Zoro Roronoa stared at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was very green. Like grass, or moss. Well, he wanted to be unrecognizable, and between it, his thick glasses, and the scar bisecting his left eye, only the most avid fan might recognize him. Especially since he’d bulked up and he’d taken his three earrings out.
The face staring back wasn’t a stranger, but it wasn’t the same man who’d stood under stage lights either. The cut of his jaw was sharper, skin drawn tighter, and something behind his eye had gone quiet. The mirror showed the parts of him that had survived, not much else. He studied the reflection a second longer, then let the breath ease out of him and turned away.
He grabbed his toiletry kit, hit the light, and left the bathroom. The kit went into his battered backpack along with a single change of clothing – jeans, t-shirt, socks, boxer-briefs – his spare glasses, a Tennessee Vols ballcap, music journal, a handful of mechanical pencils, and a half-foam roller for PT. If he needed anything else, he’d buy it.
He dressed in a clean set of clothes, slid on his leather jacket, shouldered his backpack and his gig bag. The worn leather creaked against his back. He pocketed his keys and wallet by the front door. Thumbing the password into his phone, he shot Nami a text.
Going to get lost. Don’t come looking.
Then he powered off his phone, left it on the table, and locked his condo door behind him.
If it was one thing Zoro hadn’t expected on his path of success, it was a car accident.
A drunk driver plowed into him going over sixty miles an hour. He’d lost an eye, the fronts of his ankles had been severed, and his chest split open from shoulder to hip. The media had eaten it up: Country Star Zoro Roronoa in Near Fatal Accident. No pictures, but plenty of coverage to tell everyone he’d be gone for a while.
He still remembered the crunch of metal, the split-second tilt before everything went dark. Sometimes he woke up hearing that twist of sound right before silence swallowed it whole.
Luckily – if it could be called that – it had been a recording year. No concerts canceled, no fans left hanging. Three weeks in the hospital. Eight weeks flat on his back. Eight months learning how to stand again. He’d refused pain meds, drowning himself in alcohol instead, until that became its own wreckage. Now he was a recovering alcoholic on top of everything else.
The pain was still there, especially in the mornings, but PT, lifting, and yoga kept him moving. Tylenol was the strongest thing he allowed himself, and only once a day. He didn’t want to go any further down the road toward addiction. He’d already spent enough time staring at his reflection and not recognizing the man still yearning for the bottle.
Physically, he was getting there – too slowly, but he could walk. He’d adjusted to the one-eyed world and learned to live with the ache. Mentally, he knew he was wrecked. The drinking had held back the flood; once he stopped, depression crashed on him, heavy and constant. Some days it was hard just to get out of bed, and the pull of the bottle whispered with every breath. Exercise helped, but not enough. He hadn’t picked up a guitar since the accident. Hadn’t even jotted a single lyric down. It felt like the music bled out of him that night on the highway.
He didn’t talk about that part at meetings, but he did talk. Not much, but enough. The words came rough, like gravel in his throat, and sometimes that was all it took to keep from wanting a drink. It helped with the edge, the ache that made his hands twitch toward the bottle.
But it didn’t bring the music back. Didn’t lift the weight that sat on his chest when he woke. Sobriety was survival, not healing, and every day he walked the line between the two.
A meeting earlier in the week had sparked the thought that he needed to move. To do something. Someone had mentioned the phrase “still waters” in passing, and it had stuck in his head, circling until it connected with an old saying from back home: A creek don’t flow sittin’ still.
He’d held onto that, letting it turn over in his mind while his coffee went cold between his hands.
He thought about going home. Not to his adopted father’s place, but to the scatter of houses up the mountain from Sevierville, to where it all started. Where he learned to pick while his best friend sang, and together they’d sworn to take country music by storm. When Kuina died, Zoro carried her dream in her place, writing about life in the holler and the time they’d shared. Kuina’s Dream became his first album and launched him into stardom at nineteen.
Since then, it had been nothing but up – platinum albums, CMAs, Grammys, years of touring and recording. At twenty-eight, he’d been living the dream. Then a drunk driver left him with silence where the music used to be.
A creek don’t flow sittin’ still. He needed to move, to find his music again. Going home wasn’t the answer; those songs were already written. His life now was different – scarred, stalled out, stripped of the spark that used to drive him. Getting lost seemed a better idea. He was good at that. His sense of direction was shit, and Nami usually tracked his phone for that reason.
So he’d let his feet take over – now that he could walk again – and see where the road went. And ignore the thought about how the taste of whisky could make this all go away.
The bus hissed as the doors folded shut behind him. Zoro dropped into a seat by the window, pack shoved against his boots, and let the city slip past in blurred streaks of neon and brick. He’d gotten on the soonest bus leaving Nashville to anywhere, and for the first time in months, the silence in his chest felt less like emptiness and more like possibility.
He leaned his head back, closed his eye, and let the road carry him.
The bus made several stops along its journey, to refuel and for passengers to stretch their legs. Each time, Zoro stretched, walked a little, rolled his ankles to keep the joints loose. At one such stop, a little over ten hours into his ride, a town name on a green distance sign caught his eye. Stillwater 23 mi.
He huffed under his breath, half amusement, half disbelief. Seemed his AA meeting was still giving him signs. A creek don’t flow sittin’ still. Guess he was still following the current.
He fetched his backpack and gig case from the bus, let the driver know he was getting off there, and ambled back into the Love’s. The air inside smelled of diesel, coffee, and fryer grease, familiar scents from years on the road. One of the attendants helped him get a Lyft, since he didn’t have his phone, and soon he was on his way to Stillwater, Indiana.
“You playing at the college?” the driver asked as endless fields of corn rolled by outside the window.
“College?” Zoro had only told the attendant to send him to the nearest hotel, apparently the Creekside Inn.
“Yeah, St. Joe’s. But I guess not.”
College towns could go either way with a fan base. “How big is it?”
“About a thousand students,” the driver said easily. “I go there. Biochem major. We usually get a performer in every month, so I figured maybe that’s you, with the guitar and all.”
“Just passing through,” Zoro told him, and let the conversation die.
He turned to the window, letting the scenery work on him the way a long run used to: quieting the mind by wearing down the body. The landscape was a patchwork of open fields and painted farmhouses, barns framed by silos, rows of corn blurred by speed. Signs for straw bales, fresh eggs, and pumpkins slid past. A handful of cows grazed near a fence line. A horse lifted its head as the car went by. It wasn’t the mountains, but the stillness hit the same place in his chest.
Back home, the farms were smaller, home gardens nailed together from scrap wood and stubborn will. When he’d come down off the mountain, lost and alone, the man who took him in had turned out to own half the valley. He’d been twelve, his parents gone, his guardian vanished after Kuina’s death. The thought slipped in uninvited, as it always did, leaving an ache behind. He pushed it away before it could root.
He tried not to imagine what life might’ve been if she’d lived, or if his parents had, or if he’d never come down the mountain. He liked to think he and Kuina would’ve made it together. But he couldn’t ignore what had come of it – the open door his adoptive father’s money provided. That first studio session. That first demo. The start of everything.
Beyond the window, the landscape shifted. The campus came into view, red-brick buildings crowding a green quad, a stone church rising at its center, water glittering in the fountain. It reminded Zoro of the promise he’d made to his sponsor: get to local meetings if he wasn’t going to keep his phone on. Zoro kept his promises. Keeping his word was one of the few things that still meant something. If only he could keep them toward himself as easily.
Downtown appeared next: neat streets lined with old storefronts and chain signs. A Starbucks beside a bookstore. McDonald’s anchored a corner across from Walt’s Drugs. Clothing stores, barbers, a couple of bars. The lights gave off a warm, small-town glow that tugged something loose in his chest, like summer nights before fame had pulled him elsewhere.
The driver turned off the main road, winding past a stretch of law, dental, and medical offices before pulling into the modest lot of the Creekside Inn.
The inn was small, maybe twenty rooms in total, front and back – a mom-and-pop outfit that had clearly been around for decades, judging by the retro sign that flickered at the edge of the lot. Zoro handed his driver an extra twenty in cash before stepping through the door marked Office. His joints cracked when he straightened; too many hours sitting left him stiff and sore.
Inside, the Office smelled faintly of lemon polish and old coffee. A desk faced the door, flanked by a wall of keys and a tiny gift shop-slash-coffee area. An old fridge hummed softly, a sign taped to the front advertising Ice Bags for Sale. The bell above the door jingled as he entered, the sound echoing in the still lobby.
An older woman with steel-gray hair and an easy smile emerged from a door in the back. Her expression flickered when she noticed the scar bisecting his face, a quick, involuntary tic, but the warmth never faded. “Welcome to the Creekside Inn. Checking in?”
“Was hoping you had a room for a week,” Zoro said.
Her brows lifted at his accent. He was used to it. A thick East Tennessee drawl spilling from a Japanese mouth turned heads everywhere he went.
“Sure do,” she replied, turning to the computer. “I’ll need an ID and a credit card, hun.”
Zoro passed them over, amused by the hun. She typed quickly, and he watched her face out of habit, waiting to see if the name would spark recognition. It didn’t. That was fine – better, even. Fame had its uses, but anonymity was a rare comfort he didn’t take lightly anymore.
“I’ve put you in Room Eleven,” she said after a moment, sliding the cards and an old-fashioned brass key across the counter. “Back side, facing the creek. Home game’s not till next weekend, so you won’t have any neighbors ‘til then.”
“Perfect.” Zoro nodded toward her monitor. “Mind checking when the next AA meeting is around here?”
Her expression shifted, not unkind – something soft but tinged with pity – but she immediately nodded. “Of course, hun. Just give me a sec.”
She scrolled through the listings. “St. Paul’s Episcopal has one tonight at six. That’s a few blocks down.”
“Could you draw me a map?” he asked, smiling faintly. “No phone, so no GPS.”
She obliged, jotting down the address and a simple map, looping the lines neatly in blue ink. “Here you go. If you need anything else, the office is open eight to eight.”
“Thanks,” Zoro said, folding the note carefully and slipping it into his pocket.
Outside again, the air had cooled, tinged with the scent of creek water and leaves. Crickets chirped under the hum of passing cars.
Room Eleven sat around back at the far end of the lot. A pair of Adirondack chairs flanked the door, facing the narrow creek that ran behind the property. The water moved quick and high, dark glass rippling over rocks. Oaks and maples lined the banks, their leaves whispering in the soft breeze. The sound settled in his chest, easing something knotted there. He could almost see himself sitting in one of those chairs come morning, coffee in hand, notebook open, words spilling again. The thought alone felt like progress.
The room was simple and a little dated, the air thick with floral air freshener. A queen bed dominated the space, covered with a hand-quilted spread. Across from it sat a dresser and small TV, a round table and two chairs near the window, and a narrow closet with spare blankets and an iron. The sink stood outside a small bath with a shower-tub combo. Nothing like the suites he’d grown used to on tour, but he wasn’t here for comfort. He was here to find the music that had gone quiet in him since the crash.
He dropped his backpack on the bed, set his toiletry kit by the sink, and laid his journals and pencils on the nightstand beside the motel’s folded welcome note. A clock and room phone sat beside it, the Wi-Fi password scribbled underneath. He skimmed the list of delivery options, already cataloging what he might need later.
He set his guitar on the suitcase stand, shoved his backpack into a drawer, and freshened up before sliding one of his journals into his back pocket. Vols cap on, map in hand, he stepped back into the cooling evening.
It took him an hour to find St. Paul’s, thanks to his usual lack of direction. Every corner he turned seemed to contradict the hand-drawn map. He circled the same block six times before finally spotting the correct cross street running the opposite way.
The meeting was like every other: folding chairs, coffee, the quiet scrape of stories being told. Some days, Zoro wondered why he kept coming back. Other days, he was grateful for the ritual, the reminder that he wasn’t alone in the fight. For him, it always came down to one thing: just don’t drink today. He only had to get through that day. That mantra had carried him through worse.
He’d shared a little, why he was in town, the urge to find what he’d lost instead of drowning it in the bottle. When he left after seven, he carried a fresh list of local meetings in his pocket.
By then, his stomach was growling. Gas station snacks hadn’t cut it. He followed the lights toward the center of town, where the glow of neon and diner signs promised both food and noise. The late September air was cool and edged with the scent of leaves. It felt good to walk.
A group of college kids passed, laughing as they made their way down the street. Zoro fell in behind them, letting their noise pull him along. They stopped at a diner where bright light spilled through uncurtained windows onto the sidewalk. La Baratie was written inside the outline of a koi fish on the glass, a surprisingly elegant name for a roadside place.
Inside, the air smelled of country cooking and comfort food. Cooks and servers shouted through the open pass between the kitchen and dining room. Red booths and chrome-edged tables dotted the checkerboard floor, and a long counter ran the length of the service area. The place was packed with college kids and a few families, and the din of conversation gave it an easy, lively warmth.
Zoro took an open stool at the counter. Menus were tucked behind the condiments basket; he pulled one free and slid his glasses down to read. Everything sounded good, and breakfast was served all day. Looked like the place ran from seven in the morning to one at night, serving both the locals and the college kids.
He ordered a burger and fries, plus mixed vegetables, a house salad, and a Root Beer. The waiter bellowed the order toward the kitchen, and Zoro couldn’t help but grin at the chaos of it. The whole place had its own energy – rough, loud, and strangely comforting.
He pushed his glasses back up and glanced toward the passthrough. Five cooks moved inside, ball caps low, aprons stained from a night’s work. Most looked college-aged.
One didn’t.
The older cook’s voice cut over the clatter, gravelled, commanding, laced with impatience. A few strands of blond hair escaped from beneath his ball cap, catching the light when he moved. A thin mustache and royale beard framed a sharp mouth, and his brows seemed to swirl with the shadows. Zoro watched longer than he meant to, pulse stirring in a way he hadn’t felt in too long. Attraction. The reminder caught him off guard, his heartbeat picking up, subtle but undeniable.
“Don’t dump the fries on top of the fish. Plate it right or I’ll make you start over!” the cook barked, voice cutting through the hiss of oil. A younger voice stammered an apology. “You think people pay for garbage? Redo it, and this time, give a damn.”
A waitress hustled past with a ticket. “Order in for table six!”
The cook grabbed it without looking. “Got it. And if they order another well-done burger, tell ’em I’m not responsible when it tastes like a boot.” He spun back to the grill, already shouting at someone else. “Move it, that omelet’s dead before it hits the plate!”
The waiter set a salad and drink in front of Zoro. “Need anything else for now?”
Zoro shook his head, and the waiter moved on. The greens were fresh and crisp, better than he’d expected from a roadside diner. He chewed slowly, watching the cook move with easy control, watching the way authority sat on his shoulders like something worn in. The sharp lines of his mouth softened only when a plate turned out right, a flash of satisfaction quick as lightning.
“Table twelve, order up!” the cook called. Then his gaze snagged on Zoro’s. One brow lifted.
Zoro felt himself blush to his newly dyed roots, something else that hadn’t happened in a very long while. He looked down, suddenly fascinated by his salad. When he risked another glance, the man was still smirking, amused and unapologetic.
A moment later, a plate landed on the passthrough. “Order up for Three-Eyes at counter four!”
The jab startled a laugh out of Zoro, his first genuine one in months. No one else ever mentioned his missing eye. They just politely ignored it or looked away. Somehow, the blunt honesty made it easier.
The cook’s smirk deepened before he turned back to the grill.
Zoro ate the rest of his meal with a quiet smile.
Before he left, he flipped open his music journal. The pencil hovered for a beat, then he wrote Three-Eyed Love Song and underlined it. First title in two years.
It was small, but it was a start.
Zoro returned to the diner the next morning for breakfast, after wandering around town looking for it for about half an hour. The walk had been longer than it should’ve been, but the air was cool and crisp, and the stretch did his legs good. The vibe was completely different from the night before. The scent of eggs and bacon mixed with strong coffee was heavy in the air, the kind of smell that clung to your clothes. Old men lined the counter, discussing politics in loud voices with the cook through the passthrough window.
This cook was definitely not the smirking one from last night. He had a braided mustache, was quite a bit older, but carried the same bark. Zoro wondered if that was a prerequisite for working at the diner. And it was silly of him to think the other guy would be here, since he’d worked the night shift. Still, a part of him had hoped, and now he was kind of embarrassed by it.
He took a two-top. The restaurant wasn’t as busy on a weekday morning. Besides the old men, a retiree-aged couple ate quietly together, and a middle-aged man typed at a laptop. The hum of conversation filled the gaps between the sizzle of the grill and the clatter of dishes. A waiter with a bright pink bandana and muscles on par with Zoro’s clomped over to pour coffee into his upturned cup.
“Know what you want?” the waiter asked in the same gruff tone as the rest.
Zoro ordered the haystack with pancakes and was amused when the waiter simply shouted it across the diner to the cook. He half-listened to the argument going on about potholes and the state of the economy as he sipped his coffee, drinking in the weathered faces, the morning sun streaming through the front glass, someone walking their dog past the window. The light caught the steam off his cup, gold through brown. He let it warm his fingers.
He tugged his music journal from his back pocket, along with the mechanical pencil, and began writing notes to himself: Down home diner. Shouting and smells. Old men at the counter. Potholes and economy. Dog walker walking past. The pencil left faint scratches on the page. It felt good to be putting things to paper again. He didn’t know if anything would come of it, but it was more than he’d done in the past two years.
His meal came, and he set the journal aside to eat. The food was terrific. The biscuits were light, scrambled eggs fluffy, the sausage gravy just peppery enough. He’d eaten at plenty of greasy spoons on the road with his crew, but this was arguably the best of them.
He looked over toward the kitchen. Only two people were behind the line: the cook with the braided mustache and another bruiser of a man with a heavy five o’clock shadow, even though it was eight in the morning. The only waiter was the one who’d served him. All three men looked like they could crack heads. The noise, the pace, even the smell of the place carried that same rough edge.
Zoro’s mind turned toward the cook from last night. He hadn’t been as big or bruiser-like as these three. Zoro had only seen him from the chest up, but he’d seemed muscular enough without being bulky like Zoro. Probably not a lifter. He had a sharper chin that the beard had highlighted – and that smirk. He wouldn’t mind seeing that smirk again. He wondered if the guy was working tonight. He’d just have to come back and find out.
The AA meeting was at a Lutheran church at seven that night. It was a longer walk but straight down the same street as the motel, so Zoro managed with only one course correction. Evening had settled soft against the town, the air cool and still. He didn’t pay much attention, though, his mind was on the diner. The thought followed him through the church doors and sat with him through the entire meeting.
He’d spent the day wandering, poking into shops and watching the rhythm of small-town life. Back at the motel afterward, he’d sat in one of the Adirondack chairs, the creek murmuring nearby, and written down more notes. After a lazy nap, he’d done his PT and yoga, got his laundry finished, then cleaned up and killed time with the TV until it was time to leave.
His pulse sped up when he pushed into the diner. It was just as crowded as the night before – college kids filling booths, laughter loud enough to shake the windows. The smell hit first: oil, spice, and a faint sweetness of syrup from someone’s plate. He wore his ballcap low, but no one seemed to recognize him. He took the same stool at the counter, front and center to the kitchen, and smirked when the cook he’d come to see arched an eyebrow his way.
“Back again, Three-Eyes?” The cook’s brash voice cut through the noise.
“Came to see if the cook from this morning makes better food,” Zoro lied easily.
The cook’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck that. The old geezer still thinks lard’s a food group.”
“Pretty tasty lard, then.” Zoro’s smirk deepened. The exchange had heat to it, easy and quick, like they’d done this before.
The cook jabbed a finger in his direction. “What I make for you tonight’s gonna make you weep.”
“Sounds like a lot of hot air, cook.”
“Order something, Three-Eyes,” the man growled.
Zoro grabbed a menu, lowered his glasses, and studied it again. The chicken looked tempting, but if he was going to judge the guy’s cooking fairly, he ought to get the same thing as that morning. When the waitress stopped, he flipped his cup for coffee and ordered the haystack with a side of pancakes.
The cook snatched the ticket, read it over, and snorted. “Child’s play.” He turned and barked at the others. “I’m doing a full order – pick up the slack!”
Zoro sipped his coffee and didn’t bother hiding the fact that he was watching. The cook’s lips pressed into a firm line, a crease between his brows as he worked. His movements were quick, economical, and confident. Zoro’s gaze caught on the shift of shoulders, the flex of muscle under rolled sleeves. It made Zoro want to see him out of the kitchen, close up.
Around him, the diner pulsed with life – the hiss of food, the shout of orders, the clink of plates, laughter and conversation tumbling over each other. More college kids stumbled in, half-drunk and hungry. A family with sullen teens paid at the register. A woman a few stools down scrolled her phone between bites. The place was a storm of sound, and somehow, Zoro felt calm in the middle of it.
Instead of calling the order up, the cook came out himself and set the plate down in front of Zoro. His heart kicked hard as he finally got a closer look. The man stood about his height, lean muscle under his shirt, blue eyes fixed on him with a focus that felt almost physical. His brows had a faint swirl pattern in the hair, like they couldn’t decide which direction to grow, and the smirk up close was lethal.
“Eat. Weep.” The cook folded his arms, clearly not moving until Zoro obeyed.
“What’s your name?” Zoro asked, picking up his fork. “So I can tell the morning cook his food’s better than yours.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “It’s Sanji.”
“Zoro.”
Zoro waited a beat, curious if Sanji would recognize the name – it was unique enough – but Sanji only scoffed. “Didn’t ask, Three-Eyes.”
Zoro snorted and dug into his food. The first bite hit like revelation. The gravy had a sharper bite, the eggs richer, and the diced hot peppers gave just the right kick.
It must’ve shown on his face, because Sanji smirked. “Feel free to tell the old man I’m the better chef.”
Zoro chuckled. “Making me eat my words, huh?”
“Best kind of revenge,” Sanji said, then headed back into the kitchen.
Zoro ate with a grin still tugging at his mouth, listening as Sanji’s voice snapped orders across the line. The noise blurred into something pleasant, the way good music filled a room without demanding it, leaving a quiet hum of anticipation beneath his skin.
Zoro didn’t tell the morning chef that Sanji cooked better, but he had to admit the meal hit the spot – country-fried steak and eggs, crispy batter, runny yolks, gravy heavy with pepper. Solid food. Familiar comfort, even without the spark Sanji’s cooking carried.
He sat at the two-top, the chair creaking beneath him as he noodled with lyrics in his journal, pencil tapping absently between lines. He wasn’t sure if the words were worth a damn, but it felt good to move his hand again, to let the rhythm of the place bleed into him, the clink of dishes and murmur of talk shaping the cadence on the page. The diner’s low hum filled the space in his head where static used to live.
In a small-town diner on a quiet road,
He found a peace he used to know.
Coffee hot, the world moves slow,
Sometimes that’s all a man needs to hold.
Sanji’s laughter greeted Zoro the second he slid onto his usual stool. “Your hair is green!”
Zoro ran a hand self-consciously over his head. He’d been screwing around in the creek earlier in the day, trying to hand-catch fish like he did as a kid, and lost the hat to a gust of wind and the rush of the creek. He’d gotten stares on the walk over, but no one seemed to recognize him, which was a relief. He liked Stillwater. Liked the quiet routine of it. The idea of leaving sat heavy in his gut.
“Laugh it up, cook. You only get one chance.”
“Oh, I’m taking it.” Sanji’s laughter cracked through the din of the diner. “Three-Eyes, green hair, built like a dump truck – you are the most incongruous nerd I’ve ever seen.”
Zoro chuckled. “Don’t think I’ve ever been called a nerd before. Barely graduated high school.”
“Those glasses are thick enough to see into next week. Order up, table seven!” Sanji dropped five plates on the passthrough, the clang of ceramic blending with his laughter.
Zoro shrugged, grin tugging at his mouth. “Least I make them look good.”
“Good?” Sanji scoffed. “You look like the Hulk trying to pass for a librarian.”
Zoro barked out a laugh that turned a few heads. He didn’t care. It felt good to laugh like that again – loud, unguarded, from somewhere deep in his chest. “Funny talk from a guy who styles his brows with a weed whacker.”
Sanji flipped him off, grinning when it made Zoro laugh harder.
Zoro liked this. Liked the ease of it, the laughter, the spark. Liked the way Sanji didn’t pull punches or fake politeness. He pushed, and Zoro pushed right back. It reminded him of how things used to feel with Kuina, way back when. Someone who could match him word for word and never let him off easy. But the heat that came with Sanji was different. Quicker. Sharper. It sat low in his gut and made his pulse trip over itself.
He’d always run pretty gray when it came to attraction. Music had been the center of everything – writing, recording, performing. That left little room for anything else. Fame didn’t help, either. He’d been burned once by a fame hound who’d wanted the story more than him. Nami and Robin – his manager and agent – shut it down fast, but the lesson stuck: trust was earned, and privacy mattered.
“Oi, mosshead,” Sanji called, snapping him out of it. “You gonna order something, or just sit there till I spoon-feed you?”
Zoro’s lips curved slow. “Depends. You wash your hands first?”
Sanji leaned on the passthrough, smile knife-sharp. “What, you want me to glove up for you, Princess?”
“If I’m the Princess,” Zoro fired back, “you gonna get on your knees to serve me?”
It slipped out before he could stop himself, a blatant flirt that hit the air heavier than he meant. Heat climbed up his neck. His palms went damp and his throat dry.
Sanji stilled for a beat, blue eyes locked on him. Something flickered there – want, or maybe provocation. “Bet you’d just lie there.”
Zoro’s heart kicked. The space between them felt charged now. He didn’t know if it was the challenge in Sanji’s tone or the promise beneath it, but his pulse wouldn’t slow. “Tch. Only way I’m on my back is if you put me there.”
Sanji’s grin went wicked. “Please. You’d be begging for the pillow before I broke a sweat.”
A crash cut through their back-and-forth, the shatter of glass, followed by the shriek of a college kid’s laughter. The noise snapped the spell.
Zoro blinked, awareness flooding back – the scrape of forks, the hum of chatter, the curious glances from a few tables over. Embarrassment climbed the back of his neck. Shit. They’d just flirted shamelessly, loudly, across the diner.
Sanji didn’t so much as flinch. He barked for the busboy to grab a broom, waved the waitress past with a new order, and leaned his elbow on the passthrough again, grin easy but eyes still burning. “This isn’t the library, Three-Eyes. Menu’s in front of you. Use it.”
Certain that his cheeks were pink, Zoro snatched the menu and raised it like a shield, which earned a snort from Sanji. The cook turned back to his station. Zoro tried to remind himself he was thirty, not sixteen, but his heart hadn’t gotten the message. His grin refused to fade.
Zoro woke the next morning itching to compose. He snagged his journal, wrapped the quilt around his shoulders, and stepped outside to sit by the creek. The air was cool, sharp with the smell of water and leaves. Words came like they used to, fast, unfiltered, and alive. He crossed out lines, changed phrasing, rearranged some things, all with a grin plastered on his face. The rush of the creek carried through the quiet, syncing with his pulse as he worked. For the first time in years, he felt like himself again.
“Princess Moss has returned,” Sanji said with a smirk as Zoro came into the diner that night.
The meeting at the Baptist church had been at five, and Zoro had been a bad listener again, too distracted by the thought of seeing the cook afterward. He should probably switch the order next time: eat first, meeting later. At least then he’d have his head on straight enough to be the kind of support the others deserved. Guilt pricked at him; those rooms worked because people showed up for each other. And he knew how quickly the craving crept back in when you didn’t.
“Hey, swirlybrowed cook,” Zoro said, sliding onto his usual stool. The diner was full again, a warm pocket against the chill that had crept into the air. The old men from breakfast had been right; it smelled like rain was coming for the weekend game. The windows fogged faintly from the heat inside, fryer hum blending with the chatter. “Got some sort of soup or chili?”
“Creamy chicken and rice or broccoli-cheddar,” Sanji told him. “Usually make chili on the weekends.”
The waitress came to fill Zoro’s upturned coffee cup, and he ordered the broccoli-cheddar along with an open-faced roast beef sandwich, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Once she moved on, he pulled his journal from his pocket and flipped to the page he’d been working on. Notes and half-phrases sprawled across it in his rough handwriting. He’d mapped the melody on guitar already; now he was layering in the rest. Fiddle, maybe piano.
He was so deep in it he didn’t notice the world around him until a plate dropped in front of him. He jumped, glancing up to see Sanji standing there, amused. “You ordered soup and didn’t even touch it, moss.”
Zoro blinked. Sure enough, a bowl sat by his elbow, still untouched, his coffee full. Sanji had brought out the sandwich. “Oh. Uh… can you reheat it? Hate to waste it.”
Something flickered in Sanji’s expression at that – approval, maybe – and his mouth curved. “I can do that. What’re you working on so hard? Nerdy math problems?”
“Heh. No.” Zoro’s grin was small but real. “Writing music.” Saying it out loud felt good.
“Music, huh?” Sanji leaned back against the counter, arms folded. The kitchen light threw soft gold along his jaw, catching where the blond hair curled under his cap. “You don’t look like a musician.”
Zoro tucked his pencil between the pages of the journal. “Well, I am.” He pulled his plate closer and picked up his fork.
“What kind of music does a grass-haired, three-eyed musclehead play?” Sanji asked. “Polka?”
Zoro’s grin widened. “Country.”
“Figures. That accent’s a dead giveaway.” Sanji tapped his finger against his bicep. “Let me guess… Texas?”
Zoro snorted. “Not a chance. Eastern Tennessee. Up in the mountains.”
“A real backwoods boy, then.”
“Pretty much.” Zoro talked between bites, not wanting the food to go cold. “And before you say anything, yeah, I know I look Asian. My dad was Japanese.”
“Wasn’t gonna ask that.” Sanji cocked a brow. “Was actually wondering more how you ended up in Indiana, not down in Nashville.” He paused, then smirked. “But don’t worry, you’re still a pretty princess, Three-Eyes.”
Zoro huffed, though as his ears warmed, and he ate some more before answering. The buzz of the diner wrapped around them, laughter and the clatter of dishes a soft buffer. No one paid them any mind. He didn’t want to lie, but he wasn’t ready to give the whole truth either. His fork slowed, the food suddenly secondary.
“Got in a car accident a couple years back,” he said finally, tapping his knuckle against the scar under his eye. “Things went bad for a while. Decided I needed a change of scenery. Hopped a bus, ended up here.” He lifted his chin slightly. “What about you? You a local?”
Sanji nodded. “My old man owns this diner. That shitty chef you praised. Had a heart attack three years ago and I came home to help out. Never got around to leaving.”
“What’d you do before?”
“Still cooked,” Sanji said, one shoulder lifting. “Just at a higher-class place. Real silverware, no paper napkins.”
Zoro took another bite, studying him. “You miss it?”
Sanji thought for a beat, eyes distant. Then a small, self-deprecating smile curved his lips. “Guess not. I like being able to talk shit and watch people eat my food. It’s not Boeuf Bourguignon, but it’s good food all the same.”
Zoro’s grin returned. “You work every night?”
Sanji’s smirk went sly. “Princess looking for a date?”
Zoro nearly choked on his roast beef. He hadn’t meant it that way, at least, not consciously, but the heat that flooded his face said otherwise. He gulped lukewarm coffee, heart pounding too fast.
Sanji’s laugh was low and delighted. “I’m off Thursdays and Sundays,” he said. “Heading to the Wagon Wheel for open mic night tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
And with that, he turned back to the kitchen, leaving Zoro flustered, grinning, and completely undone. The warmth in his face lingered long after Sanji disappeared behind the grill. He stared down at his plate, pretending to focus on the last bite of mashed potatoes, trying to will his pulse back to normal.
Whatever this was – whatever it might turn into – he liked it. A lot.
Zoro woke the next morning in a lot of pain. He must’ve slept funny. His left ankle was killing him – the ache wasn’t sharp, just deep and mean, radiating through the scar tissue. He hissed under his breath as he hobbled to the sink for the Tylenol. His mind immediately offered the easy fix: you’d feel much better after a few drinks. The thought came easy, too easy.
“Fuck,” he muttered, splashing cold water on his face. He’d been doing so good. Now the gnawing itch was back, whispering that relief was only a bottle away. His reflection didn’t help – sallow skin, red-rimmed eye, jaw tight with tension.
He dragged himself into the shower, sitting on the tub floor as the hot water pounded down on him. It hurt, but it was a living kind of hurt. He needed a meeting. Needed a phone to call his sponsor. Pain shot up his calf and he grit his teeth. He was not going to drink today. Not on the day he had a sort-of date with Sanji.
He stayed under the spray until the water ran cold, then toweled off and limped back into the other room. He pulled on his boxer-briefs, then started his stretches, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Each pull sent a jolt through his ankle, but he kept at it until the tightness gave a little. The Tylenol seemed to be taking forever to work. The bottle on the sink stared back – harmless, yet dangerous all the same.
Finally, he gave up and dug out his sponsor’s number, using the motel phone to make the call. Always keep a copy in your wallet, his sponsor had told him once. That way, if you lose your phone, you can still reach me.
“Yo-ho-ho, hello?”
Zoro took a deep breath and let it out shortly. “Brook, it’s Zoro.”
“Talk to me,” Brook said immediately. “What’s going on?”
Zoro didn’t hesitate. He’d gotten past the shame stage long ago. Brook didn’t judge – he’d lost his whole unit in Vietnam and somehow still laughed like life hadn’t beaten him down. “Pain’s bad today.”
“I take it you’re still out of town. Can you get to a meeting?”
“If there is one,” Zoro said, glancing toward the dresser where the handwritten list of meetings sat beside his keys. “They’re usually in the evenings here.”
“Well, then, stay on the phone with me until you can get to one.”
“Don’t you have things to do?”
“Not anymore.”
And just like that, Brook stayed. They spent the day with the phone on speaker, the TV murmuring in the background. They watched the same reruns, traded commentary, even shared a laugh when a pizza showed up at Zoro’s door, a surprise courtesy of Brook’s “modern wizardry with online ordering.”
Zoro ate, iced his ankle, stretched, and refused to take another round of Tylenol, knowing how easily one kind of relief could slip into another. By late afternoon, the pain had eased to something manageable.
He checked the clock by the bed. “Hey, meeting starts in twenty. I should get going.”
“Make no bones about calling again later,” Brook told him. “These old ears are always open.”
Zoro smiled faintly. “Thanks, old man.”
They said their goodbyes, and Zoro dressed before calling the office. “Could you call me a Lyft to the Methodist church?”
The woman at the front desk said she’d handle it.
Zoro hung up, exhaling slowly. His ankle still ached, but the worst had passed. He grabbed his jacket, shrugged it on, and headed for the door. The meeting would be starting soon, and he needed to be there, needed the additional reminder of why he kept choosing this fight.
Zoro gave the meeting his full attention this time, speaking honestly about the rough morning, the pain, and the pull toward the bottle. He talked about calling his sponsor, about how staying connected had helped him ride it out. By the end, the urge had quieted to its usual background hum – never gone, just manageable. In its place, anticipation began to take root.
When the meeting wrapped up, he asked a few of the regulars about the Wagon Wheel. Turned out it was more of a brew pub than a hard-drinking dive – good food, local music, and a college crowd that kept things lively. One of the older members gave him a cautious look and asked if it was smart to go, considering the day he’d had. Zoro paused to think before answering. He’d learned that the danger wasn’t the alcohol around him; it was his own mindset walking in. He felt clear enough, now, to choose right.
Still, he made a decision. When he saw Sanji, he’d tell him the truth – that he was an alcoholic, and if things got hard, he might have to leave. But he didn’t want to bail before he even showed up. The thought of seeing Sanji again kept his pulse high and his purpose sharp.
He got a ride back to the motel, showered, and wrangled his hair into something close to decent. Nerves stirred in his stomach as he looked at his reflection. One eye, scars, and a damn soft spot for a cook he barely knew. He really liked Sanji. He hoped tonight wouldn’t make him regret it.
The Lyft driver – the same one who’d brought him from the gas station – had given him a card earlier, letting him book rides through the motel’s front desk and pay cash. Handy, since Zoro still wasn’t using his phone.
The Wagon Wheel sat just off campus, a low brick building with a glowing backlit sign. Open Mic Nite – 9:00 P.M. was spelled out on the board below. Music and laughter spilled through the open door as a trio of students exited, voices bright in the cool night air.
Zoro limped inside. The foyer split left toward the restrooms and right toward the bar. The place was louder than he’d expected given the half-empty lot outside. Most of the crowd had probably walked from campus.
Inside, warm light pooled over brick walls and an open industrial ceiling. Six-tops and booths filled most of the floor, smaller tables squeezed between them. Every stool at the long bar was taken. A small stage stood off to one side, a stool and a few mic stands waiting under a single spotlight. The air smelled like beer and sweat, but the floors were clean and the mood was good, country music humming steady through the speakers.
He scanned the room, wondering how he’d spot Sanji in the crowd. He didn’t have to wonder long.
“Hey, Three-Eyes! Over here!”
Sanji’s voice carried clear across the bar, and Zoro followed the sound to a two-top near the stage. Sanji sat with an easy slouch, blond hair falling over one eye, a smirk already in place.
“Glad you came,” Sanji said as Zoro dropped into the seat beside him with a grateful grunt.
“Wanted to check out the local color,” Zoro replied, eyeing him with a small grin. “Didn’t think you actually had hair under that hat.”
Sanji gave an exaggerated scoff. “Hair’s not something you should be making fun of, mosshead.”
Zoro’s grin widened just as a waitress came by. “Can I get you two something to drink, or do you need a minute?”
“Zombie Dust,” Sanji said.
“Eight or sixteen ounces?”
“Sixteen.”
“And you, sir?”
“Sprite. Or 7-Up,” Zoro said.
“Sierra Mist okay?”
“That’s fine.”
When the waitress left, Sanji tipped his head toward Zoro. “Didn’t picture you as the Sierra Mist type.”
Zoro leaned in a little, keeping his voice low. “I’m an alcoholic. Don’t drink anymore. Had a rough one today, so I might not be able to stay.”
He eased back again, waiting for the reaction. Sanji just nodded. “Then we’ll head to Denny’s if you need to bail.”
Zoro huffed a laugh. “Denny’s?”
“It’s the only other place open late besides the diner,” Sanji said, smirking. “And I’m not taking you where I work on a date.”
Zoro’s pulse jumped. “So this is a date.”
Sanji shot him a look full of dry amusement. “You basically asked me to blow you on Tuesday. Figured we should at least get to know each other first.”
Heat flushed up Zoro’s neck, but he laughed anyway. “Guess I did, didn’t I?”
“Hn.” Sanji drummed a finger against the table. “Impress me and maybe you’ll get your wish, Princess.”
And just like that, every ounce of blood in Zoro’s body headed south. He shifted in his seat, still grinning. “Princess has high standards. Think you can keep up?”
Sanji’s eyes gleamed, his smirk deliberate and slow. “Please. I wrote the damn standards.”
The waitress returned with their drinks and a pair of menus, and conversation flowed between them. They talked about ordinary things, nothing fancy, just small-town life and memories that came with laughter between sips. When Zoro found out Sanji was adopted too, it opened the door to stories about their fathers, half-affectionate complaints that said more about love than frustration. From there, they traded high school shenanigans, bad jobs, and failed dates, needling each other between bites.
By the time the food came, they were laughing too much to notice the noise around them. The teasing came easy, edged with flirtation neither of them seemed eager to rein in. When the first act took the stage for Open Mic Night, Zoro realized he was half in love with Sanji.
Fresh drinks arrived. The room dimmed a little, voices dipping to a hum as the performers started. Most were college kids, singers with soft guitars or nervous comedians with punchlines that landed just enough to earn claps and whistles. Between sets, the emcee’s jokes bounced off the brick walls, mixing with the clink of glass and the low thrum of chatter. Then a girl took the stage and began playing one of Zoro’s own songs.
He froze, then snorted under his breath. The indie cover was stripped-down, slowed to a minor key – beautiful, really. Sanji shot him a sidelong look. “Don’t like this one? Thought you played country.”
Zoro’s mouth curved. “She’s doing it justice.”
Sanji studied him for a beat, eyes gleaming, then smirked. “You should get up there.”
“Tch. This is for college kids.”
“It’s open mic. It’s for anyone.” Sanji shoved his shoulder. “You said you were working on a song yesterday. Might as well see if it’s any good.”
“The song’s, uh… a little naughty,” Zoro admitted, color creeping up his neck. “Everything so far’s been soft indie or covers.”
“All the more reason to sing it,” Sanji said, raising his hand to flag the waitress.
“Fuck,” Zoro muttered. He couldn’t believe he was being talked into this.
The waitress came over, and Sanji grinned. “My friend here wants to get on the list.”
“Sure thing,” she said, turning to Zoro. “Name?”
“Zoro.” It slipped out before he could stop himself. Shit. Too late now. Still, no one had given him a second look since he’d rolled into town, and the waitress just nodded and moved off, proving his point.
“Surprised you didn’t say Princess,” Sanji mocked.
“You wish.”
Sanji grinned wickedly. “Maybe.”
The look lingered between them, low and teasing, enough to make Zoro’s pulse tick up again. He didn’t trust himself to answer, so he fixed his gaze on the stage instead, letting the hum of the performance cool the flush beneath his skin.
The young woman who’d done the cover finished, and Zoro clapped louder than most of the crowd. Sanji rolled his eyes, smirking. The next act did a Weird Al cover, complete with accordion, which was long but semi-offensively hilarious. Zoro excused himself during the following act to hit the restroom. His ankle still ached, but he was enjoying himself too much to care.
At the sink, he caught his reflection in the mirror – flushed cheeks, hair mussed, a smile pulling at the scar on his face. He looked fucking happy. Felt it, too. He hadn’t thought that was possible anymore.
He fixed his hair and headed back. On his way through the crowd, he spotted the young woman from earlier sitting with her friends. He stopped at their table. “Wanted to tell you, you nailed that song. The stripped vocals and that key change took it somewhere new.”
“Uh – thanks,” she said, startled, while her friends broke into giggles.
Zoro glanced down at her guitar case. “Mind if I borrow that? My – uh, date roped me into taking the mic.”
She looked to her friends, who all giggled harder before shrugging. “Sure. Just bring it back, okay?”
“I’ll keep it safe,” Zoro promised. “I know how precious a guitar can be.”
More laughter followed him, along with a too-loud comment about the “old dude” who’d liked her song. Zoro chuckled under his breath and rejoined Sanji.
Sanji eyed the guitar, then him. “You keep one in the restroom for emergencies?”
“Borrowed it.” Zoro took a drink of his Sierra Mist. “Apparently, I’m an old dude now.”
Sanji snorted. “Same. You’d think I was one foot in the grave, the way these college brats talk. I’m only thirty.”
“Same,” Zoro echoed, grinning. “Guess we’ll just have to prove ‘em wrong.”
Sanji’s eyes gleamed. “Think you can keep up, Princess?”
“Oh, I know I can,” Zoro shot back, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Question is, can you?”
“You’ll be choking on your words before I’m done.”
“You’ll be choking on something else.”
Heat crackled around them. Zoro was this close to planting one on Sanji, seeing if he tasted as good as he looked. Sanji’s look said he was thinking the same thing.
He thought about skipping the open mic altogether, about just taking Sanji somewhere and seeing where that heat went. But the song was for him, and Zoro wanted to play it – wanted to see the spark in Sanji’s eyes catch and burn when he realized the lyrics were about them.
The crowd’s applause for the next act pulled their attention apart long enough to clap. Out of the corner of his eye, Zoro caught Sanji unbuttoning another button on his shirt, the motion casual but deliberate. He wondered how long he’d have to wait for his turn.
By the time the emcee finally called his name, Sanji had been to the restroom and back, and they’d ordered another round. Sanji swapped his beer for a Coke, and somewhere between the laughter and the wait, a quiet game of footsie had started beneath the table.
“And our last act for the night – Zoro,” the emcee called.
A ripple of murmurs moved through the room, curiosity but seemingly no recognition.
“Let’s see what you got, Three-Eyes,” Sanji called over the noise, that familiar taunting edge in his voice.
Zoro smirked and rose, careful with his ankle as he made his way to the stage. The lights hit him full-on the moment he stepped into the glow, hot and white against his glasses. He squinted through it, easing the borrowed guitar from its case and setting it gently beside the stool before sitting. The murmur of the crowd faded into something low and expectant.
He thumbed the tuning pegs, adjusted the mic to his height, one boot braced on the rung and the other steady on the floor. “Wrote this two days ago,” he said, voice carrying easy into the din. “So it may be a bit rough.” His eye found Sanji across the room. “This is dedicated to a certain someone who’s gotten under my skin.”
A few whistles and laughs broke the silence before he started to play. The opening licks came quick and bright – faster, sharper than anything else that night. He heard the fiddle in his head, the heartbeat of the drum beneath it, and when he began to sing, he tapped the body of the guitar between notes to keep the beat.
Let me be your ‘male-man’
And I'll always come though
There's no denyin'
Come rain or shine
I'll deliver my love to you
I do things by the letter
You can put your stamp on me
'Cause there ain't nobody better
For a special delivery
Zoro put a low rasp on the words, gaze never leaving Sanji’s. Then the song kicked up, and the double entendre hit hard.
Like the pony express
And the wild wild west
I'll ride hard all night long
And I can saddle up fast
Get ya there first class
Long before the dawn
You know your male's gonna get to you
Come snow, rain, sleet, or hail
'Cause I'm a top flight, hold ya tight, get ya there by daylight
Do you right, overnight male.
The crowd whooped and hollered, laughter spilling between whistles. Sanji was staring at him, gape-mouthed, a flush creeping up his neck. Zoro slid into the next verse, slowing the tempo again.
I know your heart is fragile
So I'll handle it with care
There ain't no doubt
I know love's route
So baby let me take you there
I'll bring you cards and flowers
But I know just what you need
Just give me 24 hours
Satisfaction guaranteed
He smirked at Sanji on that last line before launching back into the chorus, really leaning into the rhythm and heat.
Like the pony express
And the wild wild west
I'll ride hard all night long
And I can saddle up fast
Get ya there first class
Long before the dawn
You know your male's gonna get to you
Come snow, rain, sleet, or hail
'Cause I'm a top flight, hold ya tight, get ya there by daylight
Do you right, overnight male.
He hit a short bridge, the beat quick and dirty, then drove it home.
You know your male's gonna get to you
Come snow, rain, sleet, or hail
'Cause I'm a top flight, hold ya tight, get ya there by daylight
Do ya right, overnight male
He stopped picking, voice dropping to a growl for the last line.
Yeah I'm a top flight, hold ya tight, get ya there by daylight
Do ya right, overnight male.
He struck a final chord and let it fade.
The bar erupted. Chairs scraped, people jumped to their feet, whistles cutting through applause. A few shouted for an encore. Zoro tossed Sanji a look that landed somewhere between a dare and a promise before saying, “Thank you,” into the mic and stepping off the stage. He packed the borrowed guitar back into its case as the emcee closed out the open mic night.
Working his way through the crowd took effort. Every few steps, someone stopped him with a compliment or a slap on the shoulder. By the time he reached the table again, he was grinning, adrenaline still humming under his skin.
Sanji’s expression when their eyes met wasn’t just heated – it was hungry. He shot to his feet. “We’re leaving.”
“Gotta pay the bill first,” Zoro said, amused.
“Shit.” Sanji glanced around, eyes wild, impatient. “Where is she?”
Zoro chuckled. “Here, I got it.” He pulled out his wallet, peeled off a hundred, and handed it over. “That should cover it.”
Sanji took the bill, still distracted. “What about you?”
“Need to return the guitar.”
Sanji nodded and stalked off to find their waitress. Zoro worked his way to the booth where the young performer sat with her friends. They all froze when he stopped beside their table.
“Thanks for the loan,” he told the guitarist.
She blinked, then squeaked, “Are you… Zoro Roronoa?”
He shot her a quick grin. “Thanks for playing my song.”
The reaction was instant – squeals, wide eyes, a phone raised before she thought better of it. Zoro just laughed and headed for the door.
Sanji met him halfway, glancing back at the table of girls. “Fan club?”
“You could say that.”
“Ready to get out of here?”
“Hell yes.”
Sanji grabbed Zoro by the wrist and hauled him toward the exit, laughter chasing them out into the cool night air. The moment the door shut behind them, the noise of the bar cut off like a switch, leaving only their uneven breaths and the thrum still running between them.
Zoro didn’t know who moved first – Sanji reaching for him or him stepping in – but the space closed fast. The kiss was rough, quick, a promise of everything waiting.
They broke apart just long enough for Sanji to murmur, “Come on,” his voice low and wrecked.
Zoro followed without question.
Sanji fumbled his keys once, muttering something about “fucking stage lights,” before unlocking it. They slid inside, breathless and grinning, the charged silence stretching thin between them.
The drive wasn’t long, five minutes, maybe, but it felt like holding back a storm. Sanji’s hand gripped the wheel; Zoro’s fingers drummed restlessly on his thigh. Every glance across the space between them carried the same thought: soon.
When they pulled into the small apartment complex, Sanji barely let the engine cut off before he was out of the car. Zoro followed, pulse pounding. Upstairs, Sanji unlocked the door, shoved it open, and pushed Zoro inside. The door slammed shut behind them, and then there was nothing but heat.
He was on Zoro in an instant, kissing him hard enough to bruise. The sound of it hit the small space – sharp breaths, the scrape of boots on tile, the low thud of bodies finding a wall. It was fucking hot, and Zoro couldn’t get enough.
“I can’t believe you wrote that song,” Sanji growled, pulling Zoro’s shirt over his head, knocking his glasses askew. His breath hit Zoro’s cheek, ragged, amused, electric. “It was fucking pornographic.”
Zoro snickered, tugging at Sanji’s belt. “I was inspired.”
“You’d better ride me all night long, Three-Eyes,” Sanji told him before diving in for another kiss.
They stumbled their way to the bedroom, losing clothing as they went, knocking into furniture, laughing between kisses. Heat built with every touch. Sanji dropped to his knees beside the bed, made good on the wish, and sucked Zoro’s brain out of his cock. Zoro could only blink stupidly at Sanji when he smirked and said, “Knew you’d just lie there, Princess.”
“I’m sitting up.”
That response drew a laugh from Sanji, and he pushed Zoro backward onto the bed, plucked off his glasses, and kissed him until his spark was blazing again. Then he saddled up, and they did their best to break the bed, and the night dissolved into heat, laughter, and the kind of fire that didn’t burn out until long after the stars had faded.
Zoro woke tangled in the sheets, morning light streaking across the bed. The air smelled faintly of clean cotton and skin. Pain greeted him, like always, but it wasn’t the same sharp edge as the morning before. His ankle twinged, but the rest of him hummed with something softer – contentment, maybe.
He pried open his eye, found he was alone, and wondered blearily if last night had been a sticky dream. Then he smelled bacon and coffee, heard clattering in the kitchen… and wasn’t that a country song waiting to happen.
He dragged himself out of bed, the sheet trailing after him, searched for his glasses, and slid them on. His boxer-briefs were on the floor outside the bedroom door, his jeans in the main room. Sanji stood in the small open kitchen at the stove, wearing a T-shirt and boxers, humming to himself. Morning light caught in his hair, turning it gold at the edges.
Sanji turned at the sound of Zoro moving, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Morning, Three-Eyes. Coffee’s made if you want a cup.”
“Yeah.” Zoro’s voice was rough with sleep. He dug his music journal and pencil from his jeans pocket, flipped to a blank page, and scrawled down the lyrics in his head:
Then the skillet starts its sizzlin’,
Coffee’s brewin’, day’s begun.
It’s hot sex at night,
And bacon in the morning, hun.
He snorted at how terrible it was, but it’d do for a start.
When he looked up, Sanji was watching him with a soft, amused expression that made a flush creep up Zoro’s neck. “What?” he asked, a little defensive.
“Writing me another pervy song, Princess?”
Zoro huffed a short laugh. “Maybe.”
Sanji grinned and turned back to the stove. “Breakfast’ll be ready in fifteen. Feel free to use anything in the bathroom. I dug out a toothbrush for you.”
Zoro left the journal on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. The mug was chipped, the brew strong enough to wake the dead. “Got any Tylenol?”
“Medicine cabinet above the sink.”
Zoro nodded and headed for the bathroom, sipping his coffee along the way. Steam from the shower still clung to the mirror, curling faintly in the light. He was struck by the ease he felt – no awkward morning-after, no should I stay or leave kind of tension. Just quiet comfort. He didn’t do this often enough for it to be familiar, but he’d had a couple of encounters in the past that could’ve gone either way. This one didn’t feel like that.
He cleaned up, stretched out his ankle, and wandered back to the kitchen. Sanji was plating breakfast as Zoro dropped into a chair. The smell of pepper and butter filled the room.
“What time d’you go to work?” Zoro asked.
“Not ’til six,” Sanji said, setting the plates down. “Why?”
Zoro hooked an arm around his waist, grinning up at him. “Thought I’d work on some more lyrics.”
Sanji dropped him at the motel around five with a kiss that fogged Zoro’s glasses and left him dazed in the doorway. His pulse still stuttered as he stood there, stupid grin lingering on his face.
He changed into clean clothes and worked on one of the songs in his journal while his laundry spun. The AA meeting at the Catholic church was at eight; he shared that his rough day had ended without a drink – and only gotten better from there.
The diner was quiet when he arrived, just a few college students lingering over milkshakes and fries. Less waitstaff, fewer cooks. The absence of Sanji’s usual yelling almost felt eerie. Then again, it was barely a quarter after nine on a Friday. The real crowd likely wouldn’t stumble in until closer to midnight.
The college kids went quiet when Zoro walked in. A few of them exchanged wide-eyed looks and bent over their phones, screens lighting up faces in the dim diner. Zoro slid onto his usual stool, shooting Sanji a grin. “Make me something, cook. Something I can sing about.”
“Is it gonna have more lyrics than ‘oh-oh-oh’ this time?”
Zoro laughed, even as his ears burned at the sounds Sanji made, low, throaty, and absolutely filthy. Heads turned from nearby tables, and Zoro ducked his head, grinning despite himself. “Depends on how good you make it,” he shot back.
“Oh, I’ll make it plenty good,” Sanji promised, voice thick with suggestion. “Have you begging for more. Again.”
Zoro smirked. “Can’t wait.”
The bell above the door jingled. Cold air swept in – and a familiar voice froze him mid-grin.
“Next time, take your damn phone with you.”
Zoro turned on the stool. “Nami?”
Nami stood in the entryway, all fire and composure in a thigh-length leather coat. Her heels clicked across the tile as she stalked toward him. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been? And what the hell did you do to your hair?”
“What are you doing here?” Zoro asked, still reeling. “And how’d you even find me?”
Nami tilted her head toward the booths. Zoro followed her gaze and saw the college kids – phones out, aimed right at him.
“You were trending last night,” she said flatly. “If I didn’t know you had the business sense of a very stupid rock, I’d think it was marketing genius, getting yourself back in the spotlight like that.”
Shit. He hadn’t thought past the song or the bar, hadn’t thought about cameras or the internet – just Sanji, the crowd, the rush of feeling music again. Zoro pushed his glasses up and rubbed his face. “Did you like the song, at least?”
“I loved the song.” Nami leaned an elbow on the counter beside him, smirk sharp and tired all at once. “Everyone loved the song. Robin did her thing, I uploaded it to Spotify as a live single, and it’s already cleared a million streams.”
Zoro blinked. A million. After two years of silence, people were still listening – still waiting for his music. The thought washed through him with a strange mix of elation and peace. “Really?”
“Of course.” Her voice softened, just a touch. “Now pack it up. You’re booked for GMA on Monday, Drew on Tuesday, and Fallon that night. We’ve got to fix that disaster on your head and prep what you’re gonna say.”
A plate hit the counter – louder than necessary.
Sanji stood behind it, brows raised. “Who’s your friend, moss?”
Nami’s brows lifted a fraction. Her gaze flicked between them – Zoro, then Sanji – before she straightened, all business again.
Zoro suddenly felt twelve and in trouble. “Uh. Sanji, this is Nami. My… manager.”
Sanji’s mouth twisted in a polite half-smile. “Manager, huh? And what does this beautiful woman manage you for?”
Zoro winced. “My music career. I told you I was a musician.”
Sanji’s eyes didn’t waver. “You did. I take it you’re not just some guy who plays in his spare time, like I assumed.”
“You know what?” Nami cut in smoothly. “I’m gonna give you two a minute.” Her tone was brisk, but her glance toward Zoro carried a flicker of concern. She moved to a booth near the door, phone already out, thumbs flying.
Zoro watched her for a second, the quiet he’d found here slipping through his fingers. He’d liked the slower pace, the anonymity, the way he felt like he was breathing again. His shoulders tightened with a bit of shame for not fully sharing who he was with Sanji. “I’m Zoro Roronoa.”
Sanji just continued to stare at him, expression unreadable. Zoro could almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, calculating, skeptical, maybe even disappointed. Then Sanji slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Zoro didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched the faint blue glow wash over Sanji’s face as his thumbs flew across the screen.
A beat passed. Then another.
Sanji’s brows climbed, his eyes flicking from the phone to Zoro, disbelief breaking across his features. “Oh, shit,” he said finally. “You’re actually a big deal.”
Zoro shifted, uncomfortable. “Not that big.”
Sanji huffed, somewhere between laughter and disbelief, though there was no humor in it. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Zoro exhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. He could feel the weight of everything, the silence between them, the distance that hadn’t been there before. “Told you, things went bad and I needed to clear my head,” he said quietly. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“Pft. You didn’t exactly tell the whole truth, either.” Sanji shook his head. “I take it I’m just some hookup on your vacation?”
“No!” Zoro’s response was swift, firm. “I really like you. You helped bring my music back.”
Sanji’s expression flickered – something soft, something almost hopeful – then closed again. “But you’re leaving.”
Zoro thought of Nami’s bookings, the million streams, about how everything had been bleak and depressing and he was finally seeing the light again. But that wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t come to Stillwater. If he hadn’t met Sanji. “Come with me,” he blurted.
Sanji blinked, like the words had knocked him off balance. For a moment, something raw flickered across his face. Want, maybe, or the temptation to say yes. His mouth opened, then shut again. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “I can’t do that.”
The response hit like a gut punch. Zoro leaned forward, searching Sanji’s face, looking for any sign of hesitation he could grab onto. “I really want you to come,” he said, the words tumbling out too fast, too earnest. His fingers tightened around the counter edge, knuckles pale. “You can see Nashville, after I do these spots. I can show you my studio. You can meet my crew. You’d like them.”
But Sanji was shaking his head. “My old man needs me. And I like it here, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know that, but–”
“Zoro,” Sanji said quietly – the quietest Zoro had ever heard him. “I’m not going with you.”
For a moment, everything in Zoro stilled. The refusal didn’t hit all at once. It seeped in slow, like cold water filling his lungs. The ache that followed was sharp, cutting straight through the haze of hope he’d been clinging to. His chest tightened, breath catching somewhere it couldn’t quite reach.
“Oh.” Zoro stared blankly down at the food in front of him as his heart splintered behind his ribs. The din of the diner fell away, replaced by a dull, steady ringing in his ears. “I guess… can you box that up? To go?”
“Of course.” The plate disappeared and a carry-out box replaced it a moment later.
Zoro blinked until his blurred vision cleared enough to stand. His movements felt disconnected, like he was watching himself from a few steps away. He took cash from his wallet and set it on the counter. The smell of coffee and grease suddenly turned his stomach. He tried to think of something to say, but Sanji made it clear, hadn’t he?
He picked up the box, the cardboard light in his shaking hands, and mumbled, “Goodbye, then.”
“Take care, Three-Eyes.”
Zoro’s throat burned. He nodded once and left. The door thumped shut behind him and the cold night air hit him like a slap. He didn’t stop walking until Nami caught up.
“Zoro, wait. I have a car,” she said.
Zoro stopped, and the beep of doors unlocking with the flash of headlights indicated which car was hers. He climbed into the passenger seat, moving on autopilot, put his belt on, then pulled his glasses off and pressed his thumb hard against his stinging eye.
Nami opened the driver’s side, then he heard her curse. “Damn. Dropped something. Be right back.”
The door closed again, leaving Zoro alone. His breath hitched as he tried to pull himself together, but the ache in his chest only spread. He let out a broken laugh when the pain started shaping itself into a song.
Sometimes love don’t pack and go,
It just stands there, sayin’ no.
So take care, Three-Eyes
Goodbye.
He didn’t write it down.
Zoro’s weeks became a whirlwind of motion that barely left room to breathe. His hair was dyed back to black, his earrings returned, his contacts in. He looked like himself again – or at least, the version the world expected to see. He smiled for cameras, laughed on cue, said the lines Nami had scripted down to the comma. He sat for interviews with Country Music Weekly and The Nashville Sound, nodding through questions about recovery and inspiration.
Between appearances, he lived in the studio. Songs poured out of him faster than they had in years. He tracked, rewrote, played until his fingers cramped, and still kept going. When he wasn’t recording, he threw himself back into PT and lifting, routines he’d let slide during his time in Stillwater. The familiar burn of effort grounded him, gave his body something to focus on while his mind stayed tangled in lyrics and memory. His crew filled the gaps with jokes and easy camaraderie, a buffer against the silence that waited when the lights went out.
And he fought daily not to start drinking again. The craving came like clockwork – quiet at first, then sharp, whispering promises of numbness he knew better than to believe. Meetings helped. So did exhaustion. But some nights, when the studio finally went dark and the laughter faded, the silence pressed close, and he had to sit on his hands just to keep from reaching for the ghost of a bottle that wasn’t there.
Nami had scheduled him for a one-night performance at a smaller venue in early December. “Just to keep momentum going.” Not a full stage show, but the band would play with him. She wanted to release his new album the week before Christmas, then send him on tour starting in March.
Zoro didn’t argue. The busier he was, the quieter the cravings stayed. But when the noise faded, the gnawing itch came crawling back. He hadn’t expected missing Sanji to hurt this much – or for the wanting to feel so much like withdrawal.
By the time December rolled around, the ache had settled into him like a song he couldn’t shake. Playing again felt like the only thing that might drown it out, even for a night.
The venue had a platform stage and seated about three hundred. The air carried a mix of old beer, lemon cleaner, and fresh anticipation, every note of sound bouncing tight between the walls. Low lights washed the room in amber and red, glinting off the instruments set neatly in their stands.
Zoro walked the stage during sound check, boots echoing softly against the boards. He tested the mic, adjusted the height, and gauged how his voice carried in the narrow space. The monitors vibrated faintly beneath his soles when he hit a low note, and he felt it down to his bones. The lights were harsher than he remembered, and he had to squint until his eye adjusted. A stool would be left upstage for him to sit if his ankles started giving him trouble. Crew darted around him, taping cords, checking levels, running lighting cues. The muffled sounds of the crowd seeped in: laughter, the pop of bottles, the shuffle of chairs.
Zoro sat backstage with his crew, dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. He’d warmed up his vocals and hydrated. The hum of amps bled through the cinderblock walls. Every few seconds, he felt the faint vibration of the bass under his boots as the techs ran another line test. He tapped his finger on his knee, the rhythm of songs looping through his head, ready to spill out on stage. It had been a while, but he was ready for this.
When the show began, Zoro felt the electricity hum under his skin, got charged by the shouts and the noise of excitement from the audience. The house lights dropped, and the room erupted in sound. The crowd was on their feet from the start, clapping along and stomping, the pulse of their energy feeding his own. He grinned into the first song, adrenaline sparking in his chest, the familiar rush he hadn’t realized he’d missed.
He ran through Heartland, Small Town Diner, Coffee in the Morning. Getting Lost and Miles Between the Lines. Each song flowed into the next. He wove Bottom of a Bottle and Dry Days, Long Nights between My Kind of Morning and Creeks Don’t Flow Sitting Still.
By then, the rhythm had him. The lights, the heat, the sound, each beat flowing through his veins, syncing with his breath until he could barely tell where the music stopped and his heartbeat began. The energy rose, peaked, and then steadied, like the tide easing back from shore.
Then he shifted to the stool, setting up the mic, balancing his guitar on his knee. The audience stirred; murmurs rippled through the room before fading into stillness. A few last whistles trailed off as the lights lowered, narrowing to a single beam that found him center stage. Gold light spilled across his shoulders, and the crowd’s pulse slowed with his. Sweat cooled on his skin. The rush in his chest softened into calm anticipation.
He rested a hand on the guitar, fingers brushing the strings, feeling the vibration hum through the wood and into his bones. This was the moment he both dreaded and needed, the one that stripped everything else away.
He thought about not doing this one, but during soundcheck he’d changed his mind. The words had been waiting, and they deserved to be heard.
“We’re gonna slow down for a minute,” he said to his audience. His voice carried steady through the speakers, that familiar gravel softening at the edges. “This next song’s mighty personal to me. Hope you like it.”
The band wasn’t playing with him for this one. He strummed once, twice, adjusting his grip. The strings thrummed beneath his fingertips, warm and steady. Someone coughed in the crowd, another voice whispered, then silence folded in. Zoro took a breath deep enough to settle his pulse and began to play.
Woke to scars that keep on talkin’, mornings clenched like a fist,
AA on a Tuesday night, tryin’ not to slip.
The music bled out on that blacktop road,
Had to get outta my head ‘fore the bottle took hold.
Gonna get lost, don’t come lookin’ for me.
Got on a bus to Anywhere, Please
A creek don’t flow while sittin’ still.
Figured maybe movin’s how I’d finally breathe.
A low murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Zoro didn’t look up; he let the rhythm keep him centered. His thumb brushed the strings in a slow heartbeat, the melody carrying quiet ache.
Faded signs and backroad turns carried me slow,
I was a one-eyed stranger with a backpack full of ghosts.
In a room by the water where the world turned serene,
Felt music in my fingers like a long-forgotten dream.
Then I found you behind that diner pass, barkin’ orders through the heat,
Called me Three-Eyes with a crooked grin, said, “My food will make you weep.”
You served up hope with peppered grace, turned silence into song,
Drew the music from the wreckage like it’d waited all along.
I was fighting off the bottle, breaking slow alone
This Three-Eyed Love Song’s for the cook who gave my heart a home.
He kept his gaze low, fixed on the guitar instead of the crowd. The lights pressed warm against his skin, soft gold spilling over the edge of the stage. The next chord came easier, his shoulders loosened, breath steadying in his lungs. Each line carried like it was meant to.
Walked to that church basement, foldin’ chairs in a line,
Said my name, fought the pull, left my shadows behind.
But I was thinkin’ ‘bout the diner light, the fire in your tone,
The way you called me Three-Eyes like you’d known me all along.
Could’ve been the coffee, could’ve been the heat,
Could’ve been your grin across the counter seat
But I felt somethin’ stir that I thought was gone,
And I knew right then where I belonged.
‘Cause I found you behind that diner pass, blue eyes burning bright
You turn the world in focus when you call me Three-Eyes.
You tasted like the song I lost, and gave me back my voice.
You gave the silence rhythm, made my heart rejoice.
I was fighting off the bottle, breaking slow alone
This Three-Eyed Love Song’s for the cook who gave my heart a home.
His voice roughened on that line. He leaned into the mic, feeling the weight of it, how true it was, how much he still meant every word.
Hot hands, tangled sheets, midnight caught in flame,
You whispered Three-Eyes soft, and I’ll never hear it the same.
We traded jabs and easy grins, the kind that blur and bend,
Didn’t plan on fallin’, but I’d do it all again.
Yeah, I found you behind that diner pass, curses, bite, and flame,
You called me Three-Eyes, and the world rearranged.
You found my song beneath the scars, and gave it breath and name,
And love came singin’ right behind, and I ain’t been the same.
Now every note I play’s for you alone
This Three-Eyed Love Song’s for the cook who gave my heart a home.
He let the guitar fade out with the last note, the final hum sliding into silence. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the sound broke open, applause swelling into cheers that rolled toward the stage.
Zoro lifted his gaze, a melancholy smile on his face. The light glinted off his guitar strings like the memory of a flame, and for a moment, he could almost see Sanji’s grin across the diner counter, calling him Three-Eyes all over again.
After the show ended, Zoro passed his guitar to Franky with a tired smile. Chopper handed him a bottle of electrolytes, and Usopp clapped him on the shoulder before heading onstage to tear down. Backstage hummed with low conversation and the shuffle of gear being packed up. The air carried the familiar mix of sweat, dust, and amp heat, the scent of a night well played.
He planned to crash in the small green room until Nami could get him home. She’d warned him there’d be no VIP passes after the show – something about money and security – but that was fine. He’d forgotten how wiped he felt after a performance. All he wanted now was a nap.
He nodded and smiled at the crew who congratulated him as he made his way through, bumped fists with Jinbe as he passed, and entered the green room. The green room held a ratty floral couch, a few mismatched chairs, a table with snacks and bottled water, and a flickering TV in the corner. Zoro dropped onto the couch, guzzled half his drink, then stretched out with his boots propped on one end and an arm thrown over his eye.
The hum of voices faded. He was on the verge of sleep when he heard an amused voice snark, “Such a pillow princess.”
Zoro sat up fast, heart lurching. His eye went wide when he saw the blond cook leaning in the doorway, smirk playing on his lips. “Sanji? What are you doing here?”
“Heard you were playing a show tonight. Thought I’d see if you could top your other song.” Sanji shrugged, one shoulder rolling in that lazy, confident way that made Zoro’s pulse trip. “Not bad. Lot less pornographic than I’d hoped. Though, I’m kinda partial to that Three-Eyed Love Song you sang.”
Zoro stared, pulse pounding hard enough to shake the air between them. “I wrote it for you.”
“Kinda got that.” Sanji pushed off the doorway, closing the space between them. “You gonna get up, say hello? Or does the Princess want to be served lying down?”
Zoro didn’t need a second invitation. He shot to his feet, crossing the distance in three quick strides, before grabbing Sanji into a passionate kiss. The contact hit like a live wire, heat and salt and the ache of how much he’d missed him. He kissed with all the words he hadn’t known how to say, until breath ran thin and his hands trembled against Sanji’s jaw. He tasted like coming home.
“What– how–?” Zoro stumbled over his question when they finally pulled apart, still holding on like Sanji might disappear. “I thought you didn’t want me.”
Sanji looked at him like he was an idiot. “Of course I wanted you. I just wasn’t going to run off like some teenager in a love story. I had responsibilities. Family. You could’ve stayed.”
Zoro opened his mouth, shut it again with rueful realization. He’d taken Sanji not going as rejection, too wrapped up in his own hurt to see it for what it was. Sanji hadn’t been the one lost in silence. He had. He could’ve gone back, could’ve called, could’ve done something other than sit still and let the distance make its choice for them. His shoulders dropped a fraction as he let out a slow breath.
“Yeah, I could’ve. Or at least come back. Even though I needed to get into the studio to record, and Nami had all those interviews scheduled. And I needed to get back to PT and lifting with my trainer. Not to mention, meeting face to face with my sponsor.”
“See? Not that easy to drop everything, is it?”
Zoro’s mouth pulled into a wry half-smile. The truth hit deeper than Sanji probably meant it to. He’d taken Sanji’s no like it was personal, like it meant he hadn’t mattered enough. But hearing it now, he got it. There were things you didn’t walk away from. People who counted on you. Promises you didn’t break just because your heart wanted something else. He let out a slow breath. “No,” he said quietly. “Guess not.” He looked up, meeting Sanji’s gaze. “But you’re here now. For how long?”
“Until Monday. The old man said he’d throw Patty on nights so I could, and I quote, ‘stop moping around like a dumbass’ and come see you.”
Zoro laughed softly, warmth spilling through the fatigue still in his bones. “But how’d you know where I’d be? About the concert?”
“Your manager, Nami,” Sanji told him. “She came back to the diner after you left. Gave me her number. Told me to text her if I ever wanted to get in touch.”
Zoro owed Nami a truckful of the fancy chocolate she liked. “So you’re here for two more days.”
“Yep.”
“Want to go to my place?”
Sanji’s grin flashed, the same wicked curl that had started all of it. “Thought you’d never ask.”
They didn’t surface until Monday morning, when Sanji had to leave for the airport. The room still smelled faintly of coffee and skin, the sheets tangled proof of a weekend spent not sleeping much at all. Zoro was sore in a way that left a stupid grin on his face.
Sanji kissed him at the door while the Lyft waited downstairs, then reached up to set Zoro’s glasses straight, fingertips brushing the bridge of his nose. “Better see you soon, Three-Eyes.”
“You will,” Zoro promised. “Text me when you get home, so I know you got there safe.”
Sanji smirked. “Aw, does Princess care about me?”
“Princess is in love with you,” Zoro said, tone dry but eyes steady. “In case you hadn’t figured that out.”
Sanji’s expression softened. He reached up again, fingers tracing along Zoro’s jaw, slow and gentle, like he was memorizing it. The smirk was gone now – just warmth, and something that looked a lot like love.
“Think I might have heard that in a song.”
End