves of his black button-down higher up his forearms, suddenly too hot. “My eyesight’s bad,” he admitted, voice still low. “Didn’t do anything about it until I joined AEW. Got lost all the time ‘cause I couldn’t read signs.”

Back in WWE he’d just follow other wrestlers, but when he had time off, he’d wind up wandering cities half-blind, hopelessly off-track. AEW’s medical staff hadn’t let him wrestle without a fix, so he’d finally gotten lenses.

“That’s… not as exciting a story as I hoped,” Sanji said, amused. “And since you look cute in your glasses, I’m devastated I can’t make fun of you.”

Zoro’s ears went hot, tingling clear down his neck. Sanji called him cute, which was ridiculous – he was built like an ox with a scar cutting across his face. “M’not cute.”

“Beg to differ.” Sanji smirked over the rim of his cup.

Zoro shifted, the chair creaking again, and focused on pulling a muffin from the bag like it was the most important task in the world. He knew he should say something nice back, but his brain stuttered. He flicked a glance at Sanji, eye catching on the golden curl of chest hair peeking through the vee of his shirt. 

“Curly,” he blurted – stupid, not something that should’ve left his mouth. “I mean… uh… you’re nice… too.”

Heat crawled up his neck. He was sure his face was fire-engine red. Why wouldn’t the floor just open up and swallow him?

Sanji chuckled. “With your hair, you’re kinda looking like a tomato. Makes me want to eat you up.”

Zoro’s hand jerked, smacking his cup. “Shit!” Coffee sloshed, but the lid held; only a thin trickle leaked from the opening. He lunged for napkins anyway, desperate to mop the table, and maybe salvage a shred of dignity.

Sanji laughed, open and bright with just enough rasp to curl under Zoro’s skin. “Fuck, you’re adorable. I should’ve asked you out ages ago.”

Zoro tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling, then the window, then his muffin – anywhere but at Sanji – while his face burned hot enough to combust.

A light nudge pressed against his calf. Sanji’s shoe. “You good there, big guy?”

Zoro nodded, stiff and unconvincing. The move earned him another chuckle.

“Plan on sharing those muffins,” Sanji drawled, “or do I need to get up and get my own?”

“Oh… uh, yeah.” Zoro fumbled for the bag, guilt hitting like a chair shot. He should’ve offered immediately. It was a date, after all.

Fuck, he was on a date.

The realization slammed into him. All at once the walls closed in, his chest locking tight. He was on a date – with another man. With Sanji. In public. He was being gay in public.

Sanji’s foot was still against his leg.

Zoro jerked away, panic surging up like it wanted to drown him. He’d wanted this. He’d wanted to come out. But now it felt overwhelming. Life-altering. Almost shameful.

He pressed his fingertips hard against his eyelids and forced himself to breathe. Sanji said something, but Zoro couldn’t catch the words. The café noise swelled, every clink and hiss stabbing his ears, every laugh a knife edge. It felt like eyes were everywhere. Staring. Judging. Phones raised. The Ronin is gay!

A hand brushed his arm. He flinched. Dropping his hands, he met Sanji’s gaze – kind, concerned – and felt his own face go cold with terror. He needed to leave. Now.

He shoved to his feet, chair scraping against tile in a teeth-jarring screech, and bolted. Long strides carried him through Harbor & Bean and out into the winter air before he could second-guess himself.

The icy slap of wind snapped at his skin. He blinked hard as the cold sliced through his shirt, heart still hammering. A passerby with a yoga mat gave him a strange look but kept walking.

The café door thudded open and shut again. A nudge brushed his arm.

“Here.” Sanji stood beside him, coat hanging open, balancing two coffees and the muffin bag in one hand. He held out Zoro’s coat with the other.

Zoro took it and slid it on, the warmth easing the frantic beat of his pulse.

“You live close, right?” Sanji asked, his breath white in the air.

Zoro nodded, tongue thick. He motioned toward the condos.

“’K. Let’s go.” Sanji started that way, shoulder brushing his lightly.

The touch was enough to get Zoro moving. He shoved his fists into his pockets and kept his head down, eye fixed on the sidewalk. The cold bit at his lungs, stung his nose, pulled him back step by step from the edge.

By the time they reached the condos, he could breathe again. Through the lobby, into the elevator, up to the third floor – until he was unlocking the door and letting Sanji into his place, Lake Michigan stretched gray beyond the windows.

The loft opened wide, brick and steel giving it backbone while tall windows spilled light across polished concrete floors. It was spare, almost austere, softened only by throw rugs and a Japanese touch. A black robe lay folded neatly on a low rack beside worn geta sandals, a bonsai set on the same shelf as a brush-stroked scroll and his black-and-red mask. 

On the wall, a weathered katana sat like a quiet accent, its frayed grip anchoring the room with age. Beside it, a lacquered rack held others, all Japanese, collected slowly over the years. Some he’d brought back himself, carried from trips to Tokyo or Kyoto; others had come to him through old contacts or word of mouth, offered when people figured out he wasn’t just collecting for show. The arrangement was deliberate, reverent, not ostentatious. 

The kitchen stood in clean lines of stainless steel and stone, more maintained than used, its counters bare except for a strip of Japanese knives and bowls stacked with precise order. Near the windows, a narrow tatami runner and the faint scent of cedar incense carried a sense of calm through the space, even as the glass darkened with low clouds pressing in from the lake, the air outside thick with the promise of snow.

“Shoes,” Zoro muttered as he dropped onto the bench near the door. He unlaced his hiking boots, pulled them off, and lined them neatly with the others. His coat went on a peg with the rest before he headed into the kitchen for a glass of water.

The ice maker clattered loudly as he filled it, followed by the hiss of water pouring over cubes. He drank greedily, ice bumping his nose, and only then did the tightness in his chest start to ease.

A sound behind him made him turn. Sanji stood at the island counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. Sans coat, he set the coffee cups and muffin bag down, expression polite but shaded with concern, like he’d let Zoro choose whether to acknowledge what just happened.

“Sorry,” Zoro said, low. He’d probably just wrecked everything. First real date with someone he wanted and he was already a disaster.

“Want to talk about it?” Sanji asked quietly, the offer gentle, not pushing. 

Zoro stared into his glass. “I’m not… out,” he admitted, the words catching rough in his throat. “You’re my first date with a guy.”

Sanji hummed, mouth quirking. “You’ll have to forgive me while my ego swells from being your first.” His tone teased, but his eyes stayed serious. “Do you want me to go?”

“No.” The answer came instantly, firm despite his nerves. He wanted Sanji to stay, more than anything.

Sanji’s smile softened, warm and honest. “Good. I didn’t want to go anyway.”

He turned, letting his eyes roam the condo. Whether he was giving Zoro a moment to collect himself, Zoro could only guess, but he appreciated the space. “So, this is how famous wrestlers live,” Sanji said. “I expected a ring in your living room.”

Zoro snorted before he could stop himself. “That’s dumb.”

“How would I know? Your profession still feels made up to me,” Sanji said, wandering further into the living room.

“It’s hard work,” Zoro answered, feeling a little more like himself again – still shy and awkward, but less like bolting.

“Hn. Tell me about it.” Sanji drifted over to the wall where Zoro’s katanas hung, studying them.

Zoro turned his glass in his hands as he spoke. “I’m not as busy as I used to be, but there was a time I was on the road close to three hundred days a year. Three, four matches a week. When I jumped to AEW, it dropped to one a week, sometimes two, and maybe a hundred days on the road.”

“I’ve only heard of WWE.” Sanji’s hands slipped into his pockets as he kept exploring the Japanese art on the walls. “What’s AEW?”

“All Elite Wrestling. It started in 2019. I went over in 2020. Wanted the lighter schedule and more freedom. And it’s more… gay friendly.”

“But you’re not out.”

Zoro shook his head. “But I feel like I could be, with them. Bowens is out. Kiss and Rose, too.”

Sanji glanced over, curious. “Why’d you wait?”

Zoro turned the glass again, going with the truth. “I wanted to find someone worth coming out for.”

Sanji’s grin was equal parts flattered and egotistical. “Well, now I’ll just have to truly impress you with my dashing wit and sparkling personality. Good thing I already know I’m hot.”

Zoro rolled his eye. “Not that hot,” he said, lying through his teeth. Fit, leggy blonds were exactly his type.

Sanji’s grin widened, like he’d heard the lie loud and clear. Instead of calling him on it, he dropped onto the corner of the couch, elbow hooked on the low armrest, posing like a men’s magazine ad and looking unfairly perfect. “Tell me more about wrestling. I only know that you look obscenely good in your manly tights and that it’s fake.”

“Staged, not fake,” Zoro corrected, blushing at the compliment. He walked over and took the opposite seat, still clutching the water glass like a shield. “We know the winner before we walk out. But the hits land and the falls hurt. The ropes are steel cables, the mat’s wood with a thin pad. It’s real enough. Just controlled, so nobody leaves on a stretcher every night.”

Sanji smirked, though respect flickered in his eye. “So you’re telling me you get slammed on wood and steel for a living, and still walk out looking like that? Color me impressed, asparagus.”

Another compliment, mixed in with the usual jibe. Sanji flirted like it was nothing. Zoro floundered, blurting the first thought that tripped out of his mouth. “You cook.” Genius. Real impressive.

“That I do,” Sanji said. “Not as much as before I opened my own restaurant, but I’m on the line as often as I can be.” His smirk curved again. “Gotta keep my sentient shrub well fed.”

Zoro flipped him off for that one, earning a low snicker. “When’d you open All Blue?”

“Three years ago.” Sanji adjusted the cuff of his shirt. “I was thirty, still working at the old man’s place. Figured it was time to go out on my own.”

“Your dad’s a cook?”

“Not my father,” Sanji corrected, though fondness edged his voice. “But a mentor. He taught me everything.”

Zoro liked the way his face softened when he said it. “He must mean a lot to you.”

Sanji snorted. “Yeah. But don’t tell him that. He’d rather kick me in the head than hear any ‘mushy stuff.’”

The conversation flowed easier after that. Sanji shared stories about the kitchen – customers both salty and sweet, the headaches of running a restaurant – and Zoro found himself relaxing, able to ask and answer without tripping over his tongue. He told Sanji what fan conventions were like, and how strange it still felt to hear ten thousand people screaming his stage name, even if he was now only doing a cameo.

Sanji teased him mercilessly, bowing low with a mocking Mr. Ronin. Zoro felt the strong urge to wrestle him down right there, and an even stronger urge to kiss him.

Instead, he just blushed and muttered, “Fuck off.”

Sanji crowed like he’d won.

The wind howled against the windows, making them rattle. Sanji glanced at his watch. “Shit. I should’ve left thirty minutes ago,” he said, rueful but self-amused. “Good thing Wanze’s got a key.”

Disappointment tugged at Zoro, but he understood. He rose as Sanji did, trailing him toward the door and setting his glass of melted ice on the counter as he passed. “Think you’ll be busy tonight with the snow?”

Sanji shrugged, tugging on his shoes. “Depends how heavy it gets. I’ve got six reservations, but if they cancel and the storm worsens, I’ll probably send everyone home.”

Zoro nodded, a different question building in his chest until he found the nerve to let it out. “Would you try another date? With me?”

Sanji paused, his coat halfway on, then grinned as he slid it into place. “I’ll try as many dates as you want.”

Giddiness bubbled sharp in Zoro’s chest. “Okay. Good. Um… maybe coffee? Again? Tomorrow?”

“One o’clock this time, if we’re not snowed in,” Sanji said.

Zoro held back from bouncing on his toes, though he wanted to. “One o’clock.”

Sanji gave him a knowing smirk before opening the door. “Later, AstroTurf.”

The door shut, leaving Zoro in silence. He stared at the empty space, hardly believing he’d gotten the words out, let alone that Sanji had said yes. His throat closed up, full in a way that almost hurt, like the world had just accepted him for what he was.

He punched the air. “Yes!” He’d done it – actually asked Sanji out himself. And Sanji had agreed, even after this one had nearly gone off the rails.

He yanked out his phone, itching to share the news. But the only person he trusted was Luffy – and Luffy still didn’t know he was gay. That needed fixing, especially before the media caught wind.

Got something important to tell you, Zoro texted. Neither of them liked calls, and with Luffy in Alaska commercial fishing, face-to-face wasn’t an option.

The reply came almost instantly: ???

Zoro drew in a breath and typed: I’m gay.

Dots appeared, tension coiling in his gut. What if Luffy reacted badly? What if he didn’t want to be friends anymore? What if Zoro lost the one person who’d always had his back?

Cool 👍👊. Jinbe wants to know if you can get him an autograph for his kid. U think you’ll do revolution in march?

Zoro stared, then barked out a laugh. Of course Luffy wouldn’t care. Luffy had accepted him exactly as he was from the day they’d met.

Just me, or does he want a collection? Maybe revolution. He hesitated, then added, because he wanted to share it: I got a date tomorrow.

He spazzed out over a collection so do that. What’s the date?

Coffee.

With that restaurant guy you like?

Zoro blinked. How did you know about him?

Duh, you text about him a lot. Tho not lately. But before it was sanji called me cactus and sanji said I had greenbean head and sanji called me sleepy seaweed. 

Heat prickled across Zoro’s face. Yeah, it’s him.

Cool. Lemme know how it goes or if I gotta fly in and beat him up. 

That was followed by 🦀🦀🦀🔥💪🤘.

Zoro chuckled quietly, relieved and warmed straight through by his best friend’s response. He sent back ☕😬💀.

Luffy answered with 🍖💪👊.

He let the phone drop onto the counter and exhaled, still smiling to himself. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

The second date was an improvement, if only because he didn’t bolt from Harbor & Bean in a blind panic. He still felt like an awkward oaf, but at least he managed to string enough words together to keep the conversation alive.

The third and fourth dates worked out the same way, and by the tenth Zoro felt confident enough to admit things were going well. Which meant it was probably time to tell PR he was gay and seeing someone, because sooner or later, someone was going to notice he was with Sanji a lot, especially with Revolution drawing near. More importantly, he needed to warn Sanji.

The Harbor & Bean for coffee and Molly’s Diner for breakfast or lunch had become their usual haunts, but Zoro wanted privacy for this talk. He invited Sanji to his condo instead. Sanji had given him a coy look across the All Blue the night before, before agreeing.

Despite the fact that Sanji had already been over once and Zoro kept the place tidy, he scrubbed the condo obsessively until even the grout in the bathroom sparkled. Then he showered, dressed in a hunter green button-down, put in his contact lens – because it was still Sanji and this was still kind of a date – and killed time doomscrolling until the knock came at his door.

Sanji wore sinfully tight black jeans and a fitted blue cashmere sweater over a white tee, and Zoro nearly salivated as he shrugged off his coat. He’d only ever seen Sanji in suits or vests. Out of them, he was seriously, dangerously hot.

“Beer?” Zoro croaked, fleeing toward the kitchen before he did something stupid like reach out and touch.

“Sure.” Sanji slid off his shoes, the quiet thud of leather against concrete following him in. The loft’s high ceiling seemed to catch every sound and stretch it. Zoro met him at the island, passing over an opened bottle of Asahi.

Zoro tried not to stare as Sanji lifted it to his mouth. “Uh… want to sit?”

Sanji smirked, sauntered over to the couch, and sank down like he owned the space. The leather cushions dipped under his lean weight, creaking in the cavernous quiet. The wide windows behind him spilled gray light across the concrete floor, broken here and there by low tatami-style rugs that muted the echo. They softened the edge of the brick walls, its rough surface catching the light in uneven shadows.

Zoro drained a long pull of his own beer before joining him. Sanji immediately shifted closer, one leg tucked under so he could face Zoro. They’d never sat this close before; usually there was always a table between them.

“So…” Sanji began, voice low, idly toying with the neck of his bottle. “I took the night off.”

Zoro blinked. He’d invited Sanji over at one, figuring they’d have a few hours before dinner service. Having him here this early suddenly felt… strange. “Okay…”

Sanji’s lips curved. He slid a finger along Zoro’s forearm, casual but electric. Zoro’s skin tingled where the touch lingered. “We don’t need to rush, but part of me still wants to.”

“I do, too,” Zoro admitted. His voice felt rough. “I want to get it out of the way.”

Sanji’s brow climbed, amusement flaring. “Eager Chia pet. Can’t say I mind. I’ve been waiting for this a while.”

“So you’re okay with it?” Zoro asked, serious now. His beer bottle sweated between his palms. “It’s going to be big.”

Sanji’s gaze dropped. His tongue slid across his lower lip. “I was hoping that’d be the case. Though I am versatile.”

Zoro blew out a relieved breath. “Good. I was worried. It’s going to be hard, and I don’t want you to get hurt. We could stop if you wanted.”

“There’s very little you could do to make me stop,” Sanji murmured, sliding closer. He leaned forward to set his beer down with a muted thud on the coffee table.

Zoro shifted, a smile tugging at his lips. “I feel the same.” He dug his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering for a breath, feeling good about the decision. “I’ll text PR now then.”

Sanji stilled. Confusion swept across his face. “PR?”

“Yeah.” Zoro thumbed in his password. “They might want to Zoom, get details for the release.”

“Release… grassbrain, what are you talking about?”

“The press release.” Zoro found the contact, already tapping. “Better if it comes from the company than getting caught sneaking around. People are going to talk either way. If I’m going to come out, I want it on my terms.”

Sanji’s hand suddenly covered the phone, warm and firm against Zoro’s. Zoro glanced up to find him staring in disbelief. “You were talking about coming out to the public this whole time?”

“Well, yeah. What else would I be talking about?”

Sanji barked a laugh, head tipping back. “Sex, you avocado-headed idiot. I thought that’s why you invited me over.”

Zoro’s mouth fell open. Heat shot up his neck. He scrubbed a hand over his face, ears burning. “I– you– I mean–”

Sanji rocked back, laughing harder. The sound echoed in the wide loft. “Fuck. Just when I think you can’t get any more adorable.”

Zoro wanted to dig a hole and bury himself. “We haven’t even kissed,” he muttered, cheeks blazing.

“Of course not. We’ve always been in public.” Sanji’s voice was still laced with mirth. “And I know once it happens, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

Zoro both wanted to die and felt a dangerous spark at the thought of Sanji’s hands all over him. “I– you–” he stammered again.

Sanji picked up his beer, took a sip, and slid to the far end of the couch, tucking himself into the corner with stray chuckles. The cushions sighed under the shift. “Okay. Now that we’re on the same page, you want to tell the world that you’re gay and, what, wanted my blessing?”

Zoro opened and closed his mouth, shifted awkwardly, then forced his brain back into gear. “It affects you, too,” he mumbled, still flustered. “There’ll be pictures. Interviews. Reddit threads.”

“Ah, I see.” Sanji nodded, understanding settling in. “I’m fine with it. My sexuality hasn’t been a secret since my early twenties. I’m over myself.”

“They won’t all say nice things,” Zoro warned. He knew they wouldn’t; the world was hateful that way. “And they’ll dig into you. Your past. Anything they can use.” His own past was already scattered online – from his kendo matches in Japan to the scars on his body to his high school wrestling stats.

Sanji went quiet, the air between them tightening. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to fill the silence. “There are… things I wouldn’t necessarily want out there.” He took a breath, then looked Zoro square in the eye. “I was abused as a kid. DCS eventually got involved. That stuff’s sealed, but I’m not stupid. Still… my family moved overseas decades ago. It was another life.” He paused, then his expression softened. “You’re worth whatever risk comes from it.”

Zoro’s chest jolted, face heating for a whole new reason. He swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “I… think you’re worth it, too.”

“That’s settled then.” Sanji pushed to his feet, casual again. He tugged the hem of his sweater back into place. “You contact your PR. I’ll raid your kitchen for a snack.”

“You won’t find much,” Zoro said. “I usually eat out.”

Sanji smirked, heading for the kitchen. “Don’t worry your pretty jade head. I can make the best with the least.”

Zoro huffed, trying for a grumble but betraying himself with a laugh. His chest felt strangely light. Even the heavy winter sky beyond the windows looked less oppressive. Coming out didn’t feel quite as terrifying anymore.

PR did Zoom them. It was the most excruciating forty-five minutes of Zoro’s life, and he’d fractured his neck on a folding chair. When it was finally over, he felt light-headed, wrung out. Sanji, unfazed, insisted they go food shopping so he could feed Zoro properly.

Zoro hadn’t protested. They took his car there and back, Sanji directing him through aisles like he was running a brigade line. Back at the loft, Sanji unpacked groceries with the same precision, set a bottle of wine out to breathe, and moved through Zoro’s kitchen as though he owned it. Pots and pans Zoro barely remembered buying were already clattering onto the stove.

Zoro perched on a stool, nursing another beer, watching him. “Don’t you get tired of cooking?”

“Never.” Sanji’s reply was firm, certain, as he sliced and stirred without missing a beat.

Outside, darkness had settled, February wind rattling against the tall windows. Zoro had drawn the curtains, the loft washed instead in lamplight that pooled warm across the rugs and brick. The kitchen glowed brighter under the low pendant lamps, steel counters and glass jars catching the light.

It had taken about an hour for PR to get in touch after a flurry of texts. Then forty-five minutes on the call, and another couple hours lost to groceries. Normally, Sanji would’ve left by now, heading to work. But he’d taken the night off… thinking they’d be having sex.

The thought made a blush crawl across Zoro’s cheeks all over again. He shifted on the stool, the beer bottle slick in his hand, and ducked his head like staring at the label would keep Sanji from noticing.

Zoro had thought about having sex with another guy. A lot. His incognito browser history was practically a shrine to gay porn. He even had a few toys shoved in the back of his closet. He’d known he was gay for sure since he was eighteen, even if he’d never actually done anything about it.

He’d also thought about having sex with Sanji – about kissing him, touching him, finding out what he looked like under all those suits.

But they’d only been on ten dates. Eleven, if today counted. And even if Zoro had been pining after Sanji for nearly a year, he didn’t know if that was too soon to sleep together. Although Sanji had clearly come to his condo thinking it was on the table. Was there some kind of gay handbook for this?

Zoro tugged out his phone and typed a search. The results coughed up book lists, Quora threads, and Reddit posts. He clicked on one titled What are some things about gay sex that everyone should know? and regretted it instantly.

When you first start bottoming, it feels like you have to take a massive dump.

Depending on the top, bottoming can make you very, very gassy.

Sometimes if you were at the bottom while barebacking (sex without a condom) you shart some lube and semen.

Sometimes after sex, if the top uses too much lube (very rarely an issue) you end up pooping blobs of lube after sex.

Zoro closed the browser fast, pulse jumping. Maybe bottoming wasn’t in his near future. He set the phone down on the counter, staring at the blank screen as if it might flare back to life. For a moment the nerves pressed in, tight in his ribs, whispering maybe he wasn’t ready for any of this.

But that wasn’t the truth. Really, what he wanted was simpler – just to be with another man without fear. To feel strength and hardness against his own, and know it was all right to want it.

“Do you want to spend the night?”

The words hung in the kitchen air, heavy and vulnerable.

Sanji paused mid-stir, spoon hovering. He turned, expression unreadable – no smirk or mockery – though his follow-up held the faintest edge of tease. “So we’re on the same page, are you asking me to spend the night because you want to have sex?”

Heat surged up Zoro’s neck, burning all the way to his ears, his face so hot he thought it might glow. “Yes.” His voice cracked, betraying him completely.

For a beat the kitchen went still, the only sounds the faint simmer from the pan and the thunder of his own heart.

Sanji’s smile spread slowly, fondly, carrying none of the sting Zoro had braced for. “I would have accepted even if the answer was no.”

Zoro’s chest jolted, his heart flipping hard like it wanted out of his ribs. No mistaking it, Sanji meant it. He fidgeted with his beer bottle, turning it in his hands because he didn’t know what else to do. Fuck, he really liked Sanji.

Sanji turned back to the stove, slipping easily into small talk about beer versus wine. The shift was merciful, enough to let Zoro breathe. Oil hissed and steam curled, bright with lemon and herbs, mellowed by the sweetness of tomatoes. The clink of spoon against the skillet filled the pauses. Zoro’s nerves eased in the ordinariness of it – though anticipation lingered beneath. Tonight, what he had only imagined was finally within reach.

Dinner passed in fits of banter and quiet stretches. Sanji lectured about herbs, flicking his wrist toward the pan as Zoro devoured the food on his plate. Zoro mumbled something about Sanji narrating like he was on a cooking show. Sanji only grinned, throwing in an offhand quip about mouths being good for more than chewing, which made Zoro choke on a sip of beer.

By the time the food was gone, the scent of garlic and white wine clung warm in the air. Zoro reached automatically for the plates. “I’ll wash.” 

Sanji didn’t argue, instead joining him at the sink. Zoro washed, Sanji at his elbow with a towel, shoulder brushing against shoulder. Every so often Sanji said something teasing – “Careful with the stemware, Endive, not everything can handle your grip” – and Zoro’s ears burned hotter than the dishwater.

Still, the conversation was easier than it used to be. Zoro didn’t stumble as much, comfortable with Sanji despite his innate shyness. Hands in the sink, he muttered that Sanji wasn’t half bad in the kitchen for once. It earned him a low, warm laugh, that carried him through the silence that followed.

When the last dish was stacked away, they drifted into the living room. The leather couch caught the low light, dark and sleek, set over tatami-style rugs that muted their steps. A square coffee table sat centered, bare except for a neat stack of coasters. Every object seemed deliberate, clean-lined, and restrained. Minimalist, almost austere, but softened by the faint warmth of wood grain and the dim wash from the mounted TV.

Zoro sank onto the couch with a heaviness that was more nerves than weight. The cushions were firm, the leather cool against his arm. Sanji picked up the remote from the side table and dropped down beside him with casual grace, close enough that Zoro felt the brush of fabric against his thigh.

Sanji clicked the TV on, sound low, flickering light casting soft shadows across the room. “So,” he drawled, stretching out an arm along the back of the couch behind Zoro’s shoulders, “beer versus wine wasn’t the only debate I was planning to settle tonight.”

Zoro turned his head, wary. “...What?”

Sanji smirked, slow and playful. “Relax, bonsai. I was going to let you pick the channel.” His voice dipped, teasing at the edges. “Unless you’d rather… try something else.”

Zoro’s throat went tight, muscles clenching with a hot surge. He stared at the coffee table as if it might save him. It didn’t. He managed to squeak out, “TV’s fine.”

Sanji chuckled knowingly. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, letting the silence stretch between them. The glow from the screen painted his profile in cool light, sharp cheekbones and soft hair. Zoro felt the warmth of him at his side, anticipation buzzing under the quiet domesticity, too insistent to ignore.

He tried to turn his attention to the TV. The screen showed people jumping off and over things, shouting, “Parkour!” The sitcom laugh track rolled on, tinny against the quiet of the condo.

He wanted to kiss Sanji. To turn, press his lips to Sanji’s, and finally know what it was like.

His palms dampened. He stared intently at the screen, not really seeing it, heart jackhammering in his chest. Were his lips chapped?  He always wore chapstick, because of the cameras. Was his breath okay after dinner?

“Be right back,” he muttered, pushing to his feet. He strode quickly to his bedroom and into the en suite, shutting the door behind him. Toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. He also took a leak, then considered a shower. His pits were already damp. 

So he showered. A quick one, scrubbing down everywhere, because at some point Sanji was going to see him naked. Touch him. Do more with him. Excitement tangled with trepidation. What if Sanji didn’t like what he saw? What if he was bad at this?

Zoro toweled off fast and rolled on a liberal amount of deodorant. He swiped his palm across the fogged mirror. His reflection stared back wide-eyed and panicked. He brushed his teeth again, redressed, raked fingers through towel-dried hair. His gold earrings clashed against flushed skin.

Back in the bedroom, the sight of his unmade bed made him freeze. When was the last time he washed the sheets? Two weeks ago? Three? Should he change them? He should change them. Definitely.

He stripped the burgundy sheets, swapped in slate gray, and folded the blanket and comforter neatly at the foot of the bed, leaving the top sheet smooth and the pillows in place. He swiped stuff off the nightstand, dumping the miscellaneous junk into the drawer. His gaze snagged on the unopened box of condoms he’d bought when he first noticed Sanji, back when the idea of using them had felt like a long shot. Now the day was here, and it was still Sanji.

He picked up the box, checked the expiration date, relieved that they were still good a year later. He tucked it back beside the bottle of lube he used with toys. It was mostly full. Hopefully enough. But how much lube did two people even need? He knew his own measure. Was it the same? 

Zoro pulled out his phone to do a search, then remembered his last search and changed his mind. Intercourse wasn’t the only way to have sex, but he wanted to keep it on the table – if Sanji was interested. Sanji had to be interested. He’d asked directly if that was why Zoro had invited him to stay. 

Get a grip, Zoro told himself. Sanji probably thought he’d drowned in the sink by now.

He killed the light and headed back toward the living room, only to pause at the open doorway of the second bathroom. Maybe Sanji would want to brush his teeth, too. Or shower.

He reversed course, ducked into his en suite again, and dug through the storage closet until he found an unused toothbrush and the tiny toothpaste sample from the dentist. He grabbed a fresh bar of soap, a clean towel, and one of the travel deodorants he had stashed in bulk. He carried it all to the second bathroom off the hall, set it neatly on the counter, then finally made his way back to the living room.

The TV still laughed, glow washing the walls in shifting colors. Sanji sat scrolling through his phone, thumb idling. When Zoro came back, his gaze flicked up, lingering on Zoro’s damp hair, and an amused smile tugged at his mouth.

“I, uh, left you a toothbrush in the bathroom,” Zoro said awkwardly. “And other stuff. If you want.”

Sanji unfolded from the couch in one easy motion, sliding his phone into a pocket. As he passed, his hand brushed Zoro’s chest. “Thoughtful of you, kelphead.”

The touch lingered long after Sanji closed the bathroom door.

Zoro dropped back onto the couch, picked up his beer, and immediately set it down again. He’d just brushed his teeth. Twice. He stared at the TV, tugged at the loose hem of his shirt, sniffed his pits. Licked his lips, dried them with his wrist, then licked them again.

His phone was in his hand before he could stop himself. Tips on kissing – Fresh breath. Soft lips. Consent. His palms were already damp, shoulders bunching the way they did before he stepped through the ropes. Tilt head, relaxed lips, eyes closed. He only had one, so he was already halfway there. Start slow, let it build. Introduce tongue carefully. Relax and have fun. Don’t overthink it.

Too late.

He shoved the phone away, pressed a palm over his face, and seriously considered fleeing the condo altogether. He hadn’t kissed anyone since high school, and that was one girl for, like, a barely month. Never another man. What if he tilted the wrong way? What if their noses smashed together? What if he forgot to breathe? What if he used too much tongue? Not enough? What if he flat-out sucked?

The TV’s laugh track mocked him, each canned chuckle sharp in the quiet. Zoro seized the remote and jabbed through the channels – talking heads, football, cooking, some black-and-white drama. He stopped on My Lottery Dream Home, letting David Bromstad’s flamboyance fill the room.

Feathered pink coat, floral jeans. Zoro studied the screen and wondered if he could pull it off. He was a professional wrestler. Outfits like that weren’t even the weirdest thing he’d ever seen in a ring.

He registered Sanji’s return in the soft tread behind him, each step drawing the air tighter. He fixed his gaze on the TV, jaw set, willing himself to stay calm. 

Then Sanji came in from his blind side, stepping between him and the screen – shirtless, black jeans hanging low, the fly undone.

Zoro’s gaze snagged on the hard lines of Sanji’s abdomen, tracing down to the golden trail of hair that disappeared into the open zipper of his jeans. Heat shot through him, his throat clamping shut, a helpless gurgle breaking loose as the rest of him went rigid.

Sanji slid onto his lap without pause, straddling his thighs, knees sinking into the leather cushions. His arms draped easily around Zoro’s neck, the faint warmth of his skin brushing close. That smirk hovered inches away, stealing the air before Zoro could draw it. “Hey, marimo,” he murmured, tone low, thick with promise. “Mind if I finally kiss you?”

Zoro stared wide-eyed, brain stalling, breath catching in his chest. He thought he nodded – he must have – because Sanji’s fingers slid into his hair, tipped his head, and their mouths met.

The kiss hit like a strike of lightning – instant, consuming.  A jolt tore through him as his arms locked around Sanji’s back, dragging him close, skin warm under his palms, bone hard beneath. His breath tore out in a ragged rush, his whole body shaking as Sanji’s mouth coaxed him deeper.

Instinct reminded Zoro he hadn’t forgotten how to do this, and the kiss deepened, growing bolder. Sanji tasted of mint toothpaste, his skin carrying the sharp clean scent of Irish Spring. He felt solid in Zoro’s arms, heavy across his lap. A raw hunger flared inside him. He’d waited for this for so long.

Sanji broke the kiss and shifted down, sliding from Zoro’s lap to kneel between his legs. The leather cushions sighed as his weight left them, the glow from the TV flickering across his shoulders. “We love the natural light in this living room–” a voice chimed from the screen, the sound absurd against the thud of Zoro’s heartbeat.

Sanji shoved the coffee table aside without looking, the scrape of wood on tatami a rough counterpoint to his smooth movements. His fingers brushed Zoro’s jeans, teasing at the zipper, casual as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

Zoro sucked in a breath, the sound sharp in his own ears. “Y-you–” The rest died in his throat.

Sanji smirked, gaze flicking up, eyes glinting in the blue TV glow. “Time to find out what color my favorite plant really is.”

He tugged at Zoro’s jeans and the waistband of his briefs, and Zoro caught the hint, lifting his hips enough for Sanji to drag them down. Cool air rushed over him as his erection sprang free, curving from his body, dark hair at the base catching the light.

“Hn. Hard to picture you with black hair,” Sanji murmured, nosing against his cock.

Zoro made a helpless, incoherent sound, his eye wide. Sanji’s warm exhale ghosted across him, and the sensation alone nearly undid him.

Amusement curved Sanji’s lips. “What’s wrong, fern-top? Been that long since you’ve been blown?”

Zoro couldn’t answer. His throat worked, no words coming, and then Sanji’s tongue slid over him and his brain emptied. Another strangled noise broke loose. Sanji chuckled softly. “I’ll take pity on you then.”

And then Sanji’s mouth was around him.

Zoro jolted as if struck, back jerking hard against the couch. Heat closed around him – wet, hot, and unrelenting. The scrape of calloused fingers at his base only added to the onslaught, his body already trembling, overwhelmed. The drag of Sanji’s lips, the slick pressure of his tongue, every flick and pull burned through Zoro like fire.

The sensations surged through him all at once. His muscles locked tight, his hands digging into the cushions beside him. The background hum of House Hunters blurred into nonsense, voices rising and falling against the pounding rush in his ears.

His hips jerked upward on their own, desperate for more, and he couldn’t stop it. The sight – Sanji kneeling between his thighs, blond hair catching the TV light – fused with the impossible feel of his mouth, and Zoro came undone. A strangled cry tore out of him as release ripped through, vision sparking with white, body convulsing hard enough to shake the couch.

Spots danced behind his eyelid, the buzz in his head merging with the ridiculous TV jingle. He gasped for air, chest rising and falling, still trembling, every fiber in him raw and spent.

Sanji’s lips slipped from him, and the sudden cool against overheated skin made him shiver. “That was quick,” came the quiet murmur.

Mortification slammed into him. He hadn’t expected to lose control so fast. Then again, he hadn’t expected a blowjob at all. Color seared his face, his fists curling tight. “Sorry,” he muttered, the word shameful in his mouth.

Sanji moved back up, settling onto his lap again, a warm hand cupping his cheek. “Oi, idiot. Look at me.”

Zoro cracked his eye open. Sanji was watching him, gaze even, no mocking in it. “That was your first blowjob from a guy?”

Zoro managed a small nod.

“Then consider me proud to have gotten you off that fast with my exceptional cock-sucking skills. I expect you to compose odes to my mouth.”

Still embarrassed, Zoro huffed out a breath and lied with a mutter, “Not that great…”

Sanji chuckled, swooping in to press a kiss to his lips. “Call it taking the edge off. Now – take me to your bedroom and have your wicked way with me.”

The statement twisted need low in Zoro’s gut even though his body hadn’t recovered yet. “Okay.”

Sanji kissed him again, deeper this time, and Zoro swore he could taste himself on Sanji’s tongue. Then Sanji slid off his lap, caught his hand, and tugged him up. Zoro clutched at his trousers, dragging them back into place in a clumsy rush, and let Sanji lead him down the hall.

Zoro trailed after him, awkward even in his own place. He flipped on the light in the bedroom, the lamp on the nightstand glowing warm, throwing shadows across the space. The low platform bed stretched neat with slate gray sheets, the dark gray comforter folded at the foot. At the end of the bed, the tatami mat and meditation cushion bore the wear of daily use. A chest of drawers stood against one wall, a chair gathering cast-off clothes against the other. Above it all, a sumi ink painting of bamboo and birds spread in black strokes, stark in the lamplight.

Sanji released his hand and crossed to the bed. He sat on the edge, then leaned back on his elbows, jeans riding low, zipper undone. The lamplight caught the golden curl of hair on his chest, highlighting muscle and skin until he looked like he’d stepped out of some glossy cover shoot. His lips were reddened, a little swollen, his gaze hooded as it tracked Zoro. Hunger shot back through Zoro, swift and sudden.

Sanji must have caught it, because one corner of his mouth quirked sinfully. “You gonna stay over there, wasabi?”

Zoro shook his head, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as he closed the distance. He pressed a knee between Sanji’s parted thighs, still fighting with the fastenings like he’d never handled buttons in his life.

Sanji let out an amused sound, reaching up to help, flicking the buttons loose in practiced motions. The shirt slid off Zoro’s shoulders, and Sanji’s hands immediately rose to the scar that carved down his torso. His tongue clicked softly. “I saw the picture online, but this… this is more brutal in person.”

Goosebumps prickled over Zoro’s arms at the touch, the brush of Sanji’s fingers on bare flesh.

“You get this with your eye?” Sanji asked.

Zoro gave a short nod. “Dirtbike, barbed wire. Ankles, too. Wasn’t pretty.”

“I imagine not.” Sanji’s palms smoothed upward, tracing muscle, leaving Zoro quivering under the contact. His tone dipped, husky with lust. “You’re built like a fucking Greek god.”

“You’re hot, too,” Zoro blurted, then immediately flushed scarlet.

Sanji only smiled. “I try.” His arms slid around Zoro, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his jeans. He gave a tug, urging them down.

Shyness surged through Zoro despite Sanji already having seen his dick. Bashfulness crawled under his skin, prickling at the back of his neck as he tipped his head toward the ceiling, refusing to meet Sanji’s gaze. His jeans and briefs slid down in one tug, denim rasping over his legs before pooling around his ankles. He kicked them off clumsily – and then he was naked.

The lamp cast a soft glow across the room, shadows stretching long across the walls, shading the sumi strokes of bamboo and birds. The air felt close, charged, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Every inch of him felt exposed, like he’d stepped under a spotlight.

He shifted his weight, bare toes curling against the floor, shoulders drawn tight. He was sure his face was blazing red, butterflies rioting down his stomach. His hands hovered, unsure where to rest – at his sides, crossed, covering himself – until they simply clenched and unclenched uselessly.

Sanji’s gaze burned into him. “Shit, you’re good looking.” His fingers trailed along the line of Zoro’s thigh, brushing corded muscle with a reverence that made him twitch under the touch. “I can’t believe I waited this long to bed you.”

Zoro hummed low in his throat, uncertain whether the sound was agreement or embarrassment. He dared a glance down at last.

Sanji’s face tilted up toward him, lips parted, flushed with intent. His eyes moved slowly, deliberately, tracing Zoro’s body piece by piece. They lingered on the broad set of his shoulders and the scar carved down his torso, and his mouth curved briefly, amused, like he’d caught Zoro squirming. Heat flooded Zoro’s cheeks, spreading warm all the way to his ears. He shifted on his feet, throat working as he tried to swallow, awareness of himself swelling until he felt like an enormous oaf dwarfing the room.

Then Sanji’s gaze drifted lower, over the taut lines of his stomach, the color spreading across his skin, down to the tense set of his thighs. Zoro’s breath faltered, uneven, his body betraying him with a faint tremor. He stared at Sanji looking at him, wide-eyed, self-conscious beneath the intensity of it, caught between wanting to stand tall and wanting to cover himself. The longer Sanji stared, the hotter that bashfulness burned, vulnerability and desire tangled until he wasn’t sure which was stronger. The amusement faded from Sanji’s face, replaced by something heavier, unblinking, desire plain in his eyes.

By the time his gaze climbed back up, Zoro felt pinned. Those eyes stayed locked on him like he was the last man in existence.

Sanji’s hand slid inward, cupping him with deliberate care, fingers rolling lightly over the weight of his balls. Zoro’s cock twitched at the touch, blood surging, thickening again under Sanji’s palm. The simple contact shot a jolt through him, his thighs jerking before he could stop them.

Sanji’s tongue swept along his lower lip, slow and knowing, and Zoro’s pulse kicked hard. When his gaze lifted, it caught Zoro’s and held, filled with intent that left no room for doubt.

Zoro was hit with a need he couldn’t name, let alone satisfy. Sanji’s hand still cupped him, fingers brushing over sensitive flesh, and his cock throbbed helplessly against the touch. A fever twisted deep inside, fierce enough to make his stomach knot. All those years sneaking gay porn in the dark hadn’t prepared him for this – for the real feel of a hand on him, for the closeness of another man’s body, for the chance to reach back and not know how.

Panic tangled with the raw desire gripping his gut. He wanted, but he didn’t know what to do with the wanting, didn’t know how to ask. His body quivered, the knot inside him pulling tighter.

“Sanji…” he whispered raggedly, the name spilling out like a plea.

“I got it. I got you.” Sanji’s tone was reassuring, tender, coaxing Zoro to breathe. He rose to his feet, guiding Zoro with a light push until his body yielded, stretched back across the bed. Sanji shucked his jeans in one fluid motion, then crawled in after him, moving over him, pressing down. His mouth found Zoro’s again, hungry, insistent, kissing him until his nerves frayed into sobbing need.

Sanji soothed him with quiet shushing sounds, hands firm, palms anchoring him as the reality of it – of being here with another man – threatened to sweep him away.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Zoro whispered, the words torn from him, ragged with a fragility that clenched at his ribs. “Didn’t think I could ever have it.”

Sanji kissed him again before doubt could take hold, leaving no space for retreat. The weight of him pressed down – solid muscle, warmth, undeniable masculinity – and Zoro’s mind reeled. No fantasy, no stolen late-night porn had prepared him for this: the crush of another man’s body, Sanji’s chest firm against his, the strength in his arms, the cage of his thighs. Every inhalation carried Sanji’s scent, soap and skin mixing with something rawer, more intimate.

His hands moved on instinct, clutching at Sanji’s back, sliding lower to grip his hips and ass, dragging him closer. Their bodies ground together, cocks rubbing with hard friction, each pass sparking through him until his control fractured into a groan.

The mattress dipped and creaked, sheets straining beneath Zoro’s shoulders where he gripped for purchase. The lamp on the nightstand burned steady, soft gold turning Sanji’s body into a map of muscle and light. Zoro saw every detail he’d never dared imagine – the hard line of his jaw as he leaned in for another kiss, the golden hair catching faint highlights, the sweat beginning to sheen across him.

Zoro’s eye squeezed shut for a moment, overwhelmed. Sanji was here, on him, bare and heavy, and his body wanted it even as his nerves quivered. Stomach to stomach, thighs pressed tight; the raw strength of him left Zoro dizzy, his head spinning from the reality of it.

Sanji must have felt the tremor running through him because he slowed, kissing along Zoro’s jaw, then down the line of his throat, lips dragging over sensitive skin. “Easy,” he murmured, soothing, patient, before his hips rolled against Zoro.

Zoro’s eye flew open, a guttural sound escaping before he could stop it. The grind of Sanji’s cock against his own sent a jolt racing down his spine. His thighs flexed, body fighting the urge to buck up into the contact, every muscle taut. His hands fumbled at Sanji’s back before dragging lower, clutching hard just to hang on. Sweat slicked Sanji’s skin where it pressed, each shift of his hips pushing Zoro deeper into the bed. Sanji pinned him there, leaving no escape from the heady feel of it.

Sanji slowed again, deliberate, making him feel every drag, every press of slick skin. Zoro writhed beneath it, breath stuttering, his body caught between craving and the sheer flood of sensations, tenuous restraint unraveling with each pass. His lungs labored with the effort of pulling air, his head light from the struggle to keep up. Sanji’s mouth hovered near his ear, his whisper thick with intent. “That’s it.”

Zoro gasped, strung tight, already fighting the edge of release and the pull to give in. The bed creaked beneath them, his body alive in ways it had never been. His eye squeezed shut again. His arms locked tighter around Sanji, nails dragging across skin before clenching hard, desperate to hold on, as if letting go might make the whole thing vanish.

Sanji’s pace faltered, the steady grind breaking into uneven pushes, his own body taut with strain. Zoro felt the tremor in his muscles, the sudden hitch of his breath against his cheek, the way his cock pressed harder, more insistent, as if control was slipping. Sweat radiated off him in waves, his body quaking with the effort not to come.

Then Sanji pushed upright, breaking their press of bodies. Zoro opened his eye and caught him in the glow of the bedside lamp – hair damp and falling into his face, lips reddened and kiss-bruised, chest rising and falling swiftly. The hunger there wasn’t just for teasing anymore; it was sharp, urgent, matching the pulse of want clawing through Zoro’s own body.

Sanji met his gaze, tone graveled, frayed with barely held control. “Fuck me?”

Zoro froze, the question knocking the wind out of him like a bump gone wrong. His heart lurched, his stomach flipped, and he thought he might choke on nothing at all. Sanji’s lips were parted, as if he needed this as much as he needed to live. Desire and tension rolled off him in equal measure, and Zoro couldn’t look away.

A rush of excitement tore through him, tangled hard with fear. Yes – god, yes – he wanted Sanji like that, but also he didn’t know if he could, didn’t know what to do. His body trembled, torn by need and uncertainty. “You need to– I don’t know how–”

“I know,” Sanji murmured, silencing him with another kiss before the spiral could take root. “I’m your first guy. I got you, my adorable moss. I promise.”

Zoro nodded again, trying to breathe, trying to relax against the weight of everything about to happen.

“Stuff in the nightstand?” Sanji asked, already reaching over. He pulled the drawer open and came back with the lube and the box of condoms, his lips twitching. “New box. I’m flattered.”

Zoro didn’t tell him it had sat there a year, waiting for a night like this. He was too busy holding himself together, every nerve sparking at the thought – he was about to have sex, real sex, with Sanji. He prayed he wouldn’t go off too fast again.

Sanji shifted to his knees, straddling Zoro’s waist. Zoro’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, to where their cocks rested against each other’s. Sanji was long and curved, flushed pink with a darker head. The golden curls at his groin spilled into the dusting over his balls, matching the hair on his chest and legs. Masculine, unapologetic. Zoro wasn’t built the same, his body smoother, his skin a different shade, but the contrast only made his mouth go dry.

Sanji tore open the box, pulled out a strip of condoms, and tossed the carton aside. He left the strip within reach on the bed, flipped the lube open, and slicked his fingers generously. He glanced down, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Want to watch?”

A sharp breath punched from Zoro and his cock jumped as his eye widened. He nodded several times, even as a blush slammed across his cheeks. Sanji chuckled softly, shifted until he was straddling Zoro in reverse, baring the long line of his back and ass.

Zoro swallowed hard, pulse jackhammering as Sanji leaned forward, arching slightly, the muscles in his spine flexing. The lamplight traced the curve of him, highlighting every ridge and hollow, before sliding down to the shadowed cleft of his ass. Zoro’s throat worked dryly.

Sanji’s slick fingers glistened as they trailed lower, disappearing between his cheeks. The first rub of fingertips over his entrance made Zoro choke on his tongue. When Sanji pressed in, Zoro made a strangled sound he couldn’t bite back, his cock twitching helplessly.

Sanji moaned, low and broken, the sound catching before spilling into something rougher. His head dropped forward, hair falling into his face, shoulders tightening as his body shifted around the intrusion. Each sound – soft gasps, bitten-off curses, small hums in the back of his throat – stabbed through Zoro’s self-control like live wire.

He stared, wide-eyed, as Sanji pushed deeper, then drew his fingers back, slick and wet. The movement was unhurried, deliberate, and every slide echoed obscenely in the room. Zoro’s stomach knotted, desire rising as the slick sound combined with Sanji’s uneven movements.

Sanji’s hips rocked, ass flexing as he added another finger, stretching himself wider. His body quivered, shoulders drawn tight, before he groaned again. The sound made Zoro’s cock jerk like it was yanked by strings.

The scent of lube drifted up, chemical sharpness undercutting the thick, musky tang of sweat and arousal. The mattress dipped with Sanji’s rocking, and Zoro felt every faint shift of weight through the bed frame as if it rattled his bones. He clutched the sheets so tight his knuckles ached, but it wasn’t enough – he wanted to touch, to hold, to help, to do something – yet he couldn’t move, paralyzed by the carnal sight of Sanji opening himself.

Finally – finally – Sanji turned back around. His face was flushed, lips swollen, hair sticking damp to his temples. The hunger in his eyes was tempered with something rawer, edged with desperation. He snagged the strip of condoms, tearing one free and ripping it open with quick fingers.

Zoro almost jolted off the bed when Sanji pinched the tip and rolled it down over his length, the stretch of latex and Sanji’s slick fingers enough to have him on the brink. A choked moan burst from him, his cock twitching helplessly under the touch. He nearly lost it right there, so wound tight it was painful.

Sanji only smirked faintly, though his hands weren’t steady as he added more lube, coating Zoro until he was slick and gleaming in the lamplight. Then Sanji shifted forward, rising on his knees, bracing a hand against Zoro’s stomach as the other guided him. He lifted his hips, held Zoro’s cock upright between his thighs, and positioned himself.

Zoro’s eye was wide, pulse battering in his throat. He could feel Sanji’s heat, the press of him hovering close, so close.

Sanji stared down at him, voice rough, strained, his need plain. “This good?”

“Yes,” Zoro rasped, almost whimpering, his whole body arching toward him. “Please.”

Sanji shuddered, restraint slipping all at once. “Oh, thank fuck,” he ground out – and then he sank down.

The first press of Zoro’s covered cock was only pressure at the tip, unrelenting, enough to make him reel. Sanji shifted against him, and then, with a sudden give, his body opened. Zoro slid just past the head, and the fierce grip around him made his whole frame jolt. The shock of it slammed through him, thought scattering, nothing left but the sheer fact of being inside Sanji.

A broken sound ripped from him, somewhere between a gasp and a choke. The clutch around him was suffocating, a hold that made his body seize tight. He couldn’t think past it, couldn’t do anything but feel Sanji’s body taking him in. His senses lit up, white-hot, everything centered where he was buried.

Sanji didn’t drop all at once. He eased down in increments, lifting a fraction, then sinking lower, stretching himself inch by inch. With each slide, Zoro felt himself pulled deeper, swallowed further, claimed more than he thought possible. The descent left him shaken. He’s letting me in. This is real. His hands shot to Sanji’s hips without thought, fingers digging in, holding on as the reality hit harder than the sensation itself.

It bordered on unbearable, a squeeze that rattled him to the core, but Sanji kept working down, controlled, every motion sinking Zoro further in. His pulse thundered in his ears. With each shift lower, the truth struck harder – Sanji’s opening for me. He wants me here. He wants this with me. The weight of that knowledge shook him as much as the physical stretch.

Zoro’s head thumped back against the pillow. His vision swam, spots clouding the edges. His chest tightened once, body trembling under the strain. He’d never imagined it could feel like this – clutching pressure, a pull that raked him down to the bone. Even Sanji’s mouth, as staggering as that had been, hadn’t prepared him. Nothing could have.

By the time Sanji finally seated himself flush on Zoro’s lap, the whole length buried inside, Zoro’s fingers quivered where they clutched his thighs. He couldn’t think, only knew Sanji was wrapped around him, close in a way that left no part untouched, and he never wanted to let go.

Then Sanji moved.

It wasn’t much at first, just a small roll of his hips, but it made Zoro whine aloud, the sound wrenched from his throat. The withdrawal was shallow, only a few inches, but even that drag lit him up like fire. The ridge of sensation pulled along his cock, then pushed back down with equal force as Sanji settled again.

Zoro’s fingers clamped hard to Sanji’s waist, nails scraping skin. His thighs twitched, instinct urging him to thrust up, but he held still, overwhelmed by the relentless push and pull of it.

Sanji rocked again, a little deeper this time, sliding further off him before dropping back down. The glide of gripping heat around him was consuming, the drag slow, merciless, stripping him bare with every stroke.

Then Sanji found his rhythm. The rise and fall of his hips was purposeful, rolling to draw Zoro almost all the way out before dropping back down, taking him in again. The wet slap of their bodies mingled with the creak of the bed, underscored by Sanji’s moans he couldn’t bite back.

Zoro couldn’t hold himself together. His hands dragged up Sanji’s sides, down to his hips, clutching anywhere he could. Pressure coiled – the friction, the sight of Sanji riding him – it was too much. He could feel it spiraling higher, the same inevitability as before, though this time he lasted longer than with Sanji’s mouth, but not by much.

Sanji opened his eyes then, gaze locking on him. Whatever he saw in Zoro’s face made his expression soften, his hand coming up to cradle Zoro’s cheek. His thumb brushed across damp skin, gentle in contrast to the drive of his hips. “It’s okay, love,” he murmured, his tone ragged but tender.

Zoro still held out as long as he could – but it wasn’t long enough. Desire knotted hot and tight, sharper with every thrust, every drag of Sanji’s clench around him. He shuddered, stomach bracing as the burn gathered fast and merciless. He ground his teeth, willing it back, but his body had already chosen for him.

Climax hit hard. Pleasure surged through him in violent pulses, tearing everything loose until his vision whited out. His core wrenched tight as a strangled cry ripped from his throat, spilling inside Sanji, cock jerking helplessly. His lungs seized, no breath left, as he quivered through the release.

For a moment, there was nothing. His vision was blank, his body adrift. He felt undone, stripped down to pure sensation, as if everything he was had been burned away in the rush.

Then, slowly, his grip eased. He sagged back into the mattress, muscles spent, chest dragging in uneven gulps of air. He floated there, hollowed out, until awareness trickled back – the sweat cooling on his skin, the creak of the bed still echoing faintly, Sanji’s body solid and close against his.

Sanji had stilled, seated in his lap, Zoro’s cock snug inside him. Zoro could see he was still hard, his length curving up from where their bodies joined, even as his face softened with something Zoro couldn’t name.

Zoro’s gaze skittered away, color flooding his cheeks. He hated how quick it had been, hated the flush crawling down his neck that gave him away. Embarrassment sat heavy in his chest, tight enough to make him shift restlessly beneath Sanji’s weight.

Sanji bent down, brushing a kiss across Zoro’s cheek. “Don’t look like that,” he murmured, lips quirking. “You lasted longer than the first round – two minutes is progress. And I’ve got no complaints about being the one who makes you lose it fast.”

Zoro flushed deeper, the sting of vulnerability prickling under his skin, leaving him feeling exposed. “I can get it up again,” he muttered. “Give me a little bit.”

Sanji chuckled low, squeezing his jaw affectionately before dropping a kiss to the tip of his nose, earning a scowl. “I know you can. And I want it. But don’t think for a second I mind how quick you come for me. We’ve got all night.”

“Yeah.” Zoro stroked his palms over Sanji’s hips, corralling his self-consciousness. He took a deep breath and asked, “Is sex always like this?”

Sanji’s brow furrowed. “With a guy, you mean?”

“No. Just… all of it.”

Sanji’s eyes widened, surprise loosening his face. His lips parted, then curved slowly. “You’ve never done this before,” he said in a tone closer to awe than shock. “With anyone. Girl or guy.”

Heat shot into Zoro’s cheeks, hot enough he wanted to bury his face. At some point he was just going to paint himself red and be done with it. “No,” he admitted awkwardly. “Only kissed.”

“Holy shit,” Sanji breathed. “You’re thirty-three!”

“And I’ve been in the closet the whole time,” Zoro muttered darkly. “Asshole.”

Sanji made a wrecked sound, half-groan, half-laugh. “Fuck. Oh, fuck, you ruined me.”

“Being fucking dramatic,” Zoro grumbled, though part of him wanted to tell Sanji to get off. He was still buried inside him, latex-wrapped and oversensitive, and the closeness felt strange, too much and not enough all at once.

Before he could voice it, Sanji pressed both hands to either side of his face, swooping down, stopping just shy of his lips. His eyes burned in the lamplight, fierce, unwavering. “You are something special, Zoro. Don’t ever forget it.”

Then he closed the distance. The kiss stole the rest of Zoro’s breath, claiming him outright, pulling him into a cinch that left no space for doubt. He felt marked by it, as if Sanji had branded the words into him with his mouth. Even spent, desire stirred again, coiling low, the spark refusing to die.

Sanji’s hands roamed in tandem with his lips, clutching at him, sliding possessively over scar and muscle. He drew back only briefly, slipping off Zoro to dispose of the condom, before returning immediately, kissing Zoro everywhere his hands had just touched.

Zoro was almost swept away again, but this time he wanted to give back. Release had left his head clearer, his body unknotted, no longer taut with urgent need. He shifted, using his strength to roll Sanji onto his back. Sanji was still hard, flushed and damp at the tip. Zoro’s hands moved with hesitation, brushing Sanji’s chest, skimming the flat plane of his stomach, tracing down to his thighs in uncertain paths. Each touch was unsure, a little clumsy, but deliberate – an exploration, reverent in its awkwardness – as he kissed every inch of skin he dared.

He pressed his lips lower, uneven kisses trailing down Sanji’s chest, tasting salt and heat, the faint rasp of blond hair under his mouth. Sanji’s laugh broke again, only to catch into a gasp when Zoro lingered at his stomach, breath feathering across sensitive skin. Zoro hesitated, then pushed himself further, moving down, his mouth unpracticed but intent.

He took Sanji’s erection in with an awkward suck, inexperienced but determined, swiping his tongue the way he’d imagined in secret, like he’d seen a hundred times on screen but never felt for real. The weight, the texture, the living warmth of it filled his mouth in a way no fantasy ever had.

Sanji’s fingers tangled in his hair almost immediately, a quick intake of breath spilling out of him. His hips twitched, caught between holding still and pushing deeper. Zoro gagged once, embarrassed, but steadied himself, focusing on what he could manage, the swirl of his tongue, the pull of his lips.

Sanji’s voice broke in low groans and muffled curses. His body shifted restlessly beneath Zoro, thighs flexing, abdomen tensing, his grip in Zoro’s hair tightening with each drag of his mouth.

Zoro clung to the sound of it, the sight of Sanji unraveling, every noise a small victory that burned hot in his gut. He might not know what he was doing, not really, but Sanji’s reactions told him it was enough, more than enough.

When Sanji finally broke, arching hard under him with a strangled groan, Zoro thought it was incredible – watching him come undone like that, feeling the strength in his body give way – and it was him who’d made it happen.

Shudders ran through Sanji as the climax ebbed. He collapsed back against the sheets, lungs dragging for air. His fingers stayed tangled in Zoro’s hair, holding him there for a long moment, as if reluctant to let go, even as his body trembled from release. Slowly, he coaxed Zoro upward, guiding him until their mouths met again. The kiss was rougher this time, claiming, owning, tasting of sweat, salt, and semen.

“You know you’ve given me everything,” Sanji murmured against his lips, reverent pride in his voice. “I’ll never let that go.” His hand framed Zoro’s face, fingers brushing over his cheek with a lingering intimacy.

Zoro’s throat worked, but he didn’t trust his voice not to break, so he leaned into the touch, into the kiss, into Sanji.

Sanji’s mouth curved faintly against his, catching the hesitation for what it was. He drew back only a fraction, eyes soft, tone low. “My adorable moss,” he whispered, his thumb gliding along Zoro’s jaw with quiet devotion before kissing him again, slow and unhurried, letting the silence settle warm around them.

The press release went out the following morning. Zoro Roronoa was gay. 

They would not be working it into The Ronin storyline. This wasn’t for an audience, this was for him. 

His phone had been buzzing since Sleep Mode shut off, but he was too wrapped up in Sanji to care. Sanji was beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, voice spilling curses that tangled with low encouragement every time Zoro found the right angle. His muscles burned with the effort of keeping his weight steady, but the look on Sanji’s face – part-smug, part-undone – pulled him deeper than anything else.

It was only his third time, and his body gave out quickly. Frustration tangled with pleasure as he groaned, burying his face against Sanji’s throat while release overtook him. Sanji only laughed low, nails tracing lightly down his back. There was no judgment in it, only a teasing warmth that made Zoro’s chest ache as much as his cock. He still finished too soon, his muscles twitching helplessly in the aftermath, but Sanji stayed close, smirking as he murmured wicked, soft teasing against his ear.

Zoro caught his breath, then reached down, hand hesitant at first, his brain gibbering I’m touching his cock, even though he’d done this last night. His grip was clumsy, too tight, then too loose, until Sanji shifted with a low hum that guided him into rhythm. Determination steadied his fingers even while his ears burned. He stroked until Sanji’s teasing gave way to broken gasps, until his back arched and he spilled across their stomachs, pleased laughter catching on the last shudder.

Sanji flopped back against the pillow, chest rising hard, sweat curling his hair damp at the temples. Zoro hovered over him, heart pounding, caught somewhere between shy pride and disbelief that he’d put that look there.

The room smelled faintly of sex and sweat, the air warm, their bodies a tangle of satiated limbs for a few quiet minutes before the need for a shower won out.

Zoro’s shower was too small for two men, especially with his size crowding the space. Still, they laughed, shoved, knocked elbows, and somehow managed to get clean. Sanji disappeared into the other bathroom to brush his teeth, while Zoro caught himself grinning like an idiot at his own reflection far longer than he should’ve.

Breakfast was pancakes, eggs, and toast – Sanji moving through the kitchen like it already belonged to him. Zoro sat at the island, chin propped on his palm, glasses nudged up by his fingers, wondering how Sanji managed to look even hotter than the night before.

Everything felt new. Different. A little silly, even. But underneath it was a warmth that left Zoro aching to grab Sanji and kiss him until they were both dizzy. To drag him back into bed and touch every inch of him again. To keep him close all day, and then again all night. He didn’t want to go anywhere.

But he was an adult with responsibilities, and physio wasn’t going to wait. 

Sanji slipped on his shoes and coat, pausing while Zoro tugged on his own. “You coming to the restaurant tonight?”

Zoro nodded, then risked a shy glance up from the bench. A blush crept across his face as he forced the words out. “Do you, um… want to come over after work?”

“It’ll be after midnight,” Sanji warned.

Zoro shrugged, fingers tightening on the bench edge. “I don’t care.”

Sanji stepped close, hooked a finger under his chin, and murmured, “How can I say no to you when you’re looking all cute in those glasses?”

Zoro sputtered in protest, which only made Sanji smirk. He kissed him quickly before pulling open the condo door. “C’mon, sweet scallion. Don’t want you to be late.”

The drive was quiet, the Edens clear. Zoro plugged in his phone and let Siri drone through the flood of texts: PR and media outlets lining up interviews. Local wrestling podcasts begging for a guest spot. AEW coworkers celebrating him. More former-WWE coworkers reaching out than he ever expected. And then Luffy’s contribution – a wall of meat emojis, every one read aloud, capped with an eggplant and a fist bump.

In the parking lot, Zoro shot Luffy a sake cup and fist bump, then told PR he’d touch base after physio.

Physio itself was a blur. He spent most of it wondering if his PT could tell he’d had sex.

Then at Harbor & Bean, he wondered if the barista could tell.

Then during his Zoom call with PR, he wondered if they could tell.

Then Duval.

Then Camie.

Then the entire dining room at the All Blue.

And then Sanji appeared, hot as sin, leaning down to murmur in his ear, “You’re grinning like you just got laid, you precious parsley.”

Zoro flushed scarlet, which only made Sanji laugh.

Zoro had been cleared for Revolution, and between gearing up for that, the interviews he sat through, and his usual work, he didn’t have many days off. Still, their life fell into a routine: they met for lunch or coffee whenever Zoro was free, then he went to the All Blue for dinner, where Sanji lingered longer than he used to before heading back to work. After midnight, Sanji showed up at Zoro’s door, and they fumbled and tumbled their way to the bedroom until, spent, they passed out in sleep, warm with the kind of closeness Zoro hadn’t realized he’d been missing in his life.

The next morning, they enjoyed each other again before cleaning up. Sanji made breakfast, and Zoro left for either physio or the gym while Sanji went home. It wasn’t complicated, but Zoro caught himself looking forward to it more each day.

Zoro didn’t search for himself online, so he didn’t know how bad the backlash was after coming out. In Chicago, where wrestling fans were thick on the ground, he still heard slurs on the street, especially outside Harborside. But at Revolution, there had been signs and cheers – for Zoro, not The Ronin. Pride flags and painted hearts, and even a banner that read Thank U for Living Ur Truth!

At a fanfest in mid-April, it hit deeper. Younger fans in his autograph line – teenagers – leaned in to whisper that they had pointed to him or Bowens when coming out to their dads. It struck Zoro then that something he’d done for himself meant something important to others. And while he had always been shy and reticent about his private life, in this he could be proud.

The All Blue was humming by the time Zoro slipped in. Friday night, and the place was packed, conversations overlapping, cut through by the clink of glassware and stabs of laughter. Warm light spilled across polished tables, catching on half-full wineglasses and the gleam of cutlery, while the air carried butter, garlic, and the faint salt of grilled fish.

Zoro had been shown a table for two tucked against the back wall, close enough to the kitchen doors that he could watch Sanji slip in and out like clockwork. He sat with his contact lens in, not glasses, elbows braced on the table as he nursed his Hibiki whisky. From here, he had a full view of the dining room: couples leaning close, a birthday group toasting with cocktails, a retirement party for a law firm with heavy liquor and ribald laughs.

Sanji moved through it all with his usual confidence, pausing at tables with a word, a laugh, a flash of that sharp smile. Customers lit up at his attention, leaning toward him like plants chasing sun. Zoro followed him without meaning to, his gaze snagging each time Sanji’s hair caught the light, each time his hands cut smooth through the air as he spoke.

The kitchen doors swung open again, and Sanji emerged with a tray balanced on one palm. Zoro’s jaw flexed. He told himself it was just the way Sanji carried himself, all effortless grace, but the heat crawling up his throat said otherwise. Because he was imagining them the night before, himself gripping onto the arm of the leather couch so hard he’d left imprints, as Sanji feasted on his ass. Zoro couldn’t believe how good it felt, and he’d made some truly embarrassing noises that Sanji poked fun at him about after.

Zoro felt himself flushing, shifting on his seat. He drank his whisky and thought about the upcoming week’s schedule until his pulse settled. 

He was close enough to hear the law firm group, and Sanji’s voice cut through the chatter as he moved around their table, serving their meal. Courteous, but edged with that sharp bite that had hooked Zoro in the first place. The very first time Sanji had spoken to him, he’d mocked his hair – and he hadn’t let up since, over a year later.

“Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your meal. If there’s anything else you need, let me know and I’ll bend over to serve you.”

“That’s an offer I wouldn’t mind trying,” one of them fired back.

Laughter rippled through the group. Zoro’s brow furrowed, his gaze dragging over despite himself. Sanji leaned in, a smirk playing on his lips. “Big boys need to clean their plates if they want dessert.”

Zoro froze, staring as it sank in – Sanji had flirted back, openly and without hesitation, like maybe he even meant it. The realization made Zoro’s stomach lurch, and he dropped his eyes to the half-empty plate in front of him, jealousy churning sharp and ugly beneath his ribs.

Sanji moved on, slipping back into the kitchen, and Zoro’s gaze caught on the lawyer again. Tall, polished, good-looking – the type of man who seemed like he’d fit naturally at Sanji’s side. Everything Zoro wasn’t.

He hunched in his chair, shoulders creeping up toward his ears, wishing he could make himself smaller. His knee bounced under the table, boot heel thudding lightly against the floor, but there was no hiding his size. The thought twisted hard in his gut: Sanji could have someone like that. Maybe he deserved someone like that. Why was he bothering with Zoro?

They’d never really talked about what they were. Zoro had just assumed that since they were sleeping together, it meant something more. Maybe that was stupid. In the locker room, wrestlers bragged about hooking up with different women in the same week, and no one batted an eye. That was just how it went, he guessed. And Zoro knew he was inexperienced. He’d stayed buried so deep in the closet he didn’t really know how any of it was supposed to go.

Maybe Sanji wanted to be like those wrestlers, seeing different people whenever he felt like, and Zoro was just taking up too much of his time. Or maybe Zoro was the problem. He was too needy, too eager, and Sanji felt sorry for him outside the bedroom. His hand drifted to his glass, thumb worrying the rim, then tightened until his knuckles went white. The sex was good – or at least Zoro thought it was – but maybe it was still just new enough to keep Sanji coming back.

A shadow slid across his table, and Zoro’s head jerked up before he could stop himself. Sanji stood there, and the pang in his chest hit hard all over again.

“What’s going on, avocado toast?” Sanji asked lightly. “You look like I served you a bad meal, which is impossible, since I made it myself.”

Zoro’s shoulders bunched. He pulled on the blank, press-ready mask he’d perfected. “No, it’s good. Just… tired tonight.”

“Hm. Want me to get you a coffee?”

“No. I’ll just finish up and go home.” His eye flicked past Sanji to the lawyer, still watching like a shark scenting blood. The knot in his chest cinched tighter. “You don’t have to come over.”

Sanji tilted his head, expression unreadable, but his gaze lingered. “I suppose my bed has been lonely without me. Coffee tomorrow?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Zoro dropped his gaze to his plate, voice low. “You might be busy.”

The silence stretched, the hum of the dining room filling it. Then Sanji asked, quieter, “Is that a hint?”

Zoro shrugged, a small, defeated movement. His frame felt too big for the chair, like he couldn’t fold himself small enough. He kept his eye fixed on the plate, not daring to look up. “Just thought you might have other people to see.”

“I don’t,” Sanji said, his tone even but softened at the edges. “But if you don’t want to get together, I’m not going to push. Text me if you change your mind.”

Zoro only nodded, throat tight.

Sanji lingered a beat longer, then murmured, “Good night, Zoro,” and turned away.

Zoro stayed there, the noise of the restaurant dull against the hollow ache in his chest. He chewed through the last bites without tasting them, drained the whisky in one swallow, and left cash on the table with a hand that shook more than he wanted to admit. When he stood, his body felt too heavy, each step dragging. Sanji never came back out of the kitchen.

Zoro left the All Blue with his jaw tight and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The walk back to the condo was a blur. He showered quickly, the water too hot, then dropped into bed without bothering to dry his hair. The sheets felt cold and stayed that way without Sanji to warm them. He stared at the ceiling until the lines blurred, chest aching with every breath, until sleep dragged him under like a chokehold.

When morning came, he didn’t feel rested. His body felt wrung out from a restless sleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tight his knuckles hurt. His phone lay on the nightstand, screen blank. No missed texts. No calls from Sanji. The hollow from the night before hadn’t gone anywhere.

His empty bed mocked him as he went into the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror wasn’t kind, showing a face wan, scarred, and worn down. Nothing like that other man, who’d been polished, smooth, actually fitting into a suit. A man who looked like he belonged at Sanji’s side. Someone Zoro could never quite be.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, jittery, then pulled on his sweats and headed for the gym. Training was easier than thinking. Reps and sweat didn’t leave room for the echo of Sanji’s voice asking, Is that a hint? or the memory of Sanji walking away.

Zoro spent the weekend holed up in his condo, only dragging himself to the gym Sunday morning. He ordered DoorDash, watched crappy TV, and tried not to think about how miserable he was. He’d lived alone since he was eighteen, no relationships, just himself. His life had been fine. Lonely sometimes, but fine. He didn’t need another person to feel complete.

But it was nice having someone to share it with. Someone who gave him shit while also being supportive. Who didn’t care that he was an awkward dork who sometimes couldn’t string a sentence together. Who lit up with him when he tracked down a katana for his collection. Who asked about his road trips and actually listened. Who still tried to cram into his too-small shower with him. Whose laugh rasped like smoked whisky, whose pleasured moans made him feel like he’d won a championship belt.

Zoro wondered if it was wrong to get so attached. Sanji was the first person he’d ever been with, the first relationship he’d had as an adult. Maybe he was supposed to see other people now, try sleeping around, get it out of his system. That was what people did, wasn’t it? Especially after coming out.

The idea didn’t sit right with him. If he’d wanted, he could’ve found a way to sneak around in the past, to have anonymous sex, but that wasn’t him. Being shy as hell hadn’t helped, but even underneath that, he knew he wasn’t built to be a player. He’d waited years after switching to AEW to come out, and only did once he’d found someone he genuinely liked.

But just because he was a one-man type of guy didn’t mean Sanji was. It wasn’t fair to assume it. Not with Sanji, looking the way he did, carrying himself with so much confidence. And after Friday night, the way he’d flirted with that lawyer, Zoro couldn’t help but think Sanji wanted more than just him.

Zoro’s phone pinged, and he dragged it off the coffee table in front of him, Alone droning on in the background. The curtains were drawn, takeout containers and empty beer bottles scattered across the table. He sat slouched in his rattiest sweats and a holey T-shirt, still faintly smelling of the gym. Luffy had shot him a text.

U in ring beach break or double or nothing?

Double or nothing.

👍 ✈️ 🤼

Zoro felt himself smile for the first time since Friday. Luffy was flying in to see him wrestle. He thumbed a fist-bump emoji back, then hesitated before typing again.

I think I broke up with Sanji.

The words made him cringe the second they left his screen. He sounded like a high schooler.

???

Zoro bit his lip. I think he wants to see people other than just me.

Did he say that?

No, but he was hitting on this other guy at All Blue who is so much better than me.

Shit, he was pathetic. He thought about deleting it, but sent it anyway.

No one is better than u. 

Warmth spread through his chest at Luffy’s quick reply, but it didn’t fix the ache. Doesn’t mean he wants me.

Again did he say that?

No.

Then y r u telling me this and not him?

Because he was a shy, insecure idiot who only pretended to be a confident samurai called The Ronin.

Talk 2 him, Luffy urged.

Zoro exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. Ok.

Luffy sent him 🍖😤.

Zoro glanced at the time, just past eleven. All Blue was open until midnight, then closed for two days. If he didn’t go now, he’d lose the chance.

He sat there another minute, thumb brushing over his phone screen. The meat emoji glared back at him, dumb and simple. Meat was strength. Luffy had meant go, plain as that.

Zoro’s chest tightened. He could wait. Text Sanji tomorrow, or the next day, once he figured out the right words. Or maybe Sanji would text first, and he wouldn’t have to stumble through it. That was tempting – hide behind silence, keep from tripping over himself.

But the thought of two more days stewing alone, replaying Friday on a loop, made his skin itch. If he didn’t move now, he never would.

He shoved off the couch, heart hammering. Jeans, hoodie, glasses, keys in his pocket. His hands shook as he tugged the zipper, but his legs kept moving. He could do this.

The night air bit cold against his face, but sweat still prickled under Zoro’s hoodie by the time he reached the All Blue. The restaurant glowed warm against the dark street, light spilling through tall windows, the restaurant still alive despite the late hour.

He pushed the door open and stepped in. The scent hit him first, rich enough to stir his stomach even though he’d eaten. The dining room was thinning, couples lingering over wine, a few stragglers laughing low at their tables. Plates clinked faintly, chairs scraped against polished floors, the last dregs of conversation floating under the music.

Zoro stood just inside the entry, pulse hammering, unsure if he should get a table or ask to see Sanji. He felt too big for the doorway, heat crawling under his hoodie. He should’ve worn something better. He should’ve showered. He should go home.

From the back, the kitchen doors swung open. Sanji stepped out, two plates balanced easily in one hand, voice smooth as he leaned and served the couple. He smiled, sharp and confident, dressed in black suit with a dark green shirt, blond hair catching the light. Zoro froze, heart slamming harder. For a second, his legs refused to move.

Then he forced one step, then another, cutting through the thinning crowd. Duval said something at the host stand, but Zoro kept his eye forward, ignoring him until Sanji’s gaze lifted and locked on his.

The smile slipped.

Sanji murmured something to the couple, then straightened. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes didn’t leave Zoro. He took two steps away from the table, then stopped, waiting.

Zoro’s throat worked as he made himself cross the dining room. Every step felt too loud, every eye felt like it was on him. By the time he reached Sanji, Zoro’s palms were damp, shoulders tight under his hoodie. He stopped a pace short, swallowed hard, and met Sanji’s gaze.

“Um… can we– do you–” Zoro stumbled over his words, stopped himself, and tried again. “Can we talk?”

Sanji gave him a short nod, still unreadable. “Follow me.”

He pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. The sudden brightness hit first, fluorescents buzzing overhead, stainless steel counters gleaming under them. The air was thick with the scent of butter and char, the hiss of pans fading now that most of the line was shut down for the night. A dishwasher clattered trays at the sink, and one of the chefs with buck teeth glanced up as Sanji passed.

“I’ll be in my office,” Sanji said, not breaking stride. The chef nodded and went back to his prep.

Zoro trailed him down a short hall tucked at the back, past a cramped locker room and a break room with a soda machine humming in the corner. At the end stood a closed door, plain and dark against the bright kitchen.

Sanji opened the door, flicked on the light, and stepped inside. The office was small and plain, the walls lined with shelves of cookbooks and spiral notebooks. A metal desk dominated the room, its surface organized into neat stacks of invoices and menus, a laptop closed beside a cooling cup of espresso. Filing cabinets filled one side, a corkboard on the other pinned with schedules, vendor lists, and shift notes. The only thing out of place was a spring jacket slung over the back of the chair.

Sanji motioned to the chair opposite. “Sit.” He sank into his own seat, posture loose but eyes sharp, waiting.

Zoro sank onto the edge of the chair, the frame creaking under his weight. He rubbed his damp palms against his jeans. His chest was tight, pulse loud in his ears, nerves refusing to settle. His knee started bouncing before he could stop it. 

“I–” Zoro started, then cut himself off, the words choking in his throat. If Sanji said he wanted to see other people, there’d be no hope left.

The silence dragged. Zoro’s jaw tightened; he stared at the desk, too aware of his own breathing, of the sounds from the kitchen beyond the closed office door. His knee bounced harder.

Sanji watched him, unreadable at first. As the silence continued, his expression eased. “You know, Clover, I’m still at work.”

The nickname caught him off guard, pulling a scowl to his face. “Fucker,” he muttered.

Sanji smirked. “If the shamrock fits…”

The jab was familiar, and it eased his nerves a fraction. He thought of Luffy’s text, the meat and determination emojis, the push to be strong enough not to shy away.

Zoro took a deep breath and unclenched the fists he hadn’t realized he’d made. His gaze dropped to the desk, silence stretching again while he tried to gather himself. Finally, he asked, “Do you not want to see just me?”

Sanji blinked, startled. “Where the hell did you get that idea?”

Zoro’s shoulders bunched. “You were hitting on that guy, and he was clearly interested. And he’s more like you. I thought… maybe I was being too clingy…”

“Fuck, you idiot algae.” Sanji let out a breath that sounded more like relief than scolding. “I flirt with half the people in this place. They leave bigger tips when they think I’m charming. That guy on Friday left a hundred bucks.”

Zoro blinked, catching the edge of that relief. It loosened something inside him, though doubt still lingered. He glanced up, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “So you’re not… interested in him?”

“Pft. Not my type.” Sanji leaned forward, gaze direct. “My type is a mossball in thick glasses who blushes every time I say the word sex.”

Heat crawled up Zoro’s neck. He shifted in the chair, the creak loud in the small office. “I’m not that bad.”

“You are. And you’re perfect. Why would I want anyone else?”

“M’not perfect,” Zoro muttered, staring at the desk surface, at the way the lamplight caught on its scratched edge.

“Oh, you are right about that, zucchini-brain,” Sanji said. He rounded the desk, shoes clicking softly on the tile. The office felt even smaller with him moving closer. He stopped in front of Zoro, arms folded. “You were about to dump me without talking to me first. I know you’re shy about personal stuff, but I’d rather hear you stumble through it than have you shut me out.”

Zoro sat with that, letting it sink in. Sanji wasn’t wrong. Talking to strangers was easy – press, fans, even a camera shoved in his face. That was surface-level, all part of the job. But this was different. This was Sanji. And when it came to saying what he wanted with someone he actually liked, the words tangled up, leaving him fumbling. His face warmed, and he ducked his head a little before forcing the admission out. “I just want us to be… us. Only us.”

“I want that too,” Sanji said at once, voice firm enough to silence any doubt. “What else?”

Zoro shifted, uneasy, bashful. “You don’t think it’s weird that I’ve just been with you?”

Sanji’s brows lifted, and then he gave a soft huff, equal parts amusement and certainty. “Weird? No. If I had my way, it’d stay like this.” His grin spread, wolfish and sure, eyes sparking as he leaned in closer. His hand slid over Zoro’s thigh, squeezing hard. “I like having that claim on your body.”

Heat flared up Zoro’s neck again, his collar feeling suddenly too tight. The bluntness of Sanji’s statement left him scrambling, tongue thick in his mouth. “Do you–” He faltered, pulse hammering. Sanji had told him to say what was on his mind, but this was different, heavier. He dropped his gaze, then forced it back up, cheeks burning. “Is it… too soon to say I love you?”

Sanji froze, eyes widening. For a long beat he didn’t breathe, the silence stretching taut until Zoro’s stomach twisted. Then he exhaled hard, like the question had punched the air from his lungs, and a laugh broke out – bright, incredulous, edged with sheer relief. “You shit,” he said, almost choking on another laugh. “I can’t believe–” The sound tumbled out of him again, giddy and unrestrained now, his eyes shining. “I’ve been in love with you since that stupid PR misunderstanding.”

Zoro blinked, slow, like his brain had stalled. “But… we hadn’t even kissed yet.”

“I know!” Sanji laughed again, running a hand back through his hair. “I know, it’s insane. You walked in, all grumpy and scarred and looking like you could crush steel with your bare hands, then you opened your mouth and you were this bashful mess who could barely string a sentence together. And it wrecked me. Completely. My heart beats green for you.”

Zoro blinked, stunned, astonishment spreading through him at the ease and certainty in Sanji’s voice. He couldn’t have imagined those words, not in a lifetime of daydreams.

“And those glasses?” Sanji laughed once more, shaking his head. “Those are the biggest turn on. Because they’re you – awkward and fucking adorable. And I love every damned bit of it. Of you. All of you.”

Zoro’s face blazed, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurt. His throat worked, caught between disbelief and the weight of what Sanji had just laid bare. He swallowed, forced his gaze back, cheeks burning. “I… uh… love you, too?”

Sanji let out another laugh, bright and helpless, pressing a hand briefly over his mouth as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Then he bent down, closing the space in a rush, and framed Zoro’s burning cheeks between his palms. “Fucking adorable moss,” he murmured, before sealing it with a kiss.

Zoro melted instantly. His shoulders sagged, all the tension from the last two days bleeding out at once. Even that short stretch was too long to go without kissing Sanji, too long to wonder if he’d already lost him. Dizzying relief poured through him, tangled with the fierce pull of love and the rush of knowing Sanji wanted him. Wanted only him. He wasn’t alone in this.

The kiss deepened, and Zoro leaned into it hungrily, clutching at Sanji’s suit coat as if to keep him from pulling away. His chest heaved, his breath shaky, but his mouth followed Sanji’s without hesitation. Sanji’s hot breath gusted across his lips, and Zoro shivered at the heat of it, at the taste he’d missed.

Sanji straddled his knees, drawing them close, and Zoro groaned low in his throat at the sudden press of him there. Their tongues met, tangled, and Zoro’s hands tightened in the fabric of Sanji’s lapel, knuckles aching with the need to hold on. A soft sound escaped him, helpless, a mess of pleading and want. He couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch enough – he wanted to drown in this, in Sanji, in the proof that the words hadn’t scared him off.

When Sanji finally tore back, it was with clear reluctance. “Okay, I’m thirty-four years old, at the business I own. I’m too old and responsible to be making out in my office.”

Zoro blinked at him, slow and dazed, glasses slightly askew. His lips tingled, breath ragged, brain still lagging behind his body. “Uh…”

Sanji laughed once more, lightly, and stole a final kiss before straightening and smoothing his suit. He flicked a glance at his watch. “The restaurant closes in another twenty minutes. I can be at your condo by twelve-thirty.” His eyes lingered on Zoro, dark with sinful promise. “Then I have the next two days off, and I don’t plan to leave.”

Zoro swallowed hard, heat pooling low, his pulse pounding with anticipation. Two whole days. He could skip the gym for that.

Sanji moved to the door, holding it open with a small, sweeping gesture. Zoro pushed himself to his feet, tugging his hoodie down to hide the evidence of how gone he already was.

As he stepped past, Sanji’s hand landed with a quick smack on his rear. Zoro squeaked – actually squeaked – and went scarlet.

Sanji smirked at him, thoroughly pleased. “See you in an hour, lawn-boy.”

When Zoro got home, the first thing that greeted him was the wreckage he’d left behind over the weekend. The take-out boxes were still there, strewn across the counter and coffee table like smug little reminders. Half-crushed coffee cups leaned against empty beer bottles, crumbs clung to the cushions, and a couple of dark spills marked the floorboards. It looked less like he lived there and more like someone had camped out and lost the war.

He moved quickly, scooping up the worst of it. The boxes went straight down the condo garbage chute – out of sight, out of mind – like he was covering up an affair with another restaurant. He wiped down the counters, scrubbed at the rings left by bottles, swept the floor until it looked like no one had walked there in days. Laundry got picked up, sheets stripped and replaced, towels swapped for fresh ones. 

The shower was equally as thorough, and overdue. He hadn’t showered since yesterday morning after the gym, and he’d gone back again today, sweat still clinging to his skin under the clothes he’d worn to clean. He stood there until his muscles loosened beneath the sting of hot water, until the steam blurred the mirror and turned the bathroom into its own fogged world. Soap lathered thick across his chest, down his arms, into his hair. He rinsed and did it again, scrubbing hard enough to erase the grime and the restless edge of waiting. 

By the time he dragged himself out, he felt almost presentable. He tried on a black T-shirt and track pants, changed into jeans and a button-down, then scowled at the mirror for looking like he was trying too hard. He switched back to the first outfit. They were looser anyway, and his anticipation was already making itself known.

He brushed his teeth, fixed his hair into some semblance of style, slid his glasses back on. He sank onto the couch and opened his phone, scrolling without really seeing the screen. Every beat of his pulse seemed to count the minutes until Sanji’s arrival.

At 12:37 sharp, three raps sounded against the door. Zoro was on his feet in an instant. He pulled it open. 

Sanji filled the doorway. Blond hair falling into his eyes, tie loosened, that tailored suit shaping his shoulders. His gaze caught Zoro and shifted darker, hungrier, and Zoro’s own breath hitched, coming out in a shaky rush. “Hi,” he managed, voice thin and breathless, excitement and happiness curling tight in his belly.

“Fuck, you are just so–” Sanji didn’t finish. He grabbed Zoro by the collar and hauled him into a kiss. 

The door slammed shut behind them. They staggered together through the condo, mouths locked, tugging clothes free in clumsy bursts. Shirts hit the floor. Belts loosened. Sanji pushed and Zoro shoved back, the momentum carrying them to the couch where they fell in a knot of limbs and need. Sanji twisted around, shifting them head to toe, and soon Zoro was lost in the dizzying rhythm of giving and receiving at once. 

The two days that followed blurred together, but every moment branded itself in his memory. They spent hours tangled in sheets, breaking apart only when hunger or thirst pulled them into the kitchen. Sanji cooked, half-dressed, hair a mess, plates sliding across the counter in a rush between kisses and laughter. They collapsed together on the couch afterward, feeding each other bites, Sanji’s teasing grin turning softer when Zoro brushed his fingers against his wrist.

Nights fell heavy and slow, time stretching long with whispered words in the dark. Sanji’s voice was warm against his ear, threaded with tenderness Zoro hadn’t thought he’d ever get to hear spoken to him. They laughed at nothing, drifted into silence, touched again like they’d never get enough. Zoro found himself staring sometimes, overwhelmed by the closeness, by how right it felt to have Sanji in his space, in his bed, in his arms.

When Wednesday came, Sanji left reluctantly, still stealing kisses in the doorway like he couldn’t quite make himself go. Zoro stood there after the door closed, the condo too quiet and his lips still tingling. 

He slumped onto the couch, unable to stop smiling. The last two days lingered with a glow that refused to fade, making it impossible to shake the giddy energy buzzing under his skin. He opened his phone, thumb hovering, then texted Luffy:

❤️😁

Zoro stood in the shadow of the entrance tunnel, waiting for his cue. He was wrapped in full Ronin gear: layered samurai robe belted tight, wide straw hat low over his brow, mask shadowing the scar across his eye, katana resting against his side. The announcer’s voice rose, warming the crowd with that long, deliberate hype AEW reserved for special entrances. The year’s story had been mapped since Revolution: The Ronin had challenged one of AEW’s top-tier names for the right to take on the company’s prized up-and-coming talent as his apprentice. The Ronin had won.

From then on, the apprentice had done the heavy lifting on weekly shows while The Ronin appeared sparingly at ringside. Some matches ended in victory, some in defeat, but always with the master’s shadow looming nearby. Now, at Double or Nothing, they would stand side by side in a tag team match. They were set to win – an AEW promise of passing strength from one generation to the next. Next year at Revolution, the story would come full circle, top-tier would return to try and win the apprentice back, with the final stretch designed for the student to take center stage.

Zoro felt calm. Anticipation still thrummed under his skin, but it was a focused hum, sharpened by years of experience. He couldn’t bump himself anymore, but he could hit the ropes, crash the turnbuckles, and throw his strikes. Every year, the sports physician would check him again – maybe one day clear him for a few safe bumps – but even without that, Zoro would take every scrap of time he could in the ring. Wrestling was still the only place that made his blood sing.

The announcer’s call boomed, the crowd roared, and The Ronin was summoned.

Zoro stepped into the lights, soaking in the blast of sound, and moved with the same deliberate ritual as always. He unsheathed his katana in a practiced flourish, then flowed through several katas center stage, robe swaying, movements sharp but controlled. Every cut of his arms drew louder cheers until the arena was shaking. He knew where Luffy was in the stands, knew Sanji was beside him, but didn’t let his focus drift. He was the Ronin tonight, and the Ronin gave no tells.

He spoke briefly on the mic, his gravelly tone carrying weight: words about his apprentice, about legacy, about forging steel through fire. The apprentice appeared next, met with an eager ovation, then their challengers entered, heat from the crowd cascading over the ring.

The bell rang.

Zoro locked in from the first second, mind narrowing to the flow of the fight. Everything was pre-arranged – beats set with his partners beforehand – but in the moment, it still felt alive. The apprentice and the opposing team carried most of the twenty-minute match, but Zoro was there for the anchor points: the dramatic rope runs, the hard chops, the explosive tag-in that rattled the ring. He slammed forearms, sent challengers staggering, even launched into the post to ignite the crowd.

The ring smelled of sweat, canvas sharp with resin. The ropes bit his palms, steel cables under thin wrap. Every footstep on the mat echoed through his body, plywood and padding bouncing under boots. The crowd thundered, layered with chants and gasps, an adrenaline rush that still made his pulse pound the way it had a decade ago.

He was grateful for all of it: the sound, the scent, the clash of skill and endurance. Grateful he could still do it. Grateful he could now do it openly, without hiding who he was anymore.

The closing stretch unfolded before he knew it. The apprentice lit the crowd with a final surge, and The Ronin stormed back in for the decisive strike, the arena erupting as the three-count landed. The Ronin and his student stood victorious, arms raised, the chant of “Ronin! Ronin! Ronin!” rolling down like a wave.

The pop still rang in his ears as he slipped through the curtain, sweat plastering his hair to his temple. AEW medical met him first, flashlight in the eye, stethoscope to his chest. He waved them off with a grunt, but let them check him anyway. He’d learned not to fight it.

Other wrestlers clapped him on the shoulder as he stripped out of gear, robe folded neatly, mask set aside. A few cracked jokes, a few offered nods of respect. He was sweaty, worn out, ribs aching from rope runs, but exhilarated. He’d proven to himself, to the crowd, to everyone, that he could still do it – and do it well.

By the time he got back to the suite, exhaustion pulled at his muscles, but it was the good kind. The hotel had given them a two-room suite with a connecting door for privacy. Zoro crashed on the sofa, beer in hand, still damp-haired from the shower when Luffy burst in like a tornado.

“You were so good!” Luffy hollered, launching himself straight at Zoro, tackling and wrestling with him like they were in high school again.

Zoro caught him, grunted, then trapped him in a headlock. “Still stronger than you, idiot.”

Sanji slipped in behind, shutting the door softly. His shirt stuck faintly from the heat of the arena. He was flushed and smiling, hair mussed and eyes bright.

“So, what’d you think?” Zoro asked, tightening the headlock just enough to make Luffy squawk.

Sanji arched a brow, smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s possible I’m impressed, tree-top. Maybe this much.” He held thumb and finger a breath apart.

“He was screaming my ear off,” Luffy said, wriggling free. “He also bought Ronin merch and hid it with the concierge.”

“Traitor,” Sanji sniffed, though his grin betrayed him.

Zoro rolled his eye, let Luffy attack the room service, then stood. He crossed to Sanji and, after a beat of hesitation, slipped his arms around his waist. His face warmed at the contact, shy but unwilling to let go. “Glad you finally got to see me wrestle. Even if it’s not as full-on as it used to be.”

Sanji’s smirk softened into something gentler. “I’ll admit, it was fun seeing that side of you – the warrior side. Totally different from the adorable moss I put up with every day.”

“M’not that different,” Zoro muttered, blushing hotter.

“Not where it counts,” Sanji murmured, then deliberately rolled his hips against him.

Zoro’s face went scarlet, heat rushing all the way to his ears.

“Hey, Zoro, can we get more room service?” Luffy called around a mouthful of food. Half the spread was already gone.

Zoro fought to keep his tone even. “Yeah, go ahead.” He gave Sanji a faint, reluctant smile. “If he ever comes to Harborside, he’s going to eat you out of food.”

Sanji’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll take that as a challenge.”

Zoro hesitated one heartbeat longer, glanced back at Luffy rifling the tray, then screwed up his courage. He bent in and brushed a quick, heated kiss against Sanji’s mouth – his first in front of anyone else. “I’m glad you came.”

Sanji’s answering smile was soft. “Me, too.”

“Sanji, do you want anything specific? I’m ordering everything on the menu!” Luffy had the room phone in hand, grinning ear to ear.

Sanji peeled himself away, chuckling as he took the menu to skim it, already critiquing ingredients aloud.

Zoro leaned back, watching the two of them in his suite – Luffy wild and bottomless, Sanji confident and composed. Contentment settled over him like a warm blanket. It was still hard to believe he’d ever managed to say more than a few words to Sanji, let alone be in an exclusive relationship. Or that he’d ever come out. But he had. And it was worth every second.

“Don’t forget to order me something, since the hog ate all mine,” Zoro said.

“It wasn’t in your mouth,” Luffy shot back without missing a beat.

Sanji waved Zoro off, eyes still on the menu. “Don’t worry, brussel sprout, I know what you like.”

Zoro huffed at the millionth green-haired insult. 

He would never tell Sanji that he loved every single one.

End