A Sister’s Guide to Surviving Her Brother’s Love Life

The foyer door slammed hard enough to rattle the row of framed sketches Perona had propped against the wall outside her studio.

She looked up from the bodice design spread across her drafting table and glanced at the time on her phone. Zoro shouldn’t have been home for another hour. He worked second shift at the front desk downstairs, dressed in the required black shirt and trousers while rich idiots forgot their keycards and delivery drivers tried to talk their way past him. 

Perona frowned, set down her pencil, and slid off her stool. The studio smelled of fabric glue, marker ink, and the green tea she had forgotten to drink three hours ago. Half-cut pattern paper covered the floor around her platform heels. A dress form stood near the window, pinned with black tulle and a ridiculous amount of ribbon, because she was going for an upscale mummy aesthetic.

She reached the studio door in time to see Zoro stomp past, one hand on the green guide stripe painted along the wall, blood pouring from his nose and bruises already blooming across his face.

“Zoro, what happened?!” Perona gasped.

He ignored her. He followed the green stripe to his bedroom, went inside, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Perona stared after him for one whole second, then hurried to the hall bathroom as fast as her platform heels allowed. The extra-large medical kit lived under the sink there, beside the towels and basket of lotions and hair products Mihawk used when he visited. It was ridiculous that they needed something that big in an apartment. It was more ridiculous that she knew where every roll of gauze, butterfly bandage, cold pack, and disinfectant wipe went because she had used all of them on Zoro at least once.

It wasn’t the first time she’d patched him up. It wouldn’t be the last. Zoro came home hurt the way other people came home annoyed from traffic. Split lip, bruised ribs, scraped knuckles, black eye, dislocated something he tried to ignore because it was “fine.” He could take care of himself in most ways because Mihawk had made sure he had systems, and because Perona had bullied those systems into something that worked in an actual apartment, but that didn’t mean she stopped worrying.

Alarms told him to eat. Alarms told him to sleep. Alarms told him to take breaks when he got too focused on training and forgot the rest of his body existed. His phone and watch had GPS. His keys and wallet had trackers. Their grocery app delivered everything on a schedule because navigating the store was a nightmare as far as Zoro was concerned. He could function because every important part of his day had a reminder, a color, a sound, or a route. 

But what happened if he forgot to charge his phone? What happened if the power went out? What happened if one of the alarms didn’t go off and Zoro, being Zoro, decided he could push through thirty hours without food because he was “busy”? What happened when he got so focused on a problem that he stopped paying attention to himself?

Perona hauled the med kit out from under the sink, hooked it against her hip, and marched down the hall. Various stripes of paint lined the walls at waist height, each one marked with small arrow indicators: pink for her room, yellow for the living room, blue for the kitchen, black for her studio, green for Zoro’s room, purple for the in-home gym, and red for the front door. The arrows were necessary. Without them, Zoro would follow the right color in the wrong direction and end up at the blank end of a hallway. It had started in the castle, after everyone realized Zoro could get lost between the bedroom and bathroom – next door to each other – even after living there for six months. The penthouse was smaller, but Perona had insisted on keeping the system because smaller did not mean Zoro couldn’t get turned around in it.

Mihawk had said nothing when she painted the first stripe. He had only brought home better paint the next day.

Her heels clacked over the hardwood. Her bell sleeves nearly brushed her knees. She shoved one long pink pigtail over her shoulder, tucked the med kit higher under her arm, and opened Zoro’s door without knocking. “I have the med kit– oh!”

Perona’s eyes widened, and she backpedaled so fast her heel skidded against the floor.

Zoro sat on the side of his bed, pants undone, dick in hand, jerking off.

“Perona!” Zoro shouted, hunching over himself.

“Sorry!” she squeaked, and yanked the door shut behind her.

She stood in the hallway with one hand still on the doorknob and the med kit clutched against her chest. She stared at the paint stripes across from her. From inside the room, there was one muffled thump, then Zoro swore.

Perona stared at the wall. 

Well. That was new.

Perona turned around and went to the kitchen to pour herself a large glass of wine. Maybe she would eat a chocolate or two. Or ten. She deserved ten.

The kitchen lights were softer than the hall, warm against the polished counters and the cabinet doors Mihawk had chosen because a “small penthouse” still meant stone counters, a hidden wine fridge, and a view over half the city. The apartment sat high enough that traffic sounded distant through the windows, a steady hiss broken by horns and the occasional siren. Far below, the front entrance glowed under its canopy. Zoro’s lobby. Zoro’s stupid post, where he sat too straight in an uncomfortable chair and took every rule too seriously. Perona made fun of it because she was his sister, but she knew what the desk meant to him. A door, a list, a lock, a rule someone had to follow – Zoro understood those. 

Mihawk had bought the penthouse when Zoro was twenty-three and decided he wanted to move out. Perona had suggested they move out together before anyone could finish pretending that was a reasonable idea.

She had been living very happily at the mansion, thank you very much. It was practically a castle. It had an entire wing she had claimed for herself, a ballroom for parties, a turret with excellent lighting, and enough old hallways to make visitors feel properly unsettled. But Zoro wanted space. Zoro wanted independence. Zoro wanted to prove he could live without Mihawk watching from the shadows like a hawk in a red velvet coat.

Mihawk had worried. He had done it stoically, because he was Mihawk, which meant he stood by the window with a glass of wine and said calm things in a voice that made everyone else more nervous. Perona had worried louder. Zoro had scowled at both of them and finally agreed she could come, as long as she left him alone.

He had known she wouldn’t. She had known he knew. That was how they worked.

She hadn’t wanted a brother in the first place. One morning, she had woken up and there he was in the mansion: green hair, big forehead, and more bandage than skin. Mihawk told her his name was Zoro and he would be staying with them from then on. Kuma had sent him to Mihawk, just like Kuma had sent her years earlier.

Zoro had been ten. 

He didn’t talk. He didn’t like to be touched. He tried to run away every day and only got lost in the castle, which would have been funny if he hadn’t looked so destroyed every time they found him. Perona found him one day tucked under the stairs to the southeast turret, knees pulled tight to his chest, silently crying. Instead of forcing him out, she sat down across from him and told him stories about the ghosts in the turret, forbidden lovers who could only meet on the stairs, forever catching stolen moments before someone dragged them apart.

The next time, she found him beneath the piano in the grand ballroom. She slid underneath beside him and told him all the gossip about Mihawk’s galas, how everyone was dressed up and pretending not to stare at the paintings, and how now that she was fourteen she could stay up until the end. Then she asked if he wanted to play the piano with her. They sat together on the bench while she taught him Chopsticks.

When she found him in the vineyard, sobbing between the long rows, she brought him his own Negative Hollow.

She’d made the ghost-shaped squishy green, like his hair. Hers was pink. Mihawk’s was red, and he kept it in his study.

“This is a Negative Hollow,” she told Zoro, seated in the dirt beside him. “You put all your anger and your sadness and your fear into it, so you don’t have to keep it inside yourself anymore.”

She had been so angry when Mihawk took her in. Her dad and uncle had abandoned her when they ran from the Revolutionary Army. She had only been eight, too young to understand that they were experimenting on people and the RA had come to free the captives. At the time, she had only known that she’d been left behind, and she had been angry enough to tear apart the stuffed bat Mihawk gave her. She had screamed into it, stomped on it, battered it to pieces.

Then she felt a little better.

After that, she destroyed every stuffed animal she was given until she ran out. She demanded more. Mihawk gave her fabric, cotton, thread, and a sewing needle instead. “If you’re just going to destroy them, there is no sense in my purchasing something nice.”

Her first Negative Hollow had been white. When it was dead, she made a blue one. Then a yellow. Then gold. When she finally reached pink, she no longer felt the need to destroy it. They had served their purpose. Now, when she needed to scream in anger or cry out her fears, her pink hollow was there to hold until the feeling passed.

Zoro clutched the green hollow tightly to his chest.

He stopped trying to run away after that.

He carried the hollow everywhere for close to two years. Perona learned pieces of what had happened to him, never all at once and never in order. A bad foster placement. Trafficking. Captivity. Other kids. A terrible man. Zoro had tried to cut off his own feet to escape, and Perona still had no idea how that had happened because nobody talked about it directly. He had scars everywhere, had lost his left eye, and had nearly died from a gash across his chest when his captor tried to hide his crimes as the Revolutionary Army arrived.

As time went on, she grew more and more protective of the brother she hadn’t wanted and now would do almost anything for.

Eventually, Zoro started speaking. Short, clipped sentences, blunt and straightforward. He usually sounded angry even when he wasn’t. He didn’t like word games. He didn’t soften the truth because he didn’t always know where softness was supposed to go.

Touch was still complicated. He handled it best when he initiated it, and he could shut down hard when someone else decided for him. But sometimes, rarely, he would step into Perona’s space and wrap both arms around her without saying a word. He gave the best hugs. 

He could get lost in his own bedroom, and the castle became a maze of colored stripes that led him from place to place.

He could focus on weight training so hard he forgot sleep, food, water, and the bathroom. He used alarms as reminders.

Certain animals, darkness, and specific sounds could still send him reaching for the green hollow. It ended up back in his arms many times over the years, no matter his age. 

And now, in the penthouse, he had systems. Color stripes. GPS. Delivery apps. Checklists. Timers. Perona. Mihawk’s money, which Zoro complained about while benefiting from it, because independence came with a building where the front entrance, lobby panel, and resident access codes kept casual strangers from wandering in.

Zoro had wanted to be a cop. Mihawk had never said no outright. He had listened, asked questions, and then quietly started looking for something Zoro could do safely. There were reasons the police academy had never been realistic for Zoro. So Mihawk found the opening downstairs, made sure the building manager understood Zoro should be taken seriously, and pointed Zoro toward a job in the building they already knew: controlled access, cameras everywhere, and a front desk he could treat like a post. It was overprotective and also supportive, which was Mihawk in a sentence. 

Zoro took the job seriously. Too seriously. Johnny, Yosaku, and Cabaji treated the front desk like a job. Zoro treated it like a sworn duty. He memorized the resident roster. He checked IDs. He turned away delivery drivers who looked at him wrong. He walked elderly residents to the elevator if they seemed nervous. He escorted drunk idiots to their doors and then wrote incident reports so stiff Perona had once cried laughing over one.

It was the closest thing to the cop dream Zoro had managed to build for himself: rules, reports, a door to guard, people who got to go upstairs safely because he was there below them. He was overly dedicated, which was a nice way of saying he would stand in front of a charging bull if the bull failed to sign in with building management first.

Perona drank half her wine, ate four chocolates, and waited twenty minutes.

Then she took the med kit and marched back down the hall. The city hummed beyond the windows. The cityscape twinkled through their curtains. The green stripe ran along the wall toward Zoro’s room, its little black arrows pointing her down the hall to his door, where the light showed beneath the frame. 

She knocked this time, because she was a generous and merciful sister. “You done?”

A pause. “Yeah.”

She opened the door.

Zoro was sprawled on his bed wearing only his briefs, the rest of his clothes abandoned on the floor. Nothing was showing now, thank every ghost in the building. He leaned against the headboard, poking at his nose and wincing. His bare torso and thighs were littered with bruises already coming in dark. The green Negative Hollow sat in its usual place, nestled in the corner where the headboard met the post, watching over the bed with its stitched black eyes.

Perona set the med kit down with a hard thump. “This is so Not Cute,” she announced.

Zoro scowled.

“Don’t give me that. What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She snapped on gloves and opened the kit. “Is nothing going to happen again? I need to know how much gauze to restock.”

His scowl deepened. “Maybe.”

“Very helpful. Thank you.” She tugged on the cuff of one glove, then held up her hands where he could see them. “Face?”

Zoro grunted.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” he muttered.

“See? Horrifyingly difficult.” Perona caught his chin. His jaw went tense beneath her fingers for half a second before he made himself relax and tilted his head back for her.

His face was a mess: blood dried over his upper lip, one cheek swelling, the bridge of his nose crooked enough to make her stomach tighten. His knuckles were split, too. Of course they were. Zoro never got punched without punching back.

She started cleaning the blood from his face. “Explain from the beginning.”

Zoro flinched slightly when the hydrogen peroxide touched the cut near his lip. “Guy came in. Didn’t have his ID. Wasn’t on the building roster. Told him to leave.”

“And?”

“Insisted he lived here. Just moved in. ID was upstairs.” Zoro turned his head when she nudged his chin, more from the contact than the pressure. “Told him he wasn’t getting in. Called me a pathetic rent-a-cop. Said he’d only get past me if I wasn’t standing. Said he’d like to kick my ass but wasn’t getting arrested for it.”

Perona stared at him. “And?”

“So I punched him.”

“Of course you did,” Perona sighed, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. Of course that was the part Zoro had heard: only getting past him if he wasn’t standing. Challenge, permission, threat – with Zoro, those things could get tangled fast. 

“Then he kicked my ass,” Zoro said, his ears turning red.

Perona paused with the bloody wipe still pinched between her gloved fingers. That was new. Zoro came home from the bar hurt often enough that Perona knew the routine: split knuckles, bruised ribs, a cut over one eyebrow, some idiot starting something near Johnny or Yosaku and Zoro finishing it. But he never sat on his bed with his ears going red over a fight. And he definitely did not usually come home from fights and start jerking off about them. 

Perona pressed her lips together and kept that observation to herself, mostly because Zoro looked like he would rather throw himself out the window than discuss it.

She picked up the butterfly bandages and taped the cut over his nose. Then she probed the bridge gently, felt the break, and adjusted it back into place without warning.

Zoro hissed, shoulders jerking, then immediately forced himself still.

“You’re a dummy,” she said.

He scowled at her with real feeling this time, sullen and hunched where he sat. One hand braced against the mattress. The other hovered near his ribs, like he wanted to check the damage himself but didn’t want to let on that he was hurting.

“Good. Be mad. Maybe it’ll distract you from being stupid.” She checked his ribs next. Nothing seemed cracked, though the bruising looked nasty enough that breathing would hurt tomorrow. Zoro would endure it in silence, moving stiffly and pretending nothing was wrong until she cornered him again. When her fingers pressed too close to his side, his jaw tightened, and his good eye narrowed, but he held himself rigid and breathed through his nose. Or tried to. 

“Stop pretending that doesn’t hurt,” she said.

“It doesn’t.”

“Liar.”

He grunted.

Perona rubbed arnica over the worst of the bruises while he sat there in stubborn silence, shoulders tight and chin angled like she was the unreasonable one. His face had gone pale under the blood and swelling, but he kept trying to sit up straight. Trying to look annoyed instead of hurt. Trying to make his body into one more thing he could ignore. 

She hated that about him. She hated that she knew exactly where he had learned it. 

“Are you going back downstairs?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Called Johnny.”

That was one good decision, at least.

Perona studied him. Blood cleaned away, nose straightened, bruises blooming, hair a mess, scowl firmly in place. He looked twenty-eight and ten at the same time in a way she hated. The green hollow sat behind him on the headboard, small and raggedy from years of being held too tightly, one stitched seam repaired at least seven times because Perona refused to let it die. 

Zoro’s ears were still faintly red. 

“You done?” he muttered.

“Patching you up, yes.” Perona shut the med kit with a sharp click. “Thinking you’re a Not Cute dummy, no.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but the attempt died somewhere between the first breath and the first wince. She pulled the blanket over him, careful around the bruises. Zoro settled back against the pillows with a grimace he tried to turn into a scowl. It failed halfway through. His eye drifted shut, then snapped open again as if he had caught himself relaxing too much. 

Perona pretended she hadn’t seen that either. “Go to sleep.”

“Bossy.”

“Yes. And?”

He grunted again, but his eye closed. This time, he let it stay closed. His breathing evened out within seconds, deep and heavy, like his body had only been waiting for permission to shut down.

Perona stood beside the bed with her hands on her hips, glaring at him because glaring was easier than worrying. “You better charge your phone.”

Zoro didn’t answer.

She checked. His phone was on the nightstand, plugged in. His watch was charging beside it. The alarm for dinner had been dismissed, probably because he had been busy bleeding, getting flustered, and being an idiot. She would bring him something when he woke up. Something with protein. Something he could eat while pretending he didn’t need anyone to take care of him. 

Before she left, Perona reached past Zoro and straightened the green hollow where it slumped in the corner of the headboard. Then she picked up the med kit, shut off the overhead light, and left the bedside lamp glowing low.

Perona designed for the Gothic Lolita crowd: black lace, cinched corsets, velvet bows, and dresses meant for girls and boys who liked their frills edged in funeral black. She spent most of her time in her studio, but occasionally she had runway shows or meetings with buyers.

She was coming back from one now, portfolio case and sample bag hanging from her shoulder. The lobby lights glowed warm through the glass entrance, reflecting off polished black tile, brass elevator doors, and the marble desk. A vase of white lilies sat on the console by the mail alcove. The whole place smelled faintly of floor polish, expensive perfume, and the rain dampening the city outside.

Through the glass, she could see Zoro at the front desk. He was standing instead of sitting, which was never a good sign. His building-approved black dress shirt strained across his shoulders and chest, tucked into black trousers that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’d bulked up again. His boots were planted on the tile, one foot shifting, then the other, like he was trying to keep himself from lunging across the desk. He’d need new shirts and trousers soon. Perona would have to measure him again, which meant listening to him complain for ten minutes. 

A scowl was etched across his bruised face as a blond in a nice suit shoved something toward him from the other side of the desk. Great. She was about to watch Zoro get into another fight if she didn’t step in. 

The lock disengaged with a buzz, and Perona pulled the door open in time to catch the tail end of the blond’s words. “–tattoo this to your face so you remember.” 

Zoro’s eye flicked to Perona, then back to the man. “I remember your name. I wrote it up in my report.”

The blond bristled. “You fucker. You’d better have put in there that you punched me first.”

Oh. So this was the man who’d gotten Zoro worked up yesterday. Perona cleared her throat and put on her most beatific smile. “Zoro, who’s your friend?” 

“Not my friend,” Zoro muttered, but she saw his ears go pink. 

The blond turned, and Perona was greeted by a decently good-looking man, if she ignored the swollen nose and raccoon eyes. His suit fit beautifully, dark and tailored, definitely not off the rack. His blond hair fell over one side of his face, one eyebrow curled in a way that looked ridiculous and somehow worked, and the neat goatee at his chin made him look like he knew exactly how handsome he was. 

“Excuse me, my dear,” he said, smoothing himself into charm so fast she almost applauded. “I didn’t hear you come in. My apologies if you heard anything untoward.” 

Zoro snorted.

Perona’s brows arched. “I may dress like this, but you can speak to me like we have electricity.”

“And a lovely dress it is,” Sanji said. His gaze swept over her outfit with obvious appreciation. “Very mourning on the glen during the fog. Perhaps with a touch of melancholy rain.” 

Perona’s eyes widened. “That was exactly the look I was going for.”

He smiled. It made the curl in his eyebrow crinkle.

Zoro, on the other hand, made a gagging sound.

The blond spun back around. “Be nice to the lady.”

“Pft. She’s not a lady.”

“Do I need to teach you another lesson? This time in manners?”

Zoro folded his arms. “As if you could,” he scoffed, even as redness crept up his neck and over his cheeks.

Perona was fascinated. Zoro had never shown a hint of interest in anyone since she’d known him. He’d been homeschooled because he’d been so far behind, but Mihawk held galas and fundraisers regularly, and allowed privileged people to use the mansion for private parties. Zoro had never been isolated, even if he kept his distance. And the internet was a vast repository of smut available at anyone’s fingertips. Perona had thought his disinterest might have something to do with his past before them, but she had never asked. 

“My apologies, m’dear, on this oaf’s behalf,” the blond said, turning toward her again.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to him.” Perona shifted the straps on her shoulders.

“Oh! Shame on me. I should’ve offered immediately.” He stepped forward, holding out a hand. “May I take your bags for you? A delicate mourning lily such as yourself shouldn’t be so burdened.”

Perona blinked, then glanced at Zoro as if to say, Is he for real?

Zoro’s expression warred between derision and… was that a pout?

“I’m Sanji, by the way,” the blond said. “I’ve just moved into 5-C.”

“Perona,” Perona said, passing over her bags. “We’re in the south penthouse.”

“Perona!” Zoro hissed, gaze darting between her and Sanji. “Don’t tell him that. He’s a stranger.”

“He’s a stranger offering to carry my bags, unlike you,” Perona said pointedly.

“Yeah, mosshead,” Sanji said, shifting the portfolio case and sample bag onto his shoulder. “What good is a doorman like you if you can’t assist a lady? Are your muscles just for show?”

Zoro's expression darkened. “You know they’re not.”

“Do I?” Sanji tilted his head, a mocking smirk playing on his lips.

“Want me to punch you again so you can find out?” Zoro said, taking a threatening step forward.

“Boys,” Perona interrupted before she had to patch Zoro up two nights in a row. “You can flirt later. I want to head up.”

Zoro blushed a fiery red. Sanji also blushed, which she noted with glee. “Horo-horo-horo,” she laughed under her breath.

Perona hooked her arm through Sanji’s and dragged him toward the elevator. “Let’s go. I want to hear all about you, Sanji-from-5-C.”

“I’m coming with you,” Zoro said.

She held up her hand as she called the elevator using her code. “You’re still on duty.”

“You’re still on duty,” Sanji repeated, in a tone that sounded very much like he was sticking his tongue out.

Zoro bristled, but looked at her. “We don’t know him.”

“I’m going to get to know him right now,” Perona said.

“Perona…” His eye darted to Sanji, then back to her, and his shoulders grew visibly tense. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides.

Oh. This was bothering him on a different level. She immediately felt contrite. She unhooked her arm from Sanji’s and gave Zoro a small nod. “I have a better idea. Zoro, you can accompany us up, and we’ll drop Sanji off on the fifth floor along the way. I’m feeling a little tired after my meeting, anyway.”

She turned to Sanji, taking his measure. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all, Miss Perona,” Sanji said. “A lady may change her mind at any time. I would be happy if you rode the elevator with me to my floor.”

Perona’s impression of him went up a notch with the response. Some men didn’t know how to deal with disappointment. They called a woman a tease, pressed anyway, or blamed the nearest man as if being told no required a target.

“Okay, enough with all that,” Zoro said, reaching out to take the bags from Sanji’s shoulder. Then he hesitated, hand hovering. “I’ll take her bags.”

“I’ve got ’em,” Sanji said, shifting away. He gave Perona a smile. “At least until the fifth floor.”

Zoro huffed under his breath. The elevator doors opened, saving Perona from whatever was going to happen next. 

They stepped into the car. The elevator was bigger than most because furniture sometimes came up through here instead of the loading dock, but Zoro’s bulk made the space feel smaller anyway. He hovered on one side of Perona, Sanji on the other. The mirrored wall reflected Zoro’s stiff posture, Sanji’s neat suit, and Perona’s own delighted expression. 

She could feel Zoro’s tension beside her. Elevators were on his uncomfortable list because the doors locked between floors and too many people meant too little room to control who got close. The ride was usually fast enough that he could tolerate it. He kept his eye on the floor numbers, jaw set, hands flexing once at his sides before he forced them still.

The elevator dinged when they reached five. Sanji shifted the bags off his shoulder and offered them to Zoro. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, m’lady,” he said, then shot Zoro a flat look. “Mosshead.”

Zoro grunted and took the bags. “Stupid brows.”

Sanji gave him a withering look, then stepped out. He turned left down the hall as the elevator doors closed.

Perona glanced at Zoro with a grin as the elevator started moving again. “He’s Cute.”

Zoro scowled, but his ears turned red again. “Don’t say that.”

“Why? Jealous? Horo-horo-horo-horo.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t deny it. Perona was filled with glee all over again.

They reached the penthouse floor. The elevator opened into a vestibule that divided the north and south penthouses, quiet and private compared to the lobby below. The lighting was soft, the carpet thick underfoot, and a narrow table stood against the wall with a fancy vase for ambiance.

Perona unlocked their door and stepped into the private foyer. It was a narrow greeting space with black-and-white tile underfoot, a gilt mirror on one wall, and enough room for a coat stand, a small console table, and two guests standing side by side. Another closed door blocked access to the penthouse proper. 

Zoro dropped her bags on the floor. “I’m going back to work.”

“We’re going to talk about Sanji later,” she told him.

“No, we’re not,” he said, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Perona picked up her bags and hummed to herself as she opened the inner door. “Sanji, huh?”

She stepped into the penthouse, nudging the door shut behind her with one hip. Now she had to find out whether this was Cute or catastrophically Not Cute. 

The first thing Perona did was stalk Sanji online.

She couldn’t get a word out of Zoro about what he was actually feeling. When Zoro didn’t want to talk, nothing could budge him, not logic, not threats, not one of her best wounded expressions. But his red ears every time she mentioned Sanji’s name told her enough.

Zoro had a crush.

At first, she was tickled. It was fun to see Zoro getting flustered over someone. Then she realized her baby brother possibly liked someone in a way that involved his heart and other body parts, and her protectiveness flared.

What kind of man was Sanji? How old was he? Did he have a job, or was he one of those rich assholes who lived off his daddy’s money? And no, she and Zoro weren’t doing that. They both had jobs. It was a special situation.

It only took asking Yosaku for Sanji’s last name to find him online.

At first, she was worried. Sanji Black, formerly Sanji Vinsmoke, was the son of Judge Vinsmoke, a biotechnology weapons manufacturer. From what Perona learned, Judge was exactly the type the Revolutionary Army went after for ethical violations involving humans, the kind of man whose work made kids like Perona and Zoro necessary to rescue. But Judge, three of the Vinsmoke brothers, and Sanji’s sister had been killed at a wedding involving the Charlottes, a notorious crime family. Sanji’s wedding, in fact, when he was twenty-one. Sanji survived because his fiancée had a change of heart.

The Charlottes went down for murder and RICO violations. Sanji inherited the Vinsmoke corporation and immediately dissolved it. He donated nearly all the money to victims’ charities, then disappeared for three years.

After that, he started publishing books under the name Sanji Black. His Sora: Warrior of the Sea series became a global phenomenon, with cartoons and adaptations and merchandise. He published a new book every year.

Sanji was twenty-nine now, only eight months older than Zoro. The wedding record made Perona frown, because it meant Sanji was possibly straight. But the marriage had been annulled almost immediately, and then she remembered the way Sanji had blushed when she called his little lobby fight with Zoro flirting. Perona tapped one nail against the desk. Maybe not hopeless, then. 

In interviews, when asked about the Vinsmokes, Sanji repeatedly said, “I fervently disagreed with that man on everything. The corporation is dissolved for a reason. And my name is legally Sanji Black now.”

His public social media accounts appeared professionally curated. Book events, signings, fan-related things. A tag in one picture led her to what seemed to be Sanji’s personal account. That one was more useful: lots of food pictures, a few selfies somewhere tropical, and one photo with an older man in a chef’s hat. Most importantly, there were no pictures with a significant other. It was possible he kept his private life locked down, especially as a famous author, but relationships usually left traces somewhere online. 

Perona was satisfied there were no major red flags. Now she needed to get to know Sanji better in person, to see if he could be interested in her brother and if he was worthy of him. She debated whether Zoro should be included, and whether they should go somewhere neutral. Zoro didn’t like people in his space, but Zoro also wasn’t the only one who lived there. 

“I’m going to have coffee with Sanji,” she told Zoro one day when he heeded his alarm and came out of the home gym for lunch. 

He stood in the open living room with sweat darkening his tank and a towel hanging around his neck. Afternoon light fell across the black sofa, the carved coffee table, and the antique mourning print above the mantel, one of several pieces she and Mihawk had agreed gave the penthouse the proper amount of gloom. Beyond the living room, the kitchen gleamed with sleek counters and expensive appliances Zoro rarely used correctly. The hallway off to the side led deeper into the apartment, toward her studio, Zoro’s gym, the bedrooms, and all the other rooms Mihawk insisted were necessary in a “small” penthouse. 

Zoro immediately scowled at her statement. “Why? He’s annoying. You don’t want to be with him.”

“Not as a date,” she reassured him. “I just want to be neighborly. It’s nice to find someone our own age in the building.”

Zoro folded his arms across his sweaty chest. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m not asking for permission,” Perona said pointedly.

Zoro worked his jaw, and she could see the debate going on behind his eye. “Fine. Whatever. But I’ll punch him if he acts like an asshole toward you.”

“Horo-horo-horo-horo-horo. I’m sure you will.”

She left Sanji a note asking him to coffee and made sure to write not as a date. She listed her available days and times, then added her number. He confirmed by text the next morning, and it was set. 

The doorbell to the penthouse rang at the appointed date and time, and Perona set down her stylus. She had dressed for the occasion in a wide-sleeved loose shirt that doubled as a dress, black and white stockings, and thigh-high red platform boots that made every step down the hall sound dramatic and important, as all steps should. The shirt was one of her own designs, with little black bats hand-applied along the sleeves so they fluttered when she raised her arms. A little impractical, but the effect was excellent. 

By the time she reached the front of the penthouse, Zoro had already answered.

He stood in the foyer with his back to her, dressed for work in a black dress shirt, black trousers, and boots. His hair was still damp from his post-workout shower, and his earrings caught the overhead light when he shifted. Perona stopped just inside the inner doorway, half-hidden behind the open door. From there, she could see Sanji at the threshold and the tense line of Zoro’s shoulders, but neither of them had noticed her.

Sanji stood outside the open door in a russet suit with an orange shirt beneath it, tailored beautifully across his shoulders and waist. His blond hair fell over one eye, his neat goatee trimmed close at his chin, and the fading bruises beneath his eyes had gone pale yellow. The colors worked on him.

“What are you doing here?” Zoro demanded.

“What are you doing here?” Sanji countered.

“I live here.”

Perona caught the flicker of disappointment across Sanji’s face. “I didn’t realize you two were married,” Sanji said.

“We’re not.”

“Together, then.”

“She’s my sister.”

Relief crossed Sanji’s face so quickly anyone less invested might have missed it. Perona did not miss it.

“Good,” Sanji said. “She’s too good for you anyway.”

“And you’re too much of an asshole for her.”

Sanji flashed a smirk. “Takes one to know one.”

Perona wondered how long they would continue before one of them remembered why Sanji was there. She wished she could see Zoro’s face. She could only read him by his shoulders, the stiffness in his back, and the way his weight shifted from one boot to the other.

“She’s not gonna date you,” Zoro said.

“Who said I wanted to date her?”

“Why are you here, then?”

Sanji’s smirk sharpened. “She invited me.”

Zoro’s shoulders tensed. “Crap. Coffee.”

“I hope it’s not crap,” Sanji said, amused.

“You’re crap.”

“And you’re such a delight,” Sanji said dryly.

There was a pause. Then Sanji’s grin widened. “You’re blushing.”

“Am not,” Zoro growled.

“You are. You look like a strawberry with that hair.” Sanji slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the doorjamb, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Makes me want to take a bite.”

Zoro made an awkward, strangled sound and shifted on his feet.

Perona pressed her lips together to keep from laughing out loud. Interesting.

“You plan on letting me in, strawberry?” Sanji asked.

“No.”

“Zoro,” Perona said, making herself known before a punch was thrown. She stepped through the inner doorway into the foyer proper. “Let Sanji pass. And you don’t have much longer before you leave for work.” 

Zoro looked over his shoulder with a frown. His cheeks were still red, the old bruising on his face faded to dull yellow beneath it. “You didn’t say coffee would be here.” 

“He’s only here to pick me up,” Perona said. She had decided against having Sanji fully inside for Zoro’s peace of mind. “But you can at least let him into the foyer.”

Zoro looked at her for a moment longer, then stood aside.

Sanji strolled in with a smirk at Zoro before addressing Perona. “You look beautiful today, dear Perona. Are those bats hand-applied?”

“They are.” Perona raised her arms, and the bats along her wide sleeves fluttered. “One of my own designs.”

“I look forward to hearing all about it while we’re out,” Sanji said.

“Let me get my bag and wrap,” she said, then turned back into the penthouse.

“Don’t move,” Zoro said shortly to Sanji. Then he followed her.

Perona passed beyond the foyer door and turned left. She had left her things on the ornate bench just inside the living room, where the foyer gave way to the open parlor area. The bench sat beneath a tall print of a crumbling castle under storm clouds. Her black wrap lay folded beside her cross-body leather bag, which was decorated with large silver crosses. 

“You’ll call me if he gives you trouble,” Zoro said, practically on her heels.

“I won’t have any trouble,” Perona said, draping the wrap over her shoulders.

“Then call me if he’s being a jerk.”

“He won’t be a jerk.” Perona set the bag across her shoulder. “Remember to bring your dinner bag down. You left it yesterday, and it’s Not Cute when I have to bring it to you.”

Zoro folded his arms. “Are you sure you don’t want to cancel? I can throw him out.”

Perona shook her head. “I’m going to get to know him. Pay attention to your alarm.”

“I know to pay attention to my alarm,” Zoro grumbled.

“Good.” Perona sidestepped him and returned to the foyer, where she inclined her head toward the door. “I’m ready.”

“As am I, my lady.” Sanji opened the door to the elevator vestibule and held it for her.

She stepped out first and pressed the call button. The elevator was shared by the building, though the lobby panel required a resident code before anyone could call it up. Once inside, the penthouse floor was just another button. 

Zoro moved to stand in the penthouse doorway, arms still crossed, scowling. “Don’t be a jerk to my sister.”

“I would never be anything but a gentleman to a lady,” Sanji said. “See you later, strawberry.”

Zoro’s mouth tightened.

Perona caught the edge of the penthouse door and pulled it closed before either of them could start again. She hummed, amused. “You’re asking for another punch.”

Sanji flashed her a grin. “He can certainly try. I won’t be taken by surprise twice.”

The elevator arrived, and they rode down to the lobby. The lobby was empty except for one woman checking her mail and Johnny leaning behind the desk with his phone in hand. Through the glass entrance, traffic moved between the high-rises, and afternoon sun flashed against the office windows across the street.

They walked to the coffee shop in another high-rise down the block, tucked into the first floor beneath a row of tinted windows. Sanji opened doors, walked on the street side, and offered his elbow in escort. It felt old-fashioned and kind of nice. She did not need any of it, but on occasion, it was flattering.

The coffee shop had pale wood tables, dark metal chairs, and tall windows looking out at the sidewalk. A glass case near the register displayed little fruit tarts, chocolate éclairs, and glossy cakes arranged in tidy rows. The air smelled of espresso, butter, and toasted sugar. A few college-aged kids sat with laptops near the back. A businessman scrolled on his phone by the window. A young woman with a notebook sighed at the page in front of her, likely writing breakup poetry.

Sanji ordered after asking what she liked, and Perona took the two-top beneath a watercolor of a harbor. The shop wasn’t too crowded for a weekday afternoon, just busy enough that the low murmur of conversation covered the hiss of the espresso machine. 

Sanji brought over the coffee and two Cute little tarts from the glass case, then unbuttoned the bottom of his suit jacket before taking the seat across from her. “Thank you again for the invitation, Perona. I’d been hoping to better our acquaintance.” 

“Do you like guys?” Perona asked abruptly. It was rude, and not something she would normally do, but this coffee would go a different way depending on the answer.

Sanji froze. Then redness moved swiftly up his neck and across his entire face. It clashed horribly with his hair and shirt. He fumbled his cup, almost knocking it over when he picked it up. “Why do you ask?” he said, with an awkward laugh.

Perona only looked at him.

He looked back.

Then something in his expression shifted. The surprise faded, and his embarrassment turned into comprehension. His gaze moved over her face, more measured now, and Perona had the distinct impression that Sanji understood why she had invited him. 

His blush deepened anyway, which was fascinating. Zoro might have come home from that fight worked up, but apparently Sanji had not left it untouched either. Boys. Stupid, obvious boys. 

Sanji took a very slow drink of his coffee without meeting her eyes. Then he lowered the cup and said, simply, though it seemed to take effort, “Some. Depending on the guy.” 

Perona smiled and reached for a fork. “Okay.” She cut into the tart and took a bite. “I read that you’re a famous author.”

“Ah, yes. I’m flattered you looked me up.” Sanji glanced around, seeming to regain his composure. “Though I like to keep a low profile.”

“Is that why you moved into our building?”

He nodded. “I have some very… insistent fans and needed a more secure place.” His lips twisted with bemusement. “Didn’t expect the security to be so gung-ho.”

“Zoro takes his job very seriously,” Perona said. “He takes everything that seriously.”

“No wonder he has that stick up his ass,” Sanji said, then looked aghast. “My apologies. I forgot he was your brother.”

Perona laughed. “Horo-horo-horo-horo-horo. No, you’re right. It’s a wonder he can walk.”

Sanji chuckled, relaxing fully again. “I suppose it’s a good thing. I don’t have to worry about people getting into the building if he’s around.”

“You certainly made an impression on him,” Perona said, “with your foot, apparently.”

Sanji straightened a little. “He punched me first.”

“I know.” Perona made a sound that conveyed the stupidity of boys. “It’s been a long time since someone got the better of him.”

Sanji preened.

Very stupid boys.

“I practice savate and capoeira,” he admitted. “I’ve…” He paused, then went on, voice lighter than his eyes. “I didn’t have the best time growing up, and I decided I’d rather not be defenseless any longer.” 

Perona nodded with understanding. “Same with Zoro.”

She could see the connections forming in his eyes, even as he said, “I don’t see how that’s possible growing up with a sister like you.”

“You’re Cute,” she said at the flattery. “But we’re both adopted. Older kids. Me when I was eight, Zoro at ten.”

“He lucked out, then,” Sanji said, and it was flattery again, but he seemed to file the information away. 

They shared coffee and silence for a few moments. The tart was delicious, crisp pastry and soft cream with berries arranged on top. The businessman bussed his trash and left. Outside, people passed the window in coats and sunglasses, their reflections moving across the glass. 

Perona studied Sanji over the rim of her cup. “What’s it like, being an author?”

“Exhausting,” he said, with self-deprecation. “I do my best to treat it like a job. After the gym, I put on my suit and go into my office to work for six to eight hours.” He sipped his coffee and set it down. “Some days it’s like pulling teeth with bare hands and no anesthesia. Others, I get lost in it and forget to eat or sleep. I’ve taken to setting alarms, but I’m not very good at heeding them.”

Perona was amused. They were like two ghosts haunting the same gym. 

“I did stalk your social media,” she said. “You post a lot of food pictures.”

Sanji appeared impressed. “You found my second account. Yes, I love cooking, and feeding people. If you allow it, I’d love to cook for you. And the moss, I suppose.”

She giggled at the nickname. “No one’s made fun of his hair before you. Or if they have, they’re missing teeth.”

Sanji smirked. “The variety of hair colors in the world is vast, but that particular shade is unique and deserves the utmost attention. Plus, it makes him mad.”

“I noticed you don’t let him get to you.”

“Tch. He’s harmless. I’ve had worse from worse,” Sanji dismissed. “And really, he was just doing his job.”

Perona found this fascinating. “So no hard feelings?”

“None on my end.” Sanji shrugged. “Unless he really wants to make a deal out of it.”

The espresso machine hissed behind the counter. Someone laughed near the register. The young woman with the notebook crossed out something with more force than necessary and sighed again.

Perona learned a little more about Sanji after that. He was sincere in his flattery, outgoing once he settled, and afraid of bugs, which was Not Cute but very funny. They got onto the topic of fashion, and she found him surprisingly delightful. Even if he skewed more mundane, he wasn’t afraid of risk. He knew fabric, tailoring, silhouettes, color, and exactly why a good suit needed the right shoes. He was opinionated enough to be entertaining instead of annoying.

By the time they walked back to their building, Perona felt satisfied. If Zoro wanted to pursue something with Sanji, she supported it. 

“So, my dear Perona,” Sanji said as they approached the glass lobby doors, giving her a dry look, “do I pass? Your very obvious opening question gave you away.”

“You do. For now,” she said.

Sanji’s mouth curved. “I’ll take it.”

At the entrance, he punched his code into the panel beside the glass doors. The lock buzzed, and he held the door open for her.

Zoro stood behind the front desk, arms crossed, expression already set in a scowl.

“’Bout time you got back,” he said.

“You’re very Not Cute, Zoro,” Perona told him.

“Perhaps smiling would improve his face,” Sanji said, following her into the lobby.

Zoro’s expression only became scowlier. “Who asked you?”

“Such customer service,” Sanji drawled. “Your wit and sparkling personality really set this building apart.”

Zoro stared at him flatly for a moment, then said, “ID.”

Sanji’s expression soured. “You’re lucky a lady is present.”

“Not anymore,” Perona said, and continued past the desk toward the elevators.

Sanji lowered his voice, but she could still clearly hear him as she stopped at the elevator panel and punched in the code to call it. “You’re such a dick.”

“And you’re not getting past without ID,” Zoro said, not modulating his tone at all.

“I’m on your list now.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Need me to beat it into you?” Sanji asked sweetly.

Zoro scoffed. “You didn’t win last time.”

“Got past you, didn’t I?”

“You did all those spinny kick things like some… ballerina or something. It was stupid.”

“And I laid your stupid ass out on the floor,” Sanji responded smugly.

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open.

Perona stepped in and pressed the button for the penthouse floor. They were still going back and forth as the doors slid shut, and she shook her head with amusement.

A match made in heaven. Or hell. Either way, it was Cute.

Perona left it alone for a while. 

She had a show coming up, which meant she was super busy. Her studio became a disaster of black lace, pattern paper, thread clippings, corset mock-ups, velvet ribbon, and half-finished sleeves pinned to dress forms. She designed, redesigned, cut, stitched, ripped seams out, swore at a hem, changed an entire bodice because it had become Not Cute somewhere between sketch and fabric, and worked until her eyes burned.

The sewing machine ran late into the night. Steam from the iron clouded the studio windows. Pins collected in little dishes on every flat surface, and her sketchbook filled with notes in the margins: longer cuff, higher collar, more drama, wrong bow, try red, absolutely not. Her phone filled with buyer emails, model confirmations, venue details, and one very irritating message about a missing pair of shoes that turned out to be in the garment bag they were supposed to be in. 

Zoro wandered in a few times, to ask questions or tell her he was going out to the bar with Johnny and Yosaku. They had lived with each other long enough now to function independently, though Perona still made time to double-check that he’d been eating when she ventured from her studio for coffee or something that counted as food if she was generous. 

The show, when it finally happened, went well. Better than well. Two more buyers expressed interest, which added nicely to her growing roster of clients, and several individuals asked about custom commissions. All in all, a successful event. 

She arrived home late in the afternoon, loaded down with garment bags, shoe boxes, accessory kits, and the terrible knowledge that every single item would have to be unpacked, checked, steamed, repaired if necessary, photographed, logged, and put away. Shows were glamorous until they were over. Then they became hours of sorting hangers, matching gloves to sleeves, checking beadwork for damage, and discovering that someone had shoved a velvet bow into the wrong box like an animal. 

She had taken a limo, and the driver was handsomely tipped to carry the first load into the lobby. Zoro could haul everything the rest of the way upstairs. He had all those muscles. They could be useful. 

At the front entrance, Perona paused to key in the code, catching sight of Zoro behind the desk as usual. What wasn’t usual was Sanji sitting back there, too. He sat in the spare chair at an angle, gray jacket open, white shirt bright against the dark marble desk, gesturing with a fork while he spoke. A plate sat on the counter between them, and Zoro was eating from another one in his hand, eye focused on Sanji with a slight frown. He said something around a mouthful of food. Sanji replied, and Zoro nodded before going back to eating. 

It looked comfortable. Like they did this all the time. While Perona had been working her butt off and burying herself in lace, the two of them had apparently gotten better acquainted.

She opened the door in time to hear Sanji say, “–and then the whole duel falls apart, because I can’t tell if there’s enough room in the hallway to swing a great sword. But you know who will know and nitpick it to death – the fans.”

Oh, he was talking about swords. No wonder Zoro was paying attention. Zoro’s obsession with swords was only outmatched by his obsession with weight training. Officially, he was only allowed to collect them, which was probably for the best. Mihawk paid for the utilities and upkeep in the penthouse because he was a rich man who couldn’t do things halfway. But he didn’t pay for clothes, food, or other frivolities. Zoro’s swords fell under the latter category, which meant Zoro bought them himself and treated every new blade like a sacred event. 

Of course, he got the obsession from Mihawk. The two of them could stare at a sword for hours, saying almost nothing beyond “Good tempering” or “Nice edge.” Perona and Mihawk shared the same aesthetic. It was nice that he and Zoro had something special, too, even if that something involved sharpened metal and long silences. 

Zoro turned when the door opened and immediately set down his plate to help. He held the door for the driver, then stepped outside to start unloading the rest of the limo.

“Perona, dear, it’s lovely to see you,” Sanji said, and then he, too, rose from behind the desk and came out to help.

Perona simply stood there and let them. Sometimes it was nice taking advantage of being a girl.

The driver brought in the garment bags first, long black covers draped over one arm. Zoro took the heaviest stack of boxes without asking, balancing them against his chest. Sanji gathered the smaller cases and accessory kits, careful with the straps and handles in a way Perona appreciated. Nothing was dropped. Nothing was crushed. No one set a shoe box on top of a feathered headpiece, which meant both of them were already doing better than half the assistants backstage. 

After the driver was thanked, he left, and Perona looked at Zoro. “You’re going to take all of this to my studio.”

Zoro grunted and began heaping as many items as he could carry at one time.

“I’ll still help, m’dear,” Sanji said, already shifting a garment bag higher over his arm and heading toward the elevator.

Perona did not object. She had spent two days on her feet in thigh-high platforms, and the thought of carrying everything upstairs herself was so Not Cute it deserved a mundane funeral.

They loaded the elevator with boxes, bags, and kits. Perona punched the button for the penthouse floor and stood between a stack of shoe boxes and Zoro’s shoulder while Sanji steadied two garment bags so they wouldn’t drag on the floor. 

When the elevator reached their floor, Perona unlocked the penthouse door and continued through the private foyer. “You can leave those here, Sanji.”

“It’s no problem,” Sanji said. “I can carry them to your studio.”

Perona paused at the inner doorway, hand on the knob, and glanced at Zoro.

Zoro looked at Sanji’s back for a moment. His body tensed, shoulders going tight under the black dress shirt. Then he breathed out and said, “Okay.”

Perona hid her surprise and continued through.

Zoro was allowing someone inside the penthouse proper. Not just into the foyer. Not just close enough to be polite. Inside. That meant something important.

She led the way through the open living room, past the black sofa, the carved coffee table, and the antique mourning print above the mantel. A half-empty mug sat on the side table, probably hers. A plate sat beside it, definitely Zoro’s doing. Beyond the living room, the kitchen lights were on over the counter. 

Her studio door stood open down the side hall, marked by the black stripe and its neat little arrows. Inside, the room looked exactly as she had left it: dress forms crowded near the windows, sketchbooks stacked on the drafting table, bolts of fabric leaning against the wall, and thread clippings scattered across the floor like evidence of a long and stylish battle.

Perona set her own load near the desk and sighed at the sight of everything coming back in. The show might have been done, but the work was not. Now came the tedious part. Garments had to come out of their bags. Seams had to be checked. Stockings had to be matched, shoes returned to their proper boxes, accessories sorted by look, damage noted, repairs sorted, and every single piece accounted for before she discovered a missing veil three days later and had to call the venue. She loved fashion. She loved designing. She loved the moment when models stepped out under the lights and everything looked exactly as dramatic as it should.

She did not love unpacking. 

Sanji and Zoro brought in the rest, filling the open floor near the dress forms with garment bags, shoe boxes, and accessory kits. Zoro carried too much at once, because of course he did. Sanji carried less but handled everything carefully, setting each item where she pointed instead of dropping things wherever there was space.

“Is there anything else you need?” Sanji asked her. “I can assist with unpacking. Or I can bring up a plate of paella for you.”

The paella sounded good. Very good, actually. But Zoro had started shifting his weight, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides, and Perona did not want to undo the moment he had allowed someone into the penthouse. This was still delicate. Zoro-delicate, which meant it looked mostly like scowling and stiff posture.

“That’s okay. I’m good,” she said. She would freshen up first, then maybe send Sanji a text and meet him at his apartment for the paella. That sounded like a much better plan than making Zoro stand in his own home looking like he wanted to bolt through a wall.

“I need to get back to the desk,” Zoro said.

Then his face did something quick and complicated that Perona could not interpret. His mouth tightened, his eye flicked toward the hall, then toward Sanji, then away again. Before she could decide what any of it meant, he said to Sanji in a rush, “You want to see my swords first?”

Sanji’s expression brightened. “I’d love to.”

Zoro nodded stiffly, pivoted on his heel, and walked into the hall.

Sanji followed.

Perona stared after them with her mouth open. Then she yanked off her boots and hurried after them in her stocking feet, because absolutely no one was going to tell her later about this momentous occasion. She was going to see it herself.

Zoro had one hand on the wall, following the yellow stripe with its little black arrows spaced every few feet. He turned at the corner of the hall, Sanji behind him, while Perona padded after them as quietly as she could.

“What’s with the colored paint?” Sanji asked.

“Gets me where I want to be,” Zoro said without embellishment.

That was the whole explanation as far as Zoro was concerned. He refused to believe he got lost, even though he also knew he needed the stripes, GPS, or someone guiding him. Halls moved. Doors relocated. Layouts rearranged themselves when he wasn’t looking. Or so he claimed when he was being particularly stubborn about the fact that he had once walked into the pantry three times while trying to find the unmarked guest bathroom.

“Hn. Clever system,” Sanji said.

Perona fell a little in love with him right then and there.

The living room was grand and spacious, with black leather seating, bespoke tables, and a fireplace big enough for Perona to stand in. She and Mihawk had decorated it in darkly haunted chic: heavy curtains, carved wood, iron candleholders, and enough shadowy corners to make the room feel properly gothic even with all the lights on. But Zoro had claimed one entire wall for his sword collection.

His primary love was katanas. He collected Great Grade named blades, though he also had a few Supreme Grade blades of various types: a cutlass, a naginata, and a shikomizue. Mihawk had more in his own collection, as well as a ridiculous number of daggers. Perona understood appreciating beautiful weapons as décor. She understood the glint of polished steel and the look of a well-made hilt. She did not understand standing in front of a sword for half an hour staring and saying nothing, but Mihawk and Zoro seemed very happy that way.

Zoro stopped in front of the wall and rubbed his palms on his trousers. His shoulders were tight. “Here it is.”

Perona lingered off to the side, where she could see both of their faces while pretending she was not watching them with the intensity of a gargoyle.

“This is impressive,” Sanji said. He stepped forward to take a closer look at one of the katanas on its hanging rack, careful to keep his hands to himself. That was wise. Zoro would probably bite him if he touched one without permission. “You ever use them?” 

“Yeah.”

Perona sighed to herself. Of course he did, even though he wasn’t supposed to. She hadn’t seen any suspicious marks in the walls, but one of the living room lamps had mysteriously disappeared a few months ago.

“That how you got your scar?” Sanji asked, still examining the swords.

“No.” Zoro’s voice went tight.

Perona’s amusement dropped away, as his shoulders went even stiffer, and his hand curled hard at his side.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” he said.

Sanji turned to him and studied him for one brief second. Then he slipped his hands into his pockets and eased back without pushing. “Sure. Our paella’s getting cold, anyway.” 

Perona liked him more for that, too. 

Zoro turned in a slow, tense circle until he spotted the red stripe, then strode over to it and put his hand against the wall. The little black arrows guided him toward the foyer, even though the door was clearly visible from the open living room. That didn’t mean much to Zoro. To him, one door looked like another until he followed it and found out where it led. 

Sanji glanced at Perona and gave her a small nod. “Let me know if you’d like some paella. I made enough to share.”

“I might,” Perona said.

Sanji followed Zoro out of the penthouse.

Perona waited until the door closed behind them. Then she looked at the sword wall.

“Was that a step forward or a step back?” she asked.

The swords held their silence, even though she was almost certain at least three of them were haunted by their original wielders.

“And you know he’s not supposed to play with you,” she added.

Still no answer.

Perona pouted, then turned back toward her studio. She had a lot of unpacking to do, and apparently she also had to think about Zoro, Sanji, paella, sword walls, and whether asking about the scar had ruined anything. Very Not Cute. But possibly salvageable.

Sanji was back in the penthouse. Apparently sword accuracy for Sanji’s book had become important enough for Zoro to let him in again. Or Zoro wanted him there and had found a sufficiently swords-related excuse, which was somehow both ridiculous and touching. 

Perona emerged from her bedroom in her black fuzzy robe when she heard strange clanging from somewhere beyond the hall. She had just washed her hair, the long pink locks combed a hundred times and lying damp down her back. It was around ten in the morning, which was a rude hour to be making noise in her home. She liked to sleep in, and clanging metal did not belong in her post-shower peace.

She checked the gym first, since Zoro lived there from some unholy hour of the morning until he needed to get ready for work. That obsession was probably born from fear, and nothing she or Mihawk had done could stop him from constantly training. The job was a blessing in disguise. He would probably lift all day if he had the time.

The gym was packed with state-of-the-art machines, free weights, resistance bands, jump ropes, and a punching bag barely held together by a ridiculous amount of duct tape. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors filled one wall, and rubber mats covered the floor. There was a fridge for water, shelves for grip tape, and a basket of towels. No Zoro, though she could tell he’d been there by the towel tossed over a bench and the dumbbell sitting on the floor instead of in its rack.

The clanging sounded again, farther down the hall.

Perona reversed course and headed that way. She emerged into the open space between the living and dining rooms, then stopped.

Zoro and Sanji were swordfighting.

Well, not really. They were moving slowly, and Zoro paused every few passes to correct Sanji’s grip or stance with short, blunt instructions before the katanas in their hands met again. The blades were unsheathed, though, and Perona knew exactly how sharp they were. Zoro took excellent care of them, as if he expected to have to use one at any moment.

It was unsurprising that Zoro knew how to use them, even though he absolutely was not supposed to, because he watched a horrifying amount of swordfighting content and nearly all his books were about swords, swordsmen, and historical weapon use.

Sanji wore navy trousers with a pink shirt and a pink-and-blue striped tie, his cuffs neatly rolled. Zoro wore his workout clothes, compression shorts and a tank top, and pivoted with a surprising amount of grace for someone built like a wall. They went through another series of slow clashes in the open space of the living room. The couch, chairs, and tables had been shoved to one side. Morning sunlight came through the sheer ghost-patterned curtains over the windows, softening the view of the city beyond the glass.

Perona was astonished. First, because Sanji was in the penthouse. Second, because Sanji was holding one of Zoro’s katanas. Third, because Zoro seemed comfortable with both of those things.

She hadn’t heard the doorbell. Then again, she had been in the shower, and before that she had been sleeping. She slept like the dead, as all proper haunted girls should.

“Hold on, let me get this down,” Sanji said after they completed the movements.

He crossed to the shoved-aside coffee table, sheathed the katana in the scabbard waiting there, and picked up a leather-bound notebook. A pen had been tucked inside, and he began scribbling notes with quick, focused strokes.

Zoro stood with his katana still in hand, just watching him. His face was set in its default frown. Perona remained by the hallway, unseen.

“What do you think – should I keep the part where the sword gets stuck in the wall? That’d be next,” Sanji said, still writing.

“That’s stupid,” Zoro said. “Not a true swordsman if that happens.”

“Not even by accident? Like if Sora ducks a cleave and it strikes the wall instead?”

“It’s not a bat. A swordsman is always in control of his body and his strikes.”

Sanji made a note. “Hm. Then if she ducks, what would Uwattsura do?”

“He’d bring the sword down into a reverse diagonal, try to catch her on the angle,” Zoro said.

“Show me.” Sanji put the notebook down and crossed back to Zoro. The sheathed katana stayed on the table. “Okay, I’m Sora. Go ahead and try to cut off my head, then do whatever you just said.”

Zoro brought the sword in his hand in a slow cross at head height. Sanji ducked, and Zoro continued the motion through. Then he dropped the sword downward, reversed his hand, and mimed an upward strike on an angle, stepping back far enough that the blade never came close to Sanji’s body.

Still in a crouch, Sanji nodded. “I get it. I’d have to have her duck and roll to avoid that. Forward brings her within striking range. Away extends the combat.”

He abruptly somersaulted forward, coming up on his feet within inches of Zoro. He pointed a finger-gun beneath Zoro’s chin. “Surrender.”

Perona watched Zoro go very red and very tense all at once.

Sanji wasn’t touching him, but he was close. Too close. Close enough that Zoro’s whole body locked up at once, his shoulders rising, his face drawn taut in a way Perona knew had very little to do with sparring. She was about to step in when Zoro spoke first. 

“You’re too close.”

Perona went still. 

Good. 

Good, good, good.

That was important. Zoro had said it clearly. No shove. No punch. No shutting down and trying to endure it.

A smirk pulled at Sanji’s lips, because apparently he hadn’t caught the seriousness of it yet. “Afraid I’m going to do something, strawberry?”

“Yes,” Zoro said bluntly. His shoulders were up around his ears. His grip had changed on the sword, not aggressive exactly, but tight enough to make Perona’s stomach tense.

Sanji’s smirk faltered. His gaze moved over Zoro’s face, and his voice shifted, still low but less teasing. “Do you want me to do something?”

Zoro’s grip tightened around the katana. His face went even redder. “No. Yes. No.”

Perona’s stomach pinched. Oh. That was the problem. Zoro wanted something. He very clearly wanted something. He wanted Sanji closer, maybe even wanted Sanji to touch him, but wanting and being ready were not the same thing. His body still treated surprise closeness like a threat. Wanting might have made the panic worse. 

Sanji studied him a beat, then took a step back. “If you decide on yes, let me know.”

Then he turned and walked over to the coffee table, giving Zoro space without making a production of it. “In the meantime, let’s go over the opening of the fight again. I want to hammer down the sequence of Sora losing her gun and getting her hands on the sword.”

Perona waited, ready to provide some sisterly intervention if Zoro needed it. But even still red-faced and tense, Zoro exhaled and said, “Okay.”

Sanji picked up his notebook like nothing had gone wrong. Zoro adjusted his grip on the katana, set his feet again, and after another breath, followed him back into the work.

They moved back into position. The swordplay resumed, slower this time, with more space between them and Sanji careful about where he stepped. Their conversation returned to angles, strikes, and what Sora could realistically do to grab a sword off a hip in a tight hallway.

Perona backed quietly into the hall and listened for another moment. Their voices stayed even, focused on movements and timing instead of whatever had almost happened between them. Then she returned to her bedroom to finish getting dressed. She’d give them a bit, then check on them again.

For now, it appeared she wasn’t needed.

Zoro held his green hollow.

It was tucked up under his arm as he stood at the kitchen island, assembling a sandwich for dinner. His lunch bag sat open beside the cutting board, with an apple, a protein bar, and a bag of beet chips already inside. The sandwich was Zoro-sized, which meant it would barely fit in the remaining space once he wrapped it. The roll was layered with meats, cheeses, and vegetables, then smothered in spicy mayo. 

He wore his work clothes, black dress shirt and black trousers, his hair still damp from his shower. A furrow sat between his brows. 

The kitchen was one of the few bright places in the penthouse, all polished counters, dark lower cabinets, glass-front uppers, and a long island with stools tucked neatly beneath it. Pendant lights hung above the island, warm against the stone. The espresso bar occupied the wall near the pantry: grinder, espresso machine, rows of tiny cups, jars of beans, syrups Perona liked more than Zoro did, and a little dish where she kept wrapped chocolates. The city showed through the wide windows beside the kitchen table, afternoon light shining against the glass. 

Perona had checked on him and Sanji earlier, but had disappeared into her studio when they seemed fine. She hadn’t known when Sanji left, but he was gone when she came out for lunch. Zoro’s bedroom door had been closed, and since the last time she went in there post-Sanji she got an eyeful, she decided to leave Zoro be.

But now he was holding his hollow, and she cursed herself.

“That sandwich is as big as your forehead,” she said, because she was still his sister.

Zoro grunted and kept assembling his dinner.

Perona came into the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the espresso bar for the beans. “I notice you have Mr. Green.”

He had told her he’d named it that once he started talking. He did not have a vivid imagination. Her pink hollow was named Contessa Vesperina Blackveil von Gloomspire the Third, Duchess of the Western Haunt and Keeper of All Unspoken Sorrows.

Zoro grunted again.

Perona measured beans into the grinder. The machine whirred loud enough to fill the silence for a few seconds, and she used the time to watch him without looking like she was watching him. His shoulders were tight. His movements were controlled but too stiff, the knife set down too carefully, the lettuce lined up too precisely, the hollow pressed hard under his arm.

When the grinder stopped, she tried again. “Is it because of Sanji?”

“Maybe.” Zoro added another layer of muenster to the sandwich.

“Need me to beat him up?”

That got her a snort. “No. I can handle him.”

Perona believed him, mostly. Handling Sanji was not the part she worried about. Handling what Sanji made him want was another matter. 

“Yes, yes, very frightening,” Perona said, because letting him keep his pride was easier if she made fun of him at the same time. She moved the ground espresso into the portafilter, tamped it down, and locked it into the machine. “So is he doing something you don’t want?” 

Zoro went quiet.

Perona started the machine, then busied herself building a plate of chocolate hazelnut and orange shortbread cookies. If he didn’t want to talk, he wouldn’t. But she had put the question out there if he did.

The espresso machine clicked and warmed, settling into a low hum. The kitchen smelled of dark roast and orange shortbread.

Zoro stood silent at the island long enough that Perona thought he might let the question pass. Then he said, “I want it.”

Perona turned toward him. He had finished the sandwich, but now he held the hollow between both hands, squeezing it tightly. His expression was a twist of misery and helplessness, and it made something in her chest hurt.

She wanted to hug him. She always wanted to hug him when he got like this. But she knew better. Instead, she leaned back against the counter near the espresso bar and gave him space. “So what’s stopping you?” she asked softly. 

His bark of laughter was raw and harsh. “I’m twenty-eight years old and clutching this stupid doll like a lifeline because I can’t function like a normal human being.”

“There’s nothing wrong with using it,” Perona told him. “If it helps, that’s what matters.”

“Right,” Zoro said sarcastically. He squeezed the hollow again, hard enough that its little stitched body compressed between his hands. Then he tucked it back under his arm and started wrapping his sandwich in parchment paper.

Perona crossed to the island and leaned her forearms against the counter, staying on the opposite side from him. She wanted to fix this. Or at least give him something that might feel possible. “Maybe start small,” she said. “Touch his shoulder. Hold his hand. See how you feel.”

Zoro’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t dismiss it outright.

“I know using words isn’t your favorite activity,” Perona said, “but you should give him something to work with. Tell him you want to touch him. Tell him he has to ask before he touches you back. Use the smallest words possible if you have to. Grunt and point. I don’t care. Just make it clear.” 

Zoro remained quiet as he finished putting together his dinner bag. He slid the wrapped sandwich into the remaining space, zipped the bag, then set a few cans of coconut water beside it. His face had gone closed again, but he hadn’t walked away.

Then he said, almost too quietly for Perona to hear, “What if he thinks I’m broken?”

“Then he’s a shithead not worth breathing the same air as you,” Perona said firmly. “And I will make a voodoo doll of him and stab him repeatedly in the dick.”

Zoro snorted, and some of the tension left his jaw.

The espresso machine gave its final soft clicks, and Perona turned to pour herself a cup. She set it on a saucer, then glanced back at him.

Zoro had finished packing his dinner bag. The coconut waters waited beside it on the island, and Mr. Green was tucked under one arm again. For a few seconds, he only stood there, gaze lowered to the counter, looking thoughtful in a way that made Perona keep her mouth shut.

Then his alarm went off. Zoro dismissed it, picked up the lunch bag and coconut waters, and headed for work. “See you later.”

“Bye.” 

She watched over her shoulder as he found the red stripe and headed for the foyer, coconut waters in one hand, lunch bag and Mr. Green in the other. The little black arrows led him down the hall toward the front door.

Once the foyer door closed behind him, Perona stood alone in the kitchen with her espresso, the plate of cookies, and the lingering smell of coffee and spicy mayo.

She took a deep breath and prayed to every ghost worth praying to that Sanji was as good a man as she thought he was.

Sanji was in the penthouse again.

Something delicious drew Perona to the kitchen, and she found Sanji at the stove while Zoro sat at the island watching him intently. The green hollow rested in Zoro’s lap, tucked under one forearm.

It had been a week since Perona had talked to Zoro in this very kitchen while he held the hollow. It hadn’t left his side since. But Sanji being in their kitchen had to be a good sign that she didn’t need to make the voodoo doll.

Probably.

It was Zoro’s day off. He wore jeans and a soft-looking sweater, and he’d done something with his hair beyond letting it dry however it wanted, which was suspicious. Sanji wore a buttery-soft-looking sweater of his own and a pink apron with a panda on it.

Perona wondered if she was interrupting a date.

Before she could retreat, Sanji noticed her as he turned to reach for something on the counter. “Hello, beautiful Perona. I’m making stir fry for dinner, if you’d like a plate.”

Perona’s stomach answered before she could decide whether to decline. She laughed. “Horo-horo-horo-horo-horo. Apparently the answer is yes.”

Sanji sent her a swift smile. “Then I shall make your plate extra special for someone as special as you.”

“She’s not special,” Zoro grumbled from the island.

“A precious angel should always be complimented,” Sanji said, turning back to the stove. “But don’t worry your little green head. You’re extra special, too.”

The way he said it was obviously meant as a jibe, and Zoro’s scowl deepened even as his ears reddened. “I’m going to kick your ass especially hard.”

“Your puns need help.”

“You need help.”

“Actually, I do. Set the table.”

Zoro blew out an annoyed breath and got up. He tucked the hollow under his arm, went around the island, and began opening and closing cabinets.

Sanji shot him a sideways look. “Don’t you know where your own plates are?”

“They move.” Zoro opened another cabinet, looked inside, and shut it again.

Perona could have helped, but she didn’t. It would undermine Zoro, and he hated that more than being wrong. She settled against the counter instead, watching.

“Do they sing and dance, too?” Sanji asked, stirring the contents of the pan with a spatula.

“Why would they do that?”

“Why wouldn’t they do that?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You still haven’t found the plates.”

“I’m telling you, they move.” Zoro opened the correct cabinet and paused. “Oh. Here they are.”

“Surprised the cabinets aren’t painted, too,” Sanji said, grabbing a spice jar from the counter and shaking a little into the pan. “Might remind the plates where they’re supposed to live.”

Zoro drew out three plates with a contemplative look. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

“For the plates’ sake.” Sanji stirred the food again. A serving dish already waited on the counter, so he must have found the pans, knives, and other cooking things on his own. Perona wondered whether the ingredients were theirs or if he had brought everything up with him. “Think the silverware behaved, or does it like to wander, too?”

“I know where it is,” Zoro said, yanking open the top drawer in a row of them. He took out three sets and shut it again.

He carried everything to the kitchen table, set off to the side along the window. They never ate in the dining room. It only had a table because Mihawk insisted that a penthouse required one, even if nobody used it. It didn’t even have its own stripe.

Zoro set the table, the hollow still tucked snugly beneath his arm, then fetched drinks from the fridge: beer for him and Sanji, bottled cold coffee for Perona. Napkins were already on the table in a raven-shaped holder, black paper arranged to look like feathers.

It all felt very domestic to Perona.

“Go ahead and sit,” Sanji said, turning off the stove. He washed the spatula and set it in the drying rack. Prep knives, measuring cups, and the washable cutting board were already there, too. He cleaned as he went. Cute. Also useful.

Zoro took his usual seat with his back to the window, the hollow back in his lap. Perona chose the chair across from him rather than the end, leaving that one for Sanji. The evening sky beyond the glass was streaked with purple and orange, and the city windows had started to light up.

Sanji removed the apron and draped it over the island, then carried the serving dish and spoon to the table. He set the dish down and offered the spoon to Perona. “Ladies first. Unless you would like me to serve you?”

“I’ve got it,” Perona said, taking the spoon.

Sanji took the last chair. “I hope you like it. I tweaked the recipe to suit the moss’s lack of taste.”

“That last one you made was too sweet,” Zoro said.

“The last one I made was perfect. You just didn’t like it.”

“Same thing.”

Sanji shared a look with Perona, as if to say, See what I have to put up with?

It made a bubble of happiness rise in her chest. Sanji was here, in the penthouse, having cooked dinner. Zoro had a stuffed ghost in his lap, and Sanji wasn’t staring at it, questioning it, or treating him differently because of it. He was treating Zoro the same as always, a mix of poking, arguing, and weird boy-flirting. 

Maybe she’d make Sanji his own hollow instead of a voodoo doll. 

Zoro and Sanji were sitting behind the security desk in the lobby when Perona came in from a meeting, playing some sort of card game involving a lot of slamming down cards and cursing on Sanji’s part. Zoro just scowled. The monitor screens stayed angled toward Zoro, and the resident roster sat open near his elbow. He was playing, but he was still on duty. 

It was dark outside now, and the glass doors reflected the lobby lights back over the polished floor and brass elevator trim. Beyond the entrance, traffic moved past in blurred lines of headlights, and the people hurrying along the sidewalk had their coats pulled tight against the cold. A thin draft followed Perona in when she keyed through the door, bringing the smell of wet pavement and winter air with her. 

Inside, the lobby was warm enough that the windows had gone faintly hazy at the edges. Sanji had taken the spare chair behind the desk, suit jacket off and tie loosened, while Zoro sat beside him in his black dress shirt, cards in hand.

It had been a month since Zoro admitted he wanted something with Sanji. Sanji had been in and out of the penthouse since then, and Perona could usually find him down here during at least part of Zoro’s shift. They still acted like a couple of angry dummies, but there was an underlying thread of contentment now. They had found someone just as stupid as they were.

She had no idea what, if anything, they’d done. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. It was none of her business. Zoro still carried the hollow around off and on, but he seemed steadier again. Grumpy, blunt, impossible to move when he’d made up his mind – himself. 

“Perona, my darling, welcome home,” Sanji said, acknowledging her arrival.

Zoro grunted at her and slammed down another card.

“You two look like you’re having fun,” she said.

“I’m winning,” Zoro said.

“In your dreams, mosshead,” Sanji countered, smacking down a new card.

Zoro’s scowl deepened as he looked through the cards in his hand.

“There’s leftover chipotle pumpkin chili in your fridge,” Sanji told her. “Heat it on the stove over medium-low until it reaches a simmer. Unless you’d like me to come up and prepare it for you?”

Perona waved him off. “No. Stay and enjoy your game.”

Zoro smacked a new card down, distracting Sanji, who let out a short curse. Perona chuckled to herself and continued on to the elevator.

“This game is dumb,” Sanji said, looking through his cards.

“You’re just dumb,” Zoro said.

“Your hair is dumb.”

“Your eyebrows are dumb.”

“Your earrings are dumb.”

“Your tie is dumb.”

Perona rolled her eyes as she waited for the elevator. Boys were dumb. 

Sanji slammed another card down on the counter behind the desk. “Ha. Suck it.”

Zoro looked at the card, then at Sanji, and something in his face changed. It wasn’t the guarded look he wore when people got too close. It wasn’t the blank concentration he used when he was trying to understand a room or a route or a rule. It was simpler than that.

He was having fun.

The elevator dinged as the car arrived. Perona stepped into it when the doors opened, but she could still see them behind the desk.

“You’re not winning,” Zoro said, searching through his cards for something to play.

“I’m not losing,” Sanji countered.

“You say that like it matters.”

“You say that like a loser.”

Zoro found a card and smacked it down. “Lucky I like you.”

Sanji paused. For a second, neither of them moved.

Perona put her finger on the hold-door button.

Sanji’s voice went quieter. “I really like you, too.”

A smile spread across Zoro’s face, rare and stupid and dimpled, making his rough features go soft. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sanji said, with a soft smile of his own.

Perona felt her own lips curve wide.

So, so Cute.

Then Sanji set another card down on top of Zoro’s and said, “Eat this.”

Zoro glanced down, growled in irritation, and began pawing through his cards. “Fucker.”

Sanji laughed.

Perona shook her head, released the hold-door button, and watched the doors slide shut in front of her.

Stupid boys.

End