Where the World is All Blue

From a distance, the Thousand Sunny didn’t look like a typical treasure-hunting vessel. 

Sanji shaded his eyes with a hand, squinting through the golden afternoon glare that danced off the water’s surface. His gaze found the yacht anchored just beyond the breakers, a shimmering pale silhouette against the endless horizon. That was it. His new home for the foreseeable future. The thing that had pulled him away from everything familiar and thrown him headlong into a gamble he couldn’t stop thinking about.

The hull was long and lean – about eighty meters, by his research – with a prow that curved upward like a talon carved from pearl, slicing through waves without disturbing the sea’s surface. It gleamed like brushed ivory, streaked with sunrise gold and hints of amber that caught the light like sunken treasure hauled from some forgotten deep. There was something otherworldly about it, something elegant and feral at once. Not a luxury yacht, not a research vessel – something in between. Something meant to chase what shouldn’t be chased.

The decks rose in graceful tiers, four in all, stacked like a sea-glass pagoda. Tinted windows gleamed beneath panels of solar mesh, catching the sunlight like dragonfly wings. A mast curved out from the upper level – no tall crow’s nest or bulky towers, just a sleek, fin-like shape bristling with antennae, encrypted comms, and a sensor array disguised as art. Subtle, precise. Quiet money.

Etched across the bow, its emblem: a stylized sunburst surrounding a lion’s head, mane flared and eyes wide with joy, almost glowing against the pale hull. It didn’t feel like a warning; it looked like it was laughing in the sun, eager to greet whoever crossed its path.

A mechanical hum rolled over the water. A launch bay gaped open along the stern, revealing the ship’s moon pool. A compact RIB detached from its cradle and slipped smoothly into the water, its electric motor nearly silent as it began to cut a clean path toward the docks. Sanji spotted drones in their cradles and the gleaming tip of a mini-sub being winched into position. Above them, the rear deck – apparently the “beach club,” though it looked more like a sci-fi lounge – spread wide with sun chairs, tool crates, oxygen tanks, and what looked suspiciously like a portable grill. 

The scent of salt and fuel drifted over the marina, mixing with the faint aroma of sunscreen and ocean rot. Seagulls wheeled above. Somewhere nearby, a reggae remix of a pop song played too loud from someone’s yacht, muffled by distance and breeze.

Sanji exhaled slowly, the breath slipping between his teeth like a secret. A mix of nerves and anticipation curled tight in his gut, winding itself into something almost dizzying. Excitement, sure. But also fear. The good kind. The kind that says: this is real now.

He still couldn’t quite believe he was doing this.

Trading a stable life at the Baratie – Zeff’s restaurant, his home for the last thirty years – for a contract position on a floating treasure hunt was nuts. Completely insane. He had no formal culinary schooling, no Michelin stars. But he’d learned from the best, in the heat and chaos of a galley that took no prisoners. He knew what the hell he was doing. He was good. Great, even. Still, walking away from that kitchen had felt like losing a limb. Or maybe peeling off old skin.

Zeff hadn’t tried to stop him. Just handed him a new knife set, told him not to cook like an idiot, and hugged him in that gruff, bone-cracking way that said everything he never put into words.

The offer had come at the exact right moment – when Sanji had been staring at the open sea beyond the docks and wondering if this was all there was. When he’d wanted something more but didn’t know what. One of his biggest dreams was to sail the ocean, to find out what it was like to live where the world was all blue – only sea and sky for miles in every direction. The job posting hadn’t even looked real at first: Chef needed for private exploration yacht. Must be adaptable. Ocean experience preferred. Discretion mandatory.

Still, he’d applied. And to his surprise, someone had responded.

The “interview” had been absurd. No video call. No formal letter. Just a chaotic group text that had lit up his phone at midnight like a slot machine on crack. Eight people firing off questions – Can you cook meat? What’s your scurvy plan? What is your ethical take on the cultural heritage of underwater human remains? – and finally a ninth person who only typed: your hired.

Sanji had stared at it for a full minute before texting back, Do you mean “you’re”?

Paperwork had followed. Fast. Efficient. A digital contract from something called Straw Hat Corporation, a list of required vaccinations and medical clearances, and a single line instructing him to appear at Dock 17, Miami Beach Marina, on the 13th at 1300 hours.

Which was now. Today.

Sanji glanced down at himself, brushing invisible lint off his button-down. Blue, crisp, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Tan chinos. Polished shoes. He’d debated the outfit for half an hour before settling on something that said cool professional instead of overdressed disaster. His tall black duffel sat at his feet, stuffed to the zipper with clothes, his chef’s whites, two aprons, a small box of spices, and his prized kitchen knives wrapped in leather. It also held one laptop, one handheld console, chargers, and a worn paperback tucked between two pairs of socks.

He ran a hand through his blond hair, trying to calm the restless flutter in his chest. The breeze tugged at his bangs, salty and clean, cooler than the air behind him.

He wanted this. He really wanted this.

To sail the world, not just as a tourist, but as part of something real. Something alive. To wake up each day with nothing but the sky above and the sea stretched endlessly ahead. He wanted the silence between waves, the adrenaline of risk, the impossible beauty of sunrises no one else would ever see.

But more than anything, he wanted to belong somewhere new. To be part of something strange and wild and completely unlike anything he’d known.

He just hoped the people onboard weren’t assholes. Especially the owner, whoever the mysterious billionaire was funding this whole enterprise. Sanji had experience with rich bastards and how quickly their charm could curdle. His own family tree was a poisonous tangle he’d cut himself free from years ago. Changed his name. Burned the bridges. Swore never to look back.

He inhaled deep. Held it. Let it go.

“Alright,” he murmured to himself, as the RIB boat drew nearer. “Let’s see what kind of ship this really is.”

The RIB boat skimmed toward the dock, its motor easing into a purr as it slowed. Salt-slick wind ruffled Sanji’s hair and stung the corners of his eyes. His stomach knotted with the flutter of something between nerves and anticipation.

Piloting the RIB boat was a man about his age with dark brown skin, curling black hair that brushed below his shoulders, and a long, slightly cartoonish nose that should’ve looked strange but somehow suited him. He raised a hand in casual greeting before cutting the motor and coasting to a neat stop.

“Sanji?” he called.

Sanji nodded, pushing his sunglasses up slightly to get a better look. “That’s me.”

The man beamed, teeth white and wide in the early sunlight. With practiced ease, he tossed a weighted line onto the dock to steady the RIB boat. “I’m Usopp – ROV and equipment engineer aboard the Sunny. Hop in, I’ll take you to the ship.”

Sanji hefted his duffel and stepped into the boat, the deck dipping slightly under his weight. The motor growled back to life and they were off, zipping across the harbor. Cool ocean spray misted against his skin and dotted his shirt and sunglasses. He inhaled deeply – the scent of salt, fuel, and sun-warmed rubber – and felt the slightest smile twitch at his lips.

Usopp handled the boat with relaxed precision, guiding it into the Sunny’s open launch bay. The interior was cavernous, gleaming, and already bustling with quiet energy. They pulled into a dedicated berth with a soft bump.

A giant of a man stood waiting at the internal dock, arms thick as pilings, long black hair swept back in a tail, and an underbite that lent his shark-wide smile an intimidating edge. He looked like a hairier version of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, if The Rock wore a faded blue Hawaiian shirt over board shorts and had a large sunburst tattoo blazing across his chest.

“Ah, welcome,” he said in a gravel-deep voice. “I am Jinbe. Toss me your bag.”

“Sanji,” he replied, passing up the duffel. Everyone probably knew who he was already – newcomers didn’t exactly slip in unnoticed – but manners were habits he didn’t drop easily.

“Jinbe’s our helmsman and one of our divers,” Usopp added, tilting the motor up out of the water.

Jinbe reached down with a broad, firm hand and hauled Sanji up onto the dock. The wood beneath his feet was sun-warmed and slightly damp. Usopp jumped out behind him and hit a button nearby; the RIB boat began to rise steadily on a lift, water dripping from its hull.

“Nami said we’ll raise anchor in about an hour,” Jinbe told Usopp. “Zoro radioed – he’s on his way.”

“Plenty of time to give Sanji the nickel and dime tour and introduce him to the crew,” Usopp said brightly.

“I’ll take your bag to your quarters,” Jinbe offered, already hoisting the duffel onto one shoulder with zero strain.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sanji said, lifting his sunglasses atop his head. His eyes were still adjusting to the ship’s interior – metal, glass, shadows, and sunlight glinting off the water.

“It’s no problem,” Jinbe replied, already walking off with a wave of his hand.

Sanji watched him go. Something about the crew already felt… close. Comfortable. As if they’d known each other a long time. He wasn’t used to that. It made something squirm in his gut.

The launch bay stretched wide and clean, its polished steel floor marked with rubber scuffs and salt stains that told stories of constant motion. Overhead, an array of rigging and pulleys framed the yawning moon pool at the bay’s center, its water dark and glassy, pulsing gently with the tide. The RIB boat hung suspended from its lift, gently swaying with the motion of the ship. Beside it, a small, reinforced lockout submersible rested in its cradle, both secured in designated overhead slips lined with thick rubber bumpers to prevent damage during launch or recovery. Dive tanks stood in tidy racks along one wall beside wetsuits and fins arranged by size, while a mesh bin overflowed with gloves, weights, and mask straps – everyday clutter that only came from real work.

Usopp clapped his hands once. “Okay, tour time. This is our launch bay – as you can see, it has a moon pool for launches. We’ve got the RIB, a two-man submersible, and my array of ROVs. Plus plenty of dive gear. You’re certified, right?”

“Yeah. Advanced Open Water,” Sanji replied, shifting as he took in the gear. The place was clean and organized, but worn-in with use. Real use.

“Thought I saw that in the group chat.” Usopp led him into a room off the main bay, filled with screens, processors, and a tangled elegance of cables. A low hum vibrated beneath their feet – fans spinning, drives whispering, the room alive with its own quiet machinery. The chill of AC kissed the back of Sanji’s neck, mingling with the ozone tang of static and the faint scent of solder.

“This is my marine operations center,” Usopp said, his chest puffing slightly with pride. “I control the ROVs from here and monitor dive activity.”

Sanji stepped in, blinking at the cluttered brilliance. It was more than a tech hub – it was Usopp’s lair, a blend of cutting-edge equipment and ramshackle charm. Three wide monitors dominated the main console, each awash in camera feeds, sonar sweeps, and vitals from the last dive. Around them, fluorescent sticky notes clung like sea barnacles: sketches of new rig designs, frantic to-do lists, scrawled reminders like "Tighten stabilizer arm on #3", "Kaya bday gift??" and "Sea cucumbers not edible, Luffy."

A rack of tools leaned against one wall, next to a tangle of spare ROV limbs, waterproofed cables, and what looked like the carcass of a toaster-turned-oxygen sensor. Overhead, someone had tacked up a massive poster of a kraken wrapping its arms around a clipper ship, with “Possible Encounter?” scrawled in red marker. A nearby shelf held a half-finished mechanical spider labeled “Wall Walker v2”, a trio of action figures in deep-sea suits, and a bottle of glue with its cap stuck on permanently sideways.

A mini fridge in the corner hummed beside a sagging orange armchair. Its top was littered with energy bar wrappers, spare bolts, and a photo of Usopp and a blonde girl – Kaya, Sanji guessed – both grinning with windblown hair on the deck of a small boat. Sanji lingered on it for a moment. The old boat looked charming. Homemade. A beginning.

A whiteboard leaned against the far wall, densely marked with equations, doodles of sea creatures, and a countdown reading “Days Until Next Big Score: ??”

“This looks like expensive equipment,” Sanji murmured, brushing a finger along the edge of a mounted touchscreen that displayed a 3D model of the Sunny’s hull.

Usopp grinned, his hands tucked proudly in the side openings of his overalls. “Heh, yeah. We upgrade whenever new tech drops. Mostly for safety, but also because I need to see what the next-gen gear can do. Last season we hit a wreck off the Turks that was halfway buried in a trench. The only reason we could navigate it was because one of my prototypes could squeeze through a half-meter opening and still relay live feed.”

There was admiration in his voice, not just for the machines but for the hunt itself – like he saw treasure diving as both an adventure and an art.

“We do a lot of deep dives in sketchy conditions,” he went on. “Crushed hulls, narrow wrecks, strong currents. One of my rigs got chomped by a six-gill shark last year. Nearly took the camera clean off. Had to rebuild it with titanium joints and a bit of recycled piping from a dive bell.”

Sanji nodded, absorbing it all with a kind of breathless curiosity. The room, the ship... it was unlike anything he’d ever seen. New and unpredictable. The nervous flutter in his chest hadn’t gone away, but it had shifted. Not dread, not entirely excitement. Something in between. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and choosing to jump.

“You built all of this?” he asked.

“Yep,” Usopp said with an almost sheepish pride. “Started with a single ROV we bolted together on the Merry. Kaya’s family let me scrap parts from some of their old yachts. Luffy always said if I could dream it, I should build it. And… well, I dreamed big. Now I get full budgets to design next-gen rigs with titanium casings and 6K cameras. The Sunny’s systems are on a closed loop net, fully redundant, fail-safe, and beautiful.” He gave the nearest monitor a gentle pat.

Sanji took another look around. Everything here, from the reinforced housing on the processors to the cluttered shelves of backup parts, reeked of long hours, obsessive tinkering, and deep investment. That meant the owner wasn’t just wealthy – they were serious. Regular tech upgrades like these didn’t come cheap, especially not when they were being customized by hand. This was treasure hunting with teeth. Professional teeth.

He made a quiet mental note of that. Whoever owned this ship wasn’t screwing around.

Usopp flipped a switch and one of the wall monitors blinked into a map of the seabed, tracked with possible dive sites. “Isn’t this place awesome?” he said, almost breathless. “Every time I walk in here, I feel like a deep-sea cowboy getting ready to lasso the abyss.”

Sanji huffed a small laugh, tension easing from his shoulders. “Yeah,” he admitted, watching a feed from one of the ROVs slowly pan across a coral-strewn wreck. “It kind of is.”

“C’mon,” Usopp said, jerking his thumb toward the door. “Let’s go see the rest of the beast.”

They moved on, stepping back into the launch bay and climbing a short flight of metal stairs into a quiet corridor. The walls here were paneled in pale oak with soft brass trim, the grain catching the indirect lighting in gentle, golden waves. It gave the space a calm, curated warmth, like a private lounge instead of a hallway. Beneath their feet, the low thrum of the engines was a familiar pulse, steady as a heartbeat, grounding Sanji with every step.

Usopp gestured ahead. “The lower aft deck holds the engine room and utilities. Sandwiched between that and the launch bay is the med bay and the crew quarters.”

Sanji nodded, trying to piece together the ship’s layout in his mind. “I take it the owner’s suite is on the main deck?”

“Nope. No suites on the main deck,” Usopp said casually, which only made Sanji more curious, but there was no time to pry. They stopped outside a door, slightly ajar.

Usopp rapped on it. “Chopper, you in here?”

“I am! Come in. Is Sanji with you?”

Sanji followed Usopp inside, stepping into a surprisingly bright, spotless med bay that felt more like a sanctuary than a ship’s infirmary. The metal counters gleamed under LED lights, their surfaces spotless except for a scattering of small, personal touches. Glass cabinets held neatly arranged medical supplies, bandages, and vials reflecting the sterile glow. The faint, clean scent of antiseptic mingled with a sharper note of lemon polish, oddly comforting in its familiarity.

Amidst the gleaming order, there was charming clutter – a small Christmas tree with twinkling fairy lights and paper snowflakes dangling from the ceiling, a shelf stuffed with colorful jars of sweets, and a collection of reindeer figurines arranged on a windowsill. A framed photo of two kindly older doctors – Chopper’s parents, Sanji assumed – sat proudly next to a stack of thick medical manuals.

A small figure bounded forward with surprising energy – a hirsute man no taller than a child, with big, expressive eyes and a wide grin that revealed a slightly canine smile. His head was topped by a quirky cap adorned with fuzzy holiday reindeer antlers, and his shirt declared, Christmas Should Be Every Day!

“Hi! I’m Chopper,” he said, shaking Sanji’s hand with a warmth and eagerness that almost made Sanji forget the tightness in his chest. Despite his youthful face, there was an unmistakable air of sharp intelligence and confidence. “I’m the ship’s doctor. Did you bring your medical info?”

“Yeah. It’s in my bag. Jinbe took it to my room.”

“Great! I’ll get it later. Welcome aboard!” Chopper’s voice brightened, and a twinkle of excitement sparked in his eyes. “If you need anything – headache meds, sleep aids, allergy stuff – you come to me, okay?”

Sanji offered a half-laugh, the tension easing from his shoulders. The genuine warmth in Chopper’s smile felt like an unexpected balm, grounding him in this new, unfamiliar world. For a moment, the fear of being the new guy softened into something more like hope. This was going to be an adventure.

Back in the hallway, they nearly collided with another crew member coming from the opposite direction. The man was a towering presence, his muscles packed beneath a loud red Hawaiian shirt left open to reveal vivid tattoos sprawling across his chest and arms. His bright sky-blue pompadour caught the light with a shimmer, somehow working with the red speedos and thick rings of mascara that framed his eyes like war paint. He looked like a drag-show wrestler on vacation, impossibly youthful despite the decades behind him.

“Bro! You made it!” the man bellowed, slapping Sanji’s hand with a clap that sent a surprising jolt through his arm, then thudding him on the back like an old friend.

Usopp grinned. “Franky, Sanji. Sanji, Franky. Franky’s our ship’s engineer. Also maintains the Mini Merry II.”

“The sub,” Franky added with a broad smile that showed off a hint of gold tooth. “We’ve been running short a real cook since Vivi went Corpo with her dad. Glad to have you, bro. My favorite foods? Burgers and dogs. And I only drink cola. Write that down.”

Sanji blinked, caught off guard by the sheer force of Franky’s energy. “I’ll remember.” It wasn’t the healthiest diet, but the guy’s enthusiasm was infectious, impossible not to match.

“Super!” Franky roared, giving him another hearty back-slap that nearly sent Sanji stumbling into the wall. “Catch you later!”

Strutting off with the confidence of a gym bro who owned every room he walked into, Franky left a trail of faint cologne and surf wax in the air.

Usopp, completely unfazed, resumed the tour. “This is an extra head,” he said, opening a door to reveal a compact, impeccably clean bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet. “But every cabin’s got its own en suite.”

Sanji raised an eyebrow, impressed. “That’s... generous.”

“Heh. Luffy wanted us all crammed into one big bunkroom. Half the crew nearly mutinied. This way’s better.”

They stopped at a plain door, identical to the others lining the hall.

“You’re in Vivi’s old room, between Nami and Chopper. Nami’s our navigator and quartermaster. You’ll order your food through her, and if you need anything else, just let her know.”

Sanji nodded, mind still lingering on Franky’s larger-than-life presence. So far, each person he’d met was vividly colorful in their own way – vastly different from anyone he’d known back in the Baratie’s kitchen.

Usopp opened the door to Sanji’s crew quarters, revealing a surprisingly spacious cabin. Warm ivory walls softened the light, complementing the deep mauve carpet that cushioned every step. A double bed was mounted firmly to the floor, its nightstand recessed with a sunken top designed to keep things from sliding when the ship rocked. A modest desk and chair sat against one wall, perfect for writing or quiet moments, while a small seating area – complete with a low table and built-in sofa – invited relaxation. A flat-screen TV hung neatly on the wall, and Sanji’s duffel lay at the foot of the bed, its leather straps slightly worn but well cared for. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and lemon polish, a subtle but constant reminder of careful upkeep.

Sanji stepped inside, heart beating a little faster than expected. The cabin felt cozy and lived-in, more comfortable than he’d imagined for a boat, but smaller than his apartment back on land. It was like stepping into a boutique hotel suite: understated luxury that didn’t scream extravagance, but couldn’t hide the quiet wealth behind it.

He ran a hand along the smooth dresser surface, feeling the weight of the room’s silent elegance. This wasn’t the flashy show of power he’d grown up around in the Vinsmoke family – where appearance and status ruled everything – but it still radiated money, the kind that bought comfort and security rather than empty prestige. That made him uneasy, a faint flicker of wariness gnawing at his excitement.

“Is everyone’s room like this?” he asked, his voice a little quieter than before.

“Yeah,” Usopp replied, leaning casually against the doorframe. “We’ve got ten crew cabins and one guest cabin across from the head. Luffy says ten’s the perfect number for a treasure-hunting team, so that’s what we’ve got.”

Sanji sat lightly on the edge of the bed, surprised it didn’t creak beneath him. “Luffy is…?”

“Our captain,” Usopp said, smiling. “Started this whole thing when we were teenagers. My girlfriend Kaya gave us our first ship – the Going Merry. She was a good boat. Got us through a lot before she was lost in a storm.”

“The Sunny came after?”

“Yeah. Built by Franky’s family, the Galley-La Company. Zoro and Franky joined with her. Brook and Jinbe came later.”

Sanji nodded thoughtfully, his mind drifting to the question that had been lingering since he boarded – who exactly was footing the bill for all this?

“Is the galley on the main deck?” he asked instead.

“Yeah. C’mon,” Usopp said, pushing off the doorframe with a grin. “I’ll finish the tour.”

Usopp led Sanji up a narrow flight of steps nestled between the utility room and crew quarters, emerging onto the upper deck. The air here was cooler, tinged with salt and faint engine hums vibrating through the metal underfoot. Forward sat the bridge, its mirrored glass reflecting the sparkling water and sky, a sleek nerve center commanding the ship’s every move. Behind it, the aft section opened into an observation lounge, a sanctuary of glass walls and wraparound views framed by retractable wind barriers that shimmered in the sunlight. Beneath the overhang, a shaded dining table waited quietly, promising relaxed meals with ocean breezes. Between the bridge and the observation lounge, a large gym was tucked in, the faint scent of rubber mats and fresh sweat lingering faintly in the air.

Stepping onto the main deck, Sanji took in another expansive lounge. The space blurred the line between inside and out, thanks to glass doors that slid away to reveal the aft deck. Below, retractable stairs led down to the swim platform, where turquoise waves lapped gently. Down a corridor, several offices sat in neat succession – Robin’s, Nami’s, Zoro’s, and Brook’s – and a spacious briefing room filled with light and polished surfaces awaited strategic planning.

“Robin is our maritime archeologist and historian,” Usopp explained, “she chooses where we hunt for treasure. Brook, who we call the Soul King, takes care of any human remains we find. Since we’re basically graverobbing, he records final resting places carefully, then collects a bone or two for DNA testing, which Chopper handles. The results get uploaded to ancestry databases to help connect families.”

Sanji absorbed the information with a growing sense of respect. “That’s impressive. A lot of care.”

“Now that we can, we have to,” Usopp said, nodding. “Before Brook, we just tried not to disturb anything too much.”

“And Chopper didn’t do DNA testing before?” Sanji asked, curiosity creeping in.

“Didn’t have the gear,” Usopp said, turning toward the door he’d been leading Sanji to. “But here’s the galley.”

Sanji stepped inside and his breath caught. The galley was a gleaming temple to culinary craft. State-of-the-art stainless steel appliances lined the walls, polished to a mirror finish. Long counters of dark granite stretched wide and uninterrupted, perfect for prepping and plating. Heat lamps hummed softly overhead, promising perfectly finished dishes. Two refrigerated rooms sat discreetly to one side, one for perishables, the other for dry goods, all impeccably organized. Storage was abundant, and every surface bespoke luxury and precision. Aside from the slightly smaller scale, it rivaled the Baratie’s kitchen – the best he’d ever worked in, and here it was, his new domain.

His fingers brushed lightly over the cool granite countertop, a familiar thrill running through him. This was a space made for creating, for magic. His heart raced just imagining the meals he could craft here, the flavors he could coax out with the fresh ingredients he’d have access to. It felt like a gift and a challenge all at once.

“Am I expected to wear a uniform? Chef’s whites?” he asked, eyes still wandering over the gleaming space.

Usopp laughed, a warm, easy sound. “No way. You saw Franky, right? We’re super casual here. Wear whatever makes you comfortable.”

Sanji smiled, relief easing the tight knot of nerves. He nodded, already picturing himself in relaxed clothes, moving freely through the kitchen he was just beginning to call home.

Usopp led him up once more, to the rooftop terrace deck. The breeze here was cool and refreshing, carrying the faint scent of teak oil warmed by the sun. The space was minimalist, open and airy, with a helipad at the stern, a hot tub set flush into the deck’s smooth surface, and concealed panels that could rise to provide shade or shelter from the wind. From this height, the harbor stretched endlessly, the horizon blurring softly where water met sky. Sanji inhaled deeply, the salty air filling his lungs, the hum of the ocean and distant gulls making his pulse quicken with anticipation. This was a beginning – a new life waiting to be lived, full of possibility.

A redhead ascended the stairs toward them as they went back down, casual in shorts and a loose tank top knotted at the hip. Her sun-kissed skin glowed with the kind of tan that came from weeks on deck, not a salon, and a smattering of freckles dusted her nose. Her long legs were toned, her stride confident, and she had the kind of figure that would make any man’s head turn – Sanji’s included.

“Hey,” she said, giving him a once-over that wasn’t unfriendly. “You must be Sanji. I’m Nami.”

Sanji’s reaction was automatic. Reflex, not calculation. A beautiful woman, a warm introduction, and a gentle smile. He reached for her hand with the elegance of someone raised around white linen tablecloths and silver spoons. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. It is an honor and a pleasure to meet someone as lovely as you.”

He barely brushed her knuckles with his lips before her hand jerked out of his grasp.

“Ugh,” she snapped, her expression shifting from polite to sharp. “Not a fucking womanizer. Keep your lips to yourself, or you’ll end up with a black eye.”

The words hit harder than they should have. Sanji’s heart lurched, shame blooming hot under his skin. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, raising both hands in surrender. “Won’t happen again.”

“Better not,” she muttered, already turning toward Usopp. “You hear the copter while you were up there?”

“Not yet,” Usopp replied.

Nami scowled. “He probably got lost at the airport.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll wait up there anyway.” She shot Sanji a final glare before marching past, flip-flops slapping the deck as she continued up the stairs.

The silence left behind felt thick and awkward.

Usopp let out a low whistle. “Good going, bruh.”

Sanji’s face burned. His throat was dry. “She’s very beautiful,” he mumbled, as if that explained anything.

“So you thought that meant it was okay to kiss her? ” Usopp’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Seriously? Gross. You’re one of those guys?”

“No! I – I didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t like that.” But the shame twisted deeper now, because he had meant it in a way. Not seriously, not personally. Just the flirty reflex, the one that always used to get laughs or playful smacks from waitresses and tourists back at the Baratie. But this wasn’t a restaurant. And she wasn’t flirting back.

“We don’t do crap like that on this crew,” Usopp said, arms crossing tightly.

Sanji’s gut dropped. His hands curled in his pockets. He wanted to disappear. “No romance, got it,” he said, voice flat.

Usopp rolled his eyes. “Romance is fine. We’ve had a few actual relationships. Franky and Robin are a thing, and Nami’s still with Vivi even though she left the crew. But sexual harassment – that crap’s a no-go. For everyone.”

Sanji stared at the deck. He’d barely been aboard an hour and he’d already embarrassed himself. He’d pissed off Nami, and now Usopp probably thought he was a creep. The knot in his stomach tightened. “Won’t happen again,” he said quietly, meaning it with every fiber.

Usopp gave him one more long look, then turned away. “I need to check the equipment before we raise anchor. Think you can find your way around?”

Sanji nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He waited until Usopp disappeared before stepping out onto the open aft deck and lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. The wind lifted his hair, salty and cool, but it did nothing to clear the heat burning through him.

He leaned heavily on the railing, staring out over the harbor and cursing himself. He knew better. Zeff had warned him countless times to rein that shit in, that he couldn’t afford to act like some caricature of a gentleman whenever a pretty girl smiled at him, even though Zeff had taught him to do so in the first place. And here he was already screwing it up, first hour on the job, on a ship where everyone knew each other.

Stupid.

He flicked ash over the side and forced himself to take a long breath. He owed her another apology. A real one.

By the time he made it to the top deck, the sun had begun its slow slide downward, gilding the teak with warm orange light. The breeze smelled of salt, sunscreen, and faint teak oil. Nami sat casually on the built-in couch near the hot tub, one leg folded under her, eyes on her phone. Her flip-flops dangled loosely from her toes, which tapped absently in rhythm with some silent thought.

He cleared his throat gently.

She looked up, expression unreadable.

“I just…” He hesitated, shifting awkwardly. “I wanted to apologize again. I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. I didn’t mean to presume. It was automatic, not personal, and it was out of line.”

She watched him a beat longer than was comfortable, then blew a strand of hair from her face. “Whatever, loverboy. Brook asks to see my panties every time he gets drunk, so you’re in good company.”

Sanji grimaced. “Still… I’m sorry. Sincerely.”

That seemed to land. Her eyes softened just slightly.

After a long pause, she gave a small nod. “Apology accepted. Just keep your hands and lips to yourself, yeah?”

“I will,” he promised.

She went back to her phone. Sanji let the silence settle between them like a truce, then turned to leave – only to pause at the deep, rhythmic whump-whump that rolled through the air. The approaching chop of helicopter blades stopped him mid-step.

Nami looked up as well, shading her eyes against the sun. “That’ll be him.”

The sound grew quickly, loud enough to rattle the railings and lift stray strands of Nami’s hair. Sanji squinted toward the helipad at the stern as a sleek, high-end helicopter swept into view – a polished two-seater-plus cargo hold, its carbon-fiber rotors whispering with precision rather than roaring. The domed cockpit gleamed like smoked glass, catching sunlight in a prismatic arc. Its fuselage was pearl-white with gold trim, emblazoned with a discreet logo that screamed money without naming names. 

The chopper touched down with practiced ease, its rotors kicking up a roar that drowned out all conversation. A moment later, the passenger door opened and a man leapt out, ducking instinctively as he moved toward them. He was broad across the shoulders and carried himself with the relaxed control of someone used to motion and danger alike.

The helicopter lifted again, slicing back toward the mainland, leaving silence and the settling wash of displaced air in its wake.

The man straightened. Sanji got a proper look, and blinked. Another massive guy.

“Is there some kind of competition on who has the biggest pecs?” he muttered under his breath, dryly.

Nami snorted. “Actually, yeah. They do pose-offs and everything. Dumbass gym bros.”

The new arrival wore a crisp white dress shirt, tailored exceptionally well but clearly fighting a losing battle against the sheer size of his frame – biceps testing the seams, fabric snug across his chest. The rolled sleeves exposed thick, veined forearms. His dark dress pants clung to muscled thighs like a second skin, expensive and expertly fitted despite how brutally his body filled them out. He looked powerful, sharp, deliberate.

His hair was green – vivid green – and wild in a way that seemed naturally unruly rather than unkempt, like ivy climbing a stone wall. His jaw was square, chin dimpled, and a deep scar cut clean through his left eye, lending his face an austere, almost predatory intensity. He looked Japanese, probably, but it was hard to say. Three gold dangle earrings swung gently from his left ear, glinting in the sunlight.

He came to a stop in front of Sanji and extended a hand. “You the cook?”

Sanji hesitated. He’d just met two absolute powerhouses in Franky and Jinbe, but this guy was something else entirely. Closer to his own height and age – actually comparable – but still managing to feel larger somehow. Denser. He carried a quiet gravity, the kind that didn’t try to pull attention but did anyway. Like mass bending space without effort.

He shook the offered hand, bracing himself for a show-off grip, but it wasn’t. The handshake was firm, steady… intentional. “Yes. Sanji.”

There was a pause. A flicker of something – hesitation, maybe, or heat – passed through the other man's eyes. A faint flush crept across the bridge of his nose, subtle but unmistakable. He held Sanji’s hand a beat too long, his thumb brushing lightly along the side of Sanji’s knuckles before he seemed to catch himself.

“Zoro,” he said at last, voice low and gravel-edged, dropping the name like it was enough.

He pulled back, curled his fingers into a loose fist, and turned to Nami. “We good to go?”

“Just waiting on your slow ass,” she replied with familiar ease.

“Okay. I’m gonna change.” He gave Sanji a single, lingering nod, then disappeared below deck.

Sanji watched him go. There was a low hum under his skin, a buzz that had nothing to do with the cigarette he'd smoked or the sea air in his lungs. His hand tingled faintly where Zoro had held it.

“Talkative, isn’t he?” he muttered, aiming for sarcastic and landing somewhere closer to intrigued.

Nami laughed, slipping her phone into her pocket. “That was actually verbose for him.”

Sanji raised a brow, still watching the stairwell where Zoro had vanished.

“You been to the briefing room yet?” she asked.

“It was pointed out, but I haven’t been in.”

“C’mon,” she said, brushing past him. “We always hold a crew meeting before we head off on a search.”

Sanji followed, eyes lingering on the glint of sunlight off the helipad, the faint scent of jet fuel still clinging to the air. The buzzing in his chest hadn’t faded.

Nami led the way down one level to the main deck’s briefing room. The hallway was quiet, the soft hum of the ship’s systems running just under the sound of their footsteps. The briefing room was tucked behind a bulkhead door labeled Operations, and when she opened it, cool filtered air met them, tinged faintly with ozone and electronics.

The space inside was surprisingly refined, part tech-lab, part strategy war room. A large oval table dominated the center, bolted to the floor in polished steel. Ten ergonomic chairs ringed it in matching style, each mounted in place. One side of the room held a wall-mounted screen and multi-angle videoconferencing equipment, while the other held several built-in computers and a large illuminated map table. A laminated oceanographic chart lay unrolled and weighted in the center of the main table, the edges curling slightly with use. The walls were sound-dampened and matte, broken only by subtle storage compartments and a coffee station built into one corner.

Nami stepped inside, flipped on the overheads, and pressed a button beside the door. A soft chime echoed ship-wide, followed by her voice: “Meeting.”

She turned and pointed to one of the chairs near the middle. “You can take Vivi’s old seat, since you’re her replacement.”

“Thanks.” Sanji slid into the seat she indicated. It was surprisingly comfortable. He glanced at the space around him – sleek, well-used, but cared for. Like the rest of the ship. “Usopp mentioned Vivi was your… partner?”

“Girlfriend, yeah.” Nami walked around the table, re-centering the map with a practiced flick and tug. “Vivi went back to help her dad with the family business. She was always gonna take over someday. This just came a little sooner than we hoped.”

“You still get to see her though, right?”

“Anytime we’re not in the dry season, I head to Vegas.” Nami dropped into her seat, draping one leg lazily over the chair’s arm. She looked perfectly at home. “Not ideal, but I’ve done the eighteen-hour rat race and don’t plan on going back.”

Sanji knew what she meant. The dry season – December through April – was when the Caribbean and Sargasso were calm enough for real work: salvage dives, recovery ops, and treasure hunting. The rest of the year was scattered – maintenance, side contracts, waiting out storms, or drifting off to chase fragments of their other lives.

“Oh?” he asked, glancing her way. “What’d you do before this?”

Before she could answer, Jinbe and Franky strolled in, chatting low. They gave Sanji a nod of greeting.

“I worked for a company that designed nav systems,” Nami continued, eyes flicking to a notepad on the table. “My asshole boss took all the credit. I did most of the coding and none of the press conferences. When Luffy posted an ad looking for a navigator, I was gone within a week.”

Sanji blinked. She had that same quiet competence he’d already seen from Usopp. Resourceful. Capable. Grounded. Damn, these people were really doing it. No pretension, just working professionals with wild backstories.

The door opened again, and Chopper came in with Usopp behind him. Then another woman, who was tall, elegant, and graceful like a dancer, stepped through.

She had long, black, silky hair and a warm, Middle Eastern complexion, with eyes so dark they shimmered violet under the overhead lights. Her features were sharp and symmetrical, with a mouth that looked like it rarely gave anything away. Slacks and a collared silk blouse hugged her frame like they’d been tailored in Milan, and she moved with the unhurried grace of someone who didn’t need to rush to command attention.

Sanji felt the jolt of attraction instantly – of course he did. She was stunning. Sophisticated, polished, graceful. His type in the most superficial, knee-jerk way. The kind of beauty that turned heads and tightened throats. Nothing complicated, just a visceral wow.

But he didn’t lean in or let his mouth run off on autopilot. He didn’t flirt or reach for charm.

She walked straight to him and extended her hand. “Welcome. I’m Robin. We’ve been looking forward to your arrival.”

Sanji rose immediately – polite, composed, measured – and met her hand with a firm, respectful shake. “Thanks. I’ve been looking forward to it, too.”

That was it. No theatrics. No kiss to the hand.

He’d learned his lesson.

Her fingers were cool, her grip steady. She gave him an amused once-over, like she was cataloging something, and then slid into the seat across from Nami.

A moment later, a new presence burst in: tall, skeletally thin, with legs like stilts and an afro that almost brushed the top of the doorframe. The man grinned widely as he stepped forward, wearing an explosion of color: bell-bottoms, a tye-dye vest, and a long, knotted scarf that trailed behind him like a banner.

He looked ageless in an odd way, his face creased at the edges, like a man in his eighties who'd never quite slowed down, but his energy was bright and fast.

“Yo-ho-ho! Here is our new cook,” he declared, extending a hand. “I’m Brook. My stomach has been dying to meet you.”

Sanji couldn’t help the smile. “You’ll have to let me know your favorites.”

“Oh, I have a list. It’s alphabetical.”

“Of course it is,” Robin murmured fondly.

Brook folded himself neatly into a seat, humming something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like old jazz.

Then, like a change in barometric pressure, Zoro walked in.

He wore a loose black tank and black track pants, damp from a shower. His green hair was still tousled, a bit flattened on one side. A pale scar arced just below the collarbone, vanishing beneath the fabric. He carried a beer, condensation trailing down the bottle like sweat.

Sanji stiffened. His collar felt tight again.

Zoro didn’t glance around the room. Just dropped into the seat beside Sanji and took a long drink of his beer like he needed the distraction.

Sanji didn’t stare. Not really. Just glanced. Noted. Memorized. Okay, so apparently I’m into hot, scowling guys with absolutely zero social energy.

Zoro shifted slightly, and out of the corner of his eye, Sanji caught the faintest flick of a glance – sideways, quick. Their eyes met.

Zoro blinked, like he hadn’t meant to get caught. Then he looked away, a little too fast. The beer came up a heartbeat later, his sip slower than necessary, as if overcompensating for the misstep.

Sanji faced forward again, throat dry.

The last to enter was chaos incarnate: a man who barrelled into the room like a tornado. He wore flip-flops, shorts, and an unbuttoned red vest, exposing a gnarly X-shaped scar in the center of his chest. A straw hat was perched atop messy black hair, and a wide, feral grin split his face.

“Hey! Are you Sanji?” he asked, already halfway to his seat. “I’m Luffy! I’m the captain. Can you cook me meat?”

Sanji blinked. It was the same question Luffy had opened the interview with.

“I will,” he said.

“Great!” Luffy plopped into a chair with a satisfying thunk, slapping both sandaled feet up on the table and crossing his ankles. “Hurry up and start, Nami, so I can eat.”

“Get your stinky feet off my chart,” Nami said, smacking his ankles with a parallel ruler.

“OW. That hurt!”

“Good.”

Sanji sat quietly in the middle of it all, watching as the crew settled into their seats, chatting in low tones, exchanging looks and inside jokes. The ship's subtle vibration ran under his shoes and up through the chair. It was strange. He’d only been here a few hours, and already, something about this place hummed in tune with him.

He glanced at Zoro beside him, who was drinking his beer and resolutely not looking back, and felt something stir low in his chest.

Well, he thought, this is going to be interesting.

Nami gave Luffy another glare before addressing the room. “First order of business, our new chef is here.”

A round of cheers went up – Luffy’s loudest, followed by Franky’s booming whoop, Jinbe’s measured nod, Brook’s sing-song approval, and Chopper’s cheerful clap. Even Usopp gave a quick whistle through his fingers.

Sanji smiled faintly, still getting used to how big this crew felt – even in the small things, like a welcome. It was loud, warm, and oddly grounding.

“I’ll introduce everyone again in case you forgot,” Nami continued, rapping her ruler lightly on the edge of the chart table as she pointed. “I’m Nami, the navigator and quartermaster.” Her ruler shifted to Franky. “Franky, ship’s engineer. Usopp, ROV and equipment tech. Robin, archeologist, historian, and diver. Luffy, captain, salvage expert, and diver. Jinbe, helmsman and diver. Brook, remains curator and diver–”

“And musician!” Brook chimed in with a theatrical bow from his seat, drawing a few grins.

Nami rolled her eyes and went on. “Chopper’s our doctor. And Zoro–”

“Security,” Zoro cut in, voice dry, lifting his beer. “And master diver.”

Sanji cocked a brow at him. “Security? Doesn’t look like you’re any good at it.”

The words left before he could stop them: dry, offhanded, automatic. His stomach dropped half a second later.

Zoro’s glare flicked over to him, sharp enough to slice. The room held its breath... and then promptly burst into laughter.

“He’s got you there, bro!” Franky hooted.

“Burned,” Usopp cackled.

“Whatever,” Zoro muttered, taking a long drink, but the flush that hit his ears didn’t go unnoticed.

“Zoro was a Navy SEAL,” Chopper offered helpfully, looking at Sanji. “He could do security if he wants.”

Sanji blinked. That explained a few things, like why he was built like he bench-pressed tugboats for fun. “Ex-SEAL?” he asked.

“Medical discharge,” Zoro replied, motioning vaguely to his scarred eye with the neck of his bottle.

Sanji grimaced. Okay, maybe the quip had been a bit much. The guy probably got that injury in combat. Still, he didn’t take it back. Zoro looked like he could handle it.

“Okay, so Zoro is apparently our security,” Nami said dryly, like she wasn’t buying it either. “And Sanji is our new chef, who is also dive certified.”

“Nice,” Jinbe said, offering Sanji a firm nod. “We could always use more divers.”

Luffy tilted his head, staring at Zoro. “I thought you did the numbers stuff.”

Zoro shot him a flat look. “I also do the numbers stuff.”

“Oh. Okay.” Luffy shrugged, satisfied. “So, where are we going, Nami?”

Sanji blinked. Numbers? That was a strange role for a guy who just called himself security. Wasn’t Nami the quartermaster? 

Nami drew everyone’s attention back to the chart, tapping a quadrant outlined in red. “We… are going after the One Piece.”

The room shifted.

It was subtle – just a slight drop in volume, a sharpening of focus. Even the air felt heavier, filled with something electric and old. Hope, maybe. Or the memory of it.

“Really?” Luffy shot to his feet. “We found it?!”

“Possibly,” Nami said, glancing toward Robin. “Robin located a new, obscure reference to its last sighting, and based on the historical weather data from that time, we’ve narrowed it down to a possible quadrant.”

Robin nodded, graceful as ever. “Logs from the Oro Jackson were recently unearthed. I reviewed them during our last break. They mention speaking with the Laugh Tale crew who passed the One Piece, without realizing it, off their starboard side.”

Sanji exhaled through his nose. He didn’t recognize the name – One Piece – but the shift in the room was unmistakable. A pause in breath. A spark behind the eyes. Like someone had spoken a secret out loud. He didn’t know what it meant, but he could feel it, weighty, storied, like a myth with roots sunk deep into the bones of every person around him.

“If it’s not in this quadrant,” Nami continued, “we’ll shift to the one northwest. Unless I’m wrong about the wind currents from that era.”

“You’re never wrong about the weather,” Franky said, leaning in to examine the chart.

“Anything I should prep for now?” Jinbe asked, eyes on the projected path.

“NOAA’s tracking one late tropical storm off the African coast,” Nami said, flipping through data on a tablet. “But it shouldn’t reach us. We’re almost into the dry season.”

“This is in the Bermuda Triangle,” Usopp muttered. “I am deathly allergic to the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Oh no!” Chopper gasped, clutching his satchel. “I’d better check your epi-pens!”

“Ignore them,” Nami muttered, waving a hand. “It’ll take us about three days to reach the quadrant, then we’ll start the sonar runs south to north. That’ll leave us in the northwest corner of the grid if we have to shift the search to the next one.”

“Got that part?” Zoro asked, angling his head at Usopp.

“Yep.” Usopp gave a thumbs-up. “Programmed it last week. Already uploaded into the multibeam system. Receipt’s on your desk.”

Zoro gave a quiet grunt of approval, taking another slow drink from his bottle. Sanji watched him sidelong – half-casual, half-curious. Everyone kept accepting this security title without question, but Zoro didn’t move like a guy who spent his days pacing a deck with a walkie-talkie. He moved like someone used to solving problems before they started. Efficient. Calm. Dangerous.

And good at math, apparently.

Nami rolled up the chart. “Last call – anyone need anything from Miami?”

No one did.

“Great. Then we raise anchor and get underway.”

“I’m on it,” Jinbe said, rising.

“I’ll secure the launch bay,” Franky said, cracking his knuckles as he followed.

Sanji cleared his throat. “Uh, what time should I have dinner ready? Do you all eat at once, or…?”

“We eat when you tell us to,” Zoro said, rising with a faint creak of the chair.

Sanji looked up, startled – and was hit all over again by how damn solid the guy was, even in just a tank top and track pants. His arms were absurd. His shoulders should be illegal. The scar on his chest was easier to see now – deep, jagged. The beer looked stupidly small in his hand.

“Luffy, you got a minute?” Zoro asked.

“Sure!” Luffy popped up like a spring, then turned to Sanji with his usual grin. “Be sure to cook lots of meat!”

“I will,” Sanji said, watching them go. Zoro didn’t look back – but his ears were still a little pink. Huh.

The others began to file out, voices low and focused as the quiet energy of departure settled in. Charts were rolled, chairs tucked in, equipment talked over. It was like watching a machine shift into gear, every part oiled and practiced.

“Sanji,” Chopper piped up beside him, holding a tablet. “Can I get your medical info now? I’d like to update your file.”

“Of course,” Sanji said, standing. But his mind lingered on the One Piece. On this strange, loyal, chaotic crew. And on Zoro, whose glances and silences were starting to feel like riddles waiting to be solved.

Sanji did his best to remember the path back to his quarters, though the layout still messed with him. The ship was symmetrical in theory, but everything was flipped from how he’d studied it on the diagrams. He paused in front of a door that he hoped was the right one and reached for the latch.

“You’re next to me!” Chopper chirped from the hallway, clutching a small tablet and looking thrilled.

That settled it. Sanji opened the door, exhaling in relief when he saw his duffel.

He shifted it onto the bed. As Sanji dug through it, fingers brushing past clothes and the smooth leather roll of his knives, Chopper filled him in on the ins and outs of life aboard the Sunny, quick, chipper, like he’d rehearsed it.

“If you’re not working, your time’s your own,” he explained, perching on a small bench under the window. “Everyone has a main job and then we all pitch in for communal chores, like keeping the common rooms tidy, windows clean, decks mopped. The laundry machines are off the utility room, you have to do your own.” He paused to glance around. “You’re in charge of the galley, obviously. And keeping it clean. Plus, all the dishes.”

“That was mentioned in the job description,” Sanji said, finally tugging out the manila envelope with his medical records. He passed it over to Chopper, then asked the question that had been sitting in the back of his mind. “How’d you end up joining this crew?”

“Same as most of us except Luffy, Usopp, and Zoro,” Chopper replied, opening the envelope and scanning its contents quickly. “I answered an online ad for a ship’s medic. I was between residencies, and this sounded way more fun. Back then it was just Luffy, Usopp, Nami, and Vivi.”

Sanji leaned his shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. “So Luffy, Usopp, and Zoro - what, they were founding members?”

Chopper nodded. “Usopp went to high school with Luffy and Zoro. And Luffy and Zoro have known each other since they were kids. Luffy’s grandpa is a Navy admiral. He got Zoro into the SEALs after high school.”

That explained… way too much, honestly.

“Hey, did you know Zoro’s, like, a world-famous swordsman?” Chopper added brightly, as if casually tossing out that someone next door could split a bullet midair for fun.

Sanji blinked. “A what now?”

“A swordsman! Like, real deal. He won the All Japan Kendo Championship twelve years running. That’s the most prestigious one. And he took the World Kendo title three times in a row, back-to-back, before he had to drop out because of Navy stuff. That one’s only held every four years! Isn’t that the coolest?”

Sanji raised his eyebrows. “Seriously? I thought he was just built like a tank for fun.”

“Nope. He’s kinda a big deal,” Chopper said proudly, like Zoro’s achievements reflected directly on him.

Sanji gave a slow nod. “Well… makes double sense he’s security, then.”

Chopper giggled in that weird, high-pitched way that somehow made Sanji want to smile even when he was still processing the info dump. “I guess so.”

Sanji let it sink in. The guy had the body of a powerlifter and the résumé of a legend. A swordsman. A Navy SEAL. A math guy? The contradictions were stacking up.

“I’m gonna go enter this into the medical database,” Chopper said, hopping off the bench with his tablet and the manila envelope hugged to his chest. “Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m good. Gonna unpack and check out the galley, see what I’ve got to work with and start on dinner.”

“Oh, right!” Chopper paused in the doorway. “Use the intercom if you need to call everyone. Otherwise, you’ll waste hours trying to hunt people down. Except me. I’m usually in the infirmary, or in the lounge on the main deck.”

“Thanks, Chopper.”

“I don’t need your thanks, asshole!” Chopper called with a cheeky little dance as he disappeared down the hall. “Welcome to the Straw Hat crew!”

Sanji couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth. The kid was ridiculous, in the best way.

He turned back to the room and looked around again. It still felt more like a boutique hotel than a ship’s quarters – comfort without flash, but not without cost. Everything smelled faintly of sea air, citrus cleaner, and something older – wood and oil, maybe. The ship had history in it, layers of it, like the seasoning on a good cast iron skillet.

Unpacking was fast, but it made the space feel like his. He shoved the empty duffel into the bottom of the wardrobe, splashed cold water on his face in the en suite, and ran a towel over the back of his neck. A deep breath helped settle the fluttery mix of nerves and adrenaline still buzzing under his skin. Then he straightened his collar, checked his reflection in the polished porthole glass, and headed for the galley. He had a kitchen to inspect, and dinner to earn his keep.

Zoro headed for the gym, Luffy in tow, the empty beer bottle in his hand clinking softly as he dropped it into the deck-mounted recycling bin with a practiced flick. The sound echoed faintly in the corridor behind them. There was a buzz under his skin that had nothing to do with the beer and everything to do with the blond who’d just joined their crew.

He flipped on the lights as they stepped inside, and the fluorescents flickered to life in slow waves, casting a pale glow across the room. The air held a dry warmth, humming faintly with the distant pulse of the ship’s systems. It smelled like iron and salt, like sweat sunk deep into the rubber matting – clean, but lived in. Familiar. Comforting.

This was Zoro’s territory.

The gym was generous by ship standards – double-doored and climate controlled, with a quiet, focused kind of stillness. Weight machines lined the starboard wall, matte steel gleaming faintly under the lights. A full rack of free weights sat beneath a wall-length mirror on the port side, the dumbbells arranged in perfect order. Two treadmills and a stationary bike faced a black flat-screen, while most of the aft floor was covered by a well-worn sparring mat, its edges just beginning to fray from years of use.

A heavy bag hung from a reinforced beam, swaying faintly in the ship’s subtle motion. In the corner, a pull-up bar, resistance bands, and jump ropes hung neatly, with kettlebells in graduated rows like squat iron sentinels.

Zoro used all of it. Every day.

The others drifted in and out – Brook on the bike with headphones, Nami pushing her limits on the treadmill, Franky and Jinbe turning lifting sessions into competitions. But the soul of the space belonged to Zoro. He had ordered every piece of equipment, checked each bolt, installed half the gear with his own hands.

When nothing else made sense, when grief surged and pressed in like water around a sinking hull, this was where he came to breathe. Where the world narrowed to movement, muscle, and breath. And in that rhythm, he could still feel like himself.

Luffy dropped onto the stationary bike and started pedaling without touching the resistance. “So, what’s up?” he asked, glancing over.

Zoro set an empty bar on the bench press and rolled his shoulders. “Just… wanted to explain the security thing.”

“Yeah, that was weird,” Luffy said with a grin. “Since when do we need security?”

“I just–” Zoro exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Accounting isn’t very… sexy.”

Luffy blinked. “You want to be sexy?”

“Gah. Don’t say it like that.” Zoro grimaced. “It sounds disgusting.”

And pathetic, he added silently.

Luffy’s eyes lit up. “You like Sanji!”

“Shh–” Zoro’s head whipped toward the door. The smoked glass panel showed a smear of movement in the lounge beyond – Robin and Usopp chatting about something. No one paying attention. Still. “I don’t like him. I just met him.”

But the attraction was real. Fast and visceral. Sanji had shaken his hand and something inside Zoro had gone sharp and quiet. It wasn’t just that he was hot – he was, in that lean, infuriating way Zoro had always been weak for – but it was also the confidence. The edge. The way he held back like he’d already seen too much.

Zoro hadn’t felt that flicker of interest in anyone in years. Not since the loss that had hollowed him out so thoroughly he hadn’t even looked sideways at another person. Not even when he tried.

“Zoro, this is great!” Luffy bounded off the bike and flung his arms around Zoro’s shoulders. The slight weight of Luffy’s grip pressed against his back, the faint scent of salt and sweat clinging to him. “Are you gonna ask him out?”

“What? No.” Zoro shoved at him, muscles tense beneath his shirt, but Luffy just clung tighter, fingers digging into his shoulders like stubborn vines. “He’s on the crew.”

“So?” Luffy hung from his back now, chin hooked over Zoro’s shoulder, his voice light but insistent. The steady thump of Luffy’s heartbeat against Zoro’s spine was almost hypnotic. “That’s, like, perfect.”

“It would be weird.” Zoro’s voice was low, edged with frustration.

“So?” 

Zoro rolled his eye and, with practiced ease, flipped Luffy clean over his shoulder. The heavy thud of Luffy hitting the padded mat was muffled but satisfying, the slight bounce under his body pressing into Zoro’s palms. Zoro dropped to a knee, the cool vinyl floor grounding him, even as Luffy immediately squirmed beneath him like a slippery octopus caught in a headlock.

“Isn’t that enough?” Zoro muttered, breath steady but eye wary.

“Oof – nope.” Luffy twisted beneath him, the rustle of clothes and the scent of his energy filling the air as he tried to grab for a leg. “You should go for it.”

“What if–” Zoro froze mid-sentence.

What if it wasn’t fair? What if trying again felt like betraying the memory of what he’d lost? What if he’d never be that person again – the one who loved without hesitation or fear?

The ache coiled deep behind his ribs, sharp and relentless, just like it always did when his thoughts drifted there. Six years had passed, but the pain still crept in, silent as a ghost, settling deep in his bones like a cold shadow he could never fully shake.

Luffy stopped struggling, his brown eyes locked on Zoro’s face. All the mischief gone. “It’s okay to want something again.”

Zoro pressed his palm to his eye, sudden heat building behind the lid. He wasn’t going to cry. That had been years ago. Long nights. Endless, gutting ones. This wasn’t that.

Still, he stayed like that a beat too long, the silence folding in around them like a blanket. Luffy scooted over and slung an arm around his shoulder, loose and easy, just enough pressure to say I’m here. Still here.

Like he’d been from the start.

Zoro let the weight sit there a minute. Let it be a tether.

When his breath evened out, he dropped his hand and blinked away the sting. The room felt real again. Grounded. Solid.

Luffy bumped him with his shoulder. “Want me to spot you?”

Zoro huffed out a dry laugh. “Fuck, yes.”

He got to his feet and headed for the bench. The numbers would help. The strain. The rhythm. He’d lose himself in the lift and maybe, just maybe, figure out what the hell to do about the new cook. Eventually.

Possibly.

Indefinitely.

Sanji set the last dish carefully on the long dining table, stepping back to take it all in. The dining area on the Sunny was a distinct space, separate from the galley and adjacent to the lounge, accessed by a short hallway just across from the stairs. Warm light from an iron-barred chandelier overhead cast soft shadows on the polished wooden floorboards, reflecting off the crystal-clear glassware. Nine places were meticulously set with plates, bowls, neatly folded napkins, and polished utensils, all arranged with practiced precision. The platters of food sat invitingly at the center, filling the air with a tantalizing medley of scents.

He’d settled on a menu of burgers and hot dogs, Franky’s favorite, and Luffy’s enthusiastic request for “meat.” The aft deck grill had been fired up, with steaks added to the mix for a touch of indulgence. Of course, it wouldn’t be Sanji without a twist: variations of spiced burgers, homemade vegan patties, and an array of hot dog styles – Chicago, Sonoran, chili dogs – all lined up side by side. He usually preferred baking his own buns, but pressed for time, he’d chosen the stocked store-bought options. A fresh salad and sides of homemade coleslaw, crispy fries, sweet potato fries, and golden onion rings rounded out the feast. Condiments and toppings were artfully arranged on the table, while pitchers of water, iced tea, and lemonade cooled alongside an ice bucket stocked with beer and sodas.

Satisfied, Sanji peeled off his apron and hung it neatly in the galley before pressing the intercom button. His voice echoed through the ship’s corridors. “Dinner is served in the dining area.”

His fingers brushed the collar of his shirt nervously, heart beating faster than he cared to admit. The food would speak for itself – he was confident in that – but this first meal was more than sustenance. It was a statement: this was his place now, and he needed the crew to accept him. He’d already stumbled with Nami, Usopp, and maybe Zoro over his eye, and he wasn’t about to give them any more reasons to doubt him.

The door burst open and Luffy barreled in first, eyes wide and gleaming with hunger. A dribble of drool escaped the corner of his mouth as he exclaimed, “Look at all the meat!”

Robin followed with a graceful smile, her eyes dark and thoughtful under the warm light. “This looks wonderful, Sanji.”

“Please enjoy,” Sanji said, forcing his tone polite and keeping any flirtatious impulse firmly in check. He knew she was with Franky, and he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself again.

Nami and Brook entered together, both nodding appreciatively at the spread. Then Chopper, Jinbe, Usopp, and Franky came as a group, their expressions lighting up with oohs and aahs.

“This is great, bro,” Franky said, loading his plate high with burgers and dogs.

Sanji gestured toward the vegan options. “I wasn’t sure about dietary restrictions, so I made choices for everyone.”

Chopper piped up, “Zoro’s really the only one – he’s lactose intolerant.”

Sanji glanced at the empty seat beside him, noting Zoro’s absence. “Does he not eat with you?”

“He went to shower,” Luffy answered between bites.

“Since when does Zoro shower?” Nami scoffed.

Luffy shrugged. “We were in the gym. He said he wanted to shower.”

Nami exchanged a sharp look with Usopp and Robin. Usopp shrugged with a curious glint in his eye, while Robin’s thoughtful tilt of the head suggested she was piecing something together. Sanji watched them, confused, but it made sense to him. After a gym session, a shower was normal.

Jinbe nodded toward the empty seat. “Aren’t you joining us?”

“Oh, I already ate,” Sanji said with a small smile. “It helps me serve more freely.”

Robin’s eyes softened. “That’s admirable, but we prefer your company at the table, not as a waiter.”

The others murmured their agreement, and Sanji felt a flush of warmth at the invitation. “I could grab a plate…”

“Please do,” Robin encouraged.

Excusing himself, Sanji returned to the galley to fetch a plate and napkin. As he emerged, Zoro came up the steps, wearing a light blue t-shirt and a different pair of track pants. His damp hair was spiked wildly as if he’d simply towel-dried it. The pink flush creeping up Zoro’s cheeks caught Sanji’s attention immediately.

“Uh, hi,” Zoro said, voice low.

Sanji felt the familiar electric tingle of attraction, but kept it to himself. “Hey. Dinner’s on the table.”

“Yeah.” Zoro shifted nervously on bare feet. “Wanted to shower. I was in the gym.”

“Luffy said so.” Sanji hugged the plate to his chest like a virginal suitor. Ridiculous, but true. “It’s appreciated.”

Zoro’s lips twitched into an off-kilter smile. “Okay. Good.”

It was a strange thing to say, but Sanji found himself caught up in that smile. “Good.”

The silence stretched, thick with something neither wanted to name. Zoro grimaced suddenly. “Well, I’m hungry,” he said, turning away.

Sanji followed more slowly, chastising himself. What was wrong with him? He was usually smoother, even with men. Maybe it was the gym-bro vibe, or the way Zoro seemed so different from anyone he’d been attracted to in years.

Back in the dining room, Sanji took the empty seat beside Usopp and Jinbe. Across from him, Zoro was guzzling beer, his focus laser-sharp on his meal, loading his plate with steak, sweet potato fries, and a mound of salad, eating like the meal was his anchor. Sanji piled fries on his own plate, dusting them with vinegar, and joined the easy chatter around the table. Watching Zoro’s appetite stirred something warm and unexpected inside him, a crush blooming faster than he’d anticipated.

“So, Sanji, how’d you learn to cook like this?” Franky asked, mouth full. “These burgers are chef’s kiss. Better than Vivi’s– uh…” He glanced at Nami. “Not that Vivi wasn’t good.”

Nami snorted. “Nice save.”

“I second that,” Jinbe said. “Never thought hot dogs could taste this good.”

Sanji’s chest swelled a bit with pride. “I’ve been in the kitchen for thirty years. Figured I’d pick up a thing or two.”

“Thirty years?” Brook teased, peering over his glasses. “Did you start cooking in diapers?”

Sanji chuckled. “Almost. Since I was eight.”

“You’re thirty-eight?” Usopp said, eyebrows raised.

Sanji nodded.

“Same age as Zoro!” Luffy said, mouth still full.

Sanji glanced at Zoro, whose head remained bowed over his food. “Is that so?”

“Yeah!” Luffy beamed. “Me and Usopp are thirty-six, Nami’s thirty-seven, and Chopper’s thirty-four. Everyone else is old.”

Brook raised an eyebrow. “I prefer OG, though my bones agree with ‘old.’”

Sanji looked at Robin, Franky, and Jinbe – fit and healthy, but with a few more lines than the younger ones. Robin caught his gaze and offered a wry smile. “I’m forty-seven. Franky’s fifty-three.”

Jinbe lifted his beer. “Sixty-three.”

Sanji blinked in surprise. “Never would’ve guessed.”

Brook nodded. “‘A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.’ John Barrymore. I subscribe.”

Jinbe raised his glass with a grin. “Here, here.”

Usopp leaned forward, burger half in hand, eyes bright with curiosity. “What else can you tell us about yourself, Sanji? Like, what do you do for fun?”

Sanji cleared his throat, relieved that Usopp no longer seemed irritated with him. “Oh, well, uh… I do taekwondo and run marathons.”

Usopp blinked, brow furrowed. “You run marathons for fun? I’m having a heart attack just thinking about it.”

Chopper cocked his head, eyes wide with interest. “Taekwondo? That’s a martial art, right?”

Sanji nodded, smiling. “It’s Korean, focused mostly on kicking, but there are hand strikes, blocks, and joint locks too.”

“That’s cool,” Chopper grinned, “Jinbe does karate.”

Sanji glanced at Jinbe, who gave a slow, approving nod. “Shotokan-ryu style,” Jinbe said. “Maybe we could spar sometime. We have the pads.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sanji said easily, glad for the idea. He’d been wondering how to keep in shape beyond solo gym workouts.

Nami, voice dripping with faux sweetness, piped up, “Zoro does kendo.”

The comment made Zoro glance up sharply, eye narrowing, a faint flush rising in his cheeks.

Sanji caught the subtle shift and smiled, leaning toward Zoro. “Chopper told me something about you being a world-famous swordsman.”

Zoro waved it off casually. “That was a while ago.”

Sanji teased lightly, “Swords not really needed for security, then?”

A ripple of laughter bubbled around the table. Zoro’s ears flushed an angry red. “No,” he snapped, glaring at the crew. “Stop laughing.”

Nami grinned wickedly. “But you make it so easy.”

“Shut up, witch,” Zoro muttered.

Sanji frowned. “Don’t talk to a lady like that.”

Zoro looked toward him, but Nami cut in with a sharp smile. “Don’t need your help, loverboy.”

Sanji cringed internally. Not again. His cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Right. My apologies.”

Nami rolled her eyes but moved on smoothly. “Did anyone notice the satellite internet flickering earlier?”

“Yes,” Robin replied, eyes thoughtful. “While I was doing research, it went off twice.”

Franky nudged Robin playfully. “I’ll look into it. Wouldn’t want my babe here to be cut off.”

As the conversation drifted around him, Sanji’s fingers absently traced the edges of the cigarette pack nestled in his pocket. A quiet sigh escaped him, not loud enough to draw attention, but heavy with self-reproach. He’d clearly spent too many hours locked away in the kitchen, sharpening his knives and honing recipes, and far too few mingling with people. It had been years since he’d been on a proper date, maybe too many to count. Zeff’s old-fashioned code about how a gentleman should treat a lady echoed stubbornly in his mind, making every misstep feel all the more glaring. The world had changed, but some lessons lingered, and tonight, Sanji felt the weight of that stubborn tradition pressing down on his awkwardness.

He ate the last bites of his meal in silence, half-tuned to the easy chatter around him. Compliments and thanks floated his way, and he returned them with polite smiles, grateful for the warmth but still feeling slightly out of place. Slowly, the crew started to filter away to their evening routines.

Sanji stood, shoulders stiff, and began clearing the table. He glanced back toward the empty spot where Zoro had been, still flushed, still distant, but somehow present. A quiet pang struck him.

I’ll figure this out. Just gotta give it time... and maybe learn to stop messing up so much.

The dining room settled into a soft quiet, scented with fading spices and wood polish, the comforting heartbeat of the ship gently thrumming through the floorboards beneath his feet.

It was still dark when Sanji woke.

His alarm buzzed soft against the quiet, just shy of five. Outside the porthole, the sea lay glassy and black, horizon lost in pre-dawn haze. The ship creaked faintly around him, restless, alive, but sleeping. He rolled out of bed and stretched his arms overhead, the ache in his shoulders familiar, welcome.

Most of the morning’s breakfast would rely on staples: toast, cereal, fruit. Easy. But he’d still fry bacon and eggs, sausage and pancakes. A proper menu could wait. He needed the run more.

He pulled on a pair of black running shorts and a faded brown tank stamped with NYC Marathon 2015, the letters cracked and curling at the edges. The cotton was soft from years of wear. A towel over one shoulder, a filled water bottle in hand, he stepped out into the dim hallway, the soles of his sneakers quiet on the metal floor.

The gym was up one level. When he reached the door, it was dark. He flipped the lights on.

They came alive in slow sequence: overhead fluorescents humming to life, casting long shadows across stacked plates and benches. Chrome gleamed faintly under the sudden glow. The air was a mix of old sweat, rubber matting, and sharp cleaner – disinfectant that never quite cut through the history of use. It felt like a place meant for pain and purpose. Serious. Focused.

Sanji stepped inside. It was his first time here, but it was easy to see who it belonged to. Heavy weights. Custom grips. A punching bag already fraying at the seams. With three lifters on board, of course this place was serious.

But it was empty. Good.

He set his water bottle and phone into the treadmill caddy, draped the towel over the arm rail, and dropped into his stretches. Limber, efficient, no wasted movement. He had thirteen miles ahead of him. A half-marathon. A two-hour push, give or take.

With time for a shower, that’d put him in the galley around seven-thirty. Breakfast plated by eight-thirty. Franky had said most of the crew rose by eight, except for Chopper, who preferred to sleep in. Good to know. He liked schedules. Baselines.

Sanji popped in his earbuds, tapped a playlist – rhythmic, even-tempo beats – and hit start.

He began at a walk. Then a jog. Then the easy glide of distance running took over.

By mile seven, the ship had vanished from his mind. It was just him, the treadmill, and the burn in his thighs. His tank stuck to his chest and spine, plastered dark with sweat. Salt stung his eyes. His breath moved on autopilot – measured, focused. Each inhale deepened the ache in his lungs, but it was the kind of ache that made him feel alive.

That was when he saw it. Movement in the mirror. A shadow. Then form.

Zoro.

He stood in the doorway, towel draped over one shoulder, dressed in loose shorts and a black ribbed tank. His hair was damp at the edges, like he’d washed his face but hadn’t showered. The hallway light carved him in silhouette. And he wasn’t moving.

He just stood there. Staring at Sanji’s back. Like he wasn’t sure whether he was interrupting something – or walking into something he didn’t want to face.

Sanji’s breath faltered – just a beat – and then settled again. He kept his stride. Focused forward. His pulse skittered once under his skin, sharp and annoying.

He had it bad. Ridiculously bad.

Zoro looked… not nervous, exactly. But uncertain. Like the room was suddenly unfamiliar. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to stay.

Then, finally, he stepped inside.

Sanji didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge him. But he saw it all in the mirror: the hesitation, the way Zoro’s jaw flexed as he dropped his towel on the nearest bench. He began to stretch, arms raised, back long and tight, slow like he was buying time. He didn’t say a word. Not a hello. No nod. If Sanji hadn’t spotted him in the mirror, he wouldn’t have known he was there.

But he was there. And Sanji felt it.

The weight of him. The heat.

He didn’t slow his run, pushed through another mile. The rubber flooring had gone slick with condensation. Every few steps, a droplet of sweat hit the treadmill, darkening the belt. This was his time, his space. So what if he was a sweaty, smelly mess? This was a gym. Everyone smelled like that eventually.

Still, his eyes drifted again to the mirrored wall.

Zoro moved from stretch to circuit, hitting the kettlebells, then the pulley rack. His arms flexed with each motion, pure economy, no wasted effort. He didn’t train like someone chasing fitness. He moved like a man who’d once had to rely on strength to stay alive. Brutal, focused, stripped-down. There was a precision in the way his muscles coiled and released, in the rhythm of his breath, in the deliberate way he reset his grip.

Sanji shouldn’t be staring. He wasn’t obvious. He’d always been good at hiding that sort of thing.

But it got harder with each glance. Zoro’s tank rode up when he reached. His breath hitched now and then under exertion, muscles straining under sweat-slicked skin. He wasn’t making a show of it, not at all. He was just… real. Unapologetic.

God, what would those arms feel like around him?

Sanji took a sip of water and pretended it wasn’t because his mouth had gone dry.

Then, Zoro looked at him.

Just a glance – measuring, analytical. As if checking Sanji’s form, maybe his stamina. Something impersonal.

The second glance came later, after a change in angle. Sanji was mid-stride, and Zoro’s eye caught him again. That time, it lingered. A frank appraisal, starting at Sanji’s calves and working up, landing squarely on his face before jerking away again. 

Sanji pretended not to notice. He kept his posture perfect. But his heart, already pounding from exertion, felt like it had changed tempo.

The third glance was different.

Zoro sat hunched on a bench, towel draped around his neck. He’d been lifting heavy – dumbbells the size of Chopper – and now his arms rested on his thighs, knuckles white. Something in his face, something small and buried, cracked. Not surprise. Not recognition.

Grief.

A flicker of it, fast and unguarded. Like something he hadn’t meant to feel had just surged up without warning. A memory. A loss.

And guilt. So sharp and quick it made Sanji’s stomach twist.

Zoro’s gaze dropped fast. Jaw clenched. He wiped his face like he could scrub it away.

Sanji blinked, thrown. He didn’t know Zoro, not really. Just… impressions. Glances. But something about that look, that fracture – it dug in.

He ran another half mile, but the rhythm had left him. His breath had grown too shallow. Muscles tight.

So he slowed into a cooldown walk. Pulled out his earbuds. The gym was suddenly too quiet, even with the fans buzzing overhead.

Sanji drank the last of his water, wiped sweat from his neck, and turned.

Zoro was still moving, now working his triceps like nothing had happened. Focused. Unreadable again.

Sanji didn’t pretend he hadn’t seen him.

“Zoro,” he said, voice even.

Zoro didn’t look up. “Sanji.”

“Breakfast at eight-thirty.”

“Great.”

Sanji hesitated. The conversation hovered there, limp, like a thread half-knotted and dropped. Zoro just kept going, lifting like the movement kept something inside from breaking open.

“Later, then,” Sanji said.

“Later.”

The door eased shut behind him, and the hallway felt too cool after the weight of that room. Sanji let out a long breath, rubbed the towel over his neck. Whatever had cracked in Zoro this morning – grief, memory, pain – it wasn’t about him.

But god, he felt it anyway.

Zoro had a headache.

Not a big one, just the “I’m thinking too much about something I don’t want to think about” kind that throbbed irritably behind his dead eye. Which, considering he was thinking too much about the whole Sanji thing, made a lot of sense. Still, it was annoying. And it put him in a mood.

Why couldn’t they have hired an ugly cook? Or a woman? Zoro didn’t do women. Everything would be fine, then. Easy. Professional. Instead, they’d hired someone who was making it hard to sleep and giving him headaches because he couldn’t stop swinging between wanting to try and feeling like it would dishonor everything that came before.

It had been six years since his world fell apart. He’d lost his eye, lost the right to wear the trident, and then lost the only person who made it all worth it – one crash after another. A bleak, disorienting time that scraped the marrow from his bones and left only a hollow shell behind. He’d only survived it because of Luffy’s inescapable presence. As chaotic and excitable as Luffy was, he never tried to force Zoro to be happy, never tried to fix it. He’d just been there. A solid anchor at the bottom of Zoro’s grief-riddled ocean. Letting him drown just enough, but never all the way.

It took nearly a year to feel like he could function again. He stopped scrolling through old texts in the middle of the night. Stopped blaming himself every time he looked at a photo. Stopped waking up in a cold sweat and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Luffy dragged him off for the dry season on the Merry, just to breathe sea air, fish, and work out in their cramped gym with cracked mirrors and mismatched mats. Usopp, Vivi, Nami, Chopper, and Robin gave him space, but also included him – always with care, never with pity.

Eventually, things righted themselves just enough that he wanted to work again. Do something. Be something. He finished out the season diving salvage with Luffy’s crew. When a storm took out the Merry during the off-season, Zoro didn’t hesitate – he funded a new ship himself, one worthy of the people who’d helped him claw his way back to the surface.

They brought on Franky when the Sunny was finished. He’d helped design and build her, after all. Brook and Jinbe joined within two years. Zoro stayed on as a master diver and accountant. He’d always been good with numbers, and it made sense, considering he was the one with the funds. The Straw Hat Corporation had done okay running the Merry, enough to keep six people afloat and a boat in the water. But now? They didn’t need to worry. Any profit they made got funneled into helping other salvagers, rebuilding coastal towns, supporting vet-run nonprofits.

Things were good. Not perfect. Not even close. But good enough that Zoro could breathe. Could laugh. Could want things again.

And now a blond-haired cook was ruining all of that.

Sanji hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just… there. Gorgeous. Capable. Constant in a way that made no sense for someone who’d only been onboard one fucking day. One group text interview, that was it. Zoro hadn’t even replied in the chat, just watched silently as the guy answered question after question in clean, concise messages – punctuated with the occasional dry quip that made even Nami laugh – and then sent two words when it was done: your hired.

Sanji had responded: Do you mean “you’re”?

Zoro had stared at the screen for a solid minute, scowling like the correction had personally insulted him. It wasn’t even rude. Just fast, sharp, and annoying in a way that made it hard to ignore. Like the man already knew how to push his buttons and wasn’t even trying. He should’ve taken the warning. Should’ve known then that the guy was going to be a problem.

Zoro had pictured someone cocky. Too smooth. Maybe kind of showboaty. He figured the guy would blow it with someone on the crew and make things easy to write off. But then Sanji had arrived looking hot in fitted clothes that didn’t try too hard, with eyes sharp enough to cut and a presence that somehow filled the room without him even saying much.

Then dinner happened.

Sanji’s food was excellent, and it was only steaks, burgers, and hot dogs. Zoro hadn’t known what to expect from someone hired over group text, but it wasn’t this. Wasn’t a guy who could plate gourmet hot dogs while holding his own in a room full of big personalities, shrug off praise with a modest grin, and casually admit he’d been cooking since he was eight like it wasn’t impressive.

The crew had warmed to him fast. Too fast. Usopp was already asking personal questions. Chopper was grinning ear to ear. Even Jinbe wanted to spar. It was the kind of dinner that should’ve been normal, easy. But Zoro had barely said a word. He’d kept his head down, let his food speak for him, because every time he looked up, Sanji was laughing or trading banter or glancing his way with eyes that were too damn observant.

He hadn’t meant to snap. Not really. But the moment Sanji called him out for insulting Nami, something in Zoro’s chest tightened – guilt, pride, defensiveness, he didn’t even know. It had been a joke, like always. A stupid one. Still, hearing him say it – Don’t talk to a lady like that – hit like a slap.

And then Sanji fumbled. Apologized to Nami when she called him out. Zoro had caught the look, how Sanji’s shoulders sagged just slightly after the crew moved on, like he was disappointed in himself. It shouldn’t have mattered.

But it did.

Zoro couldn’t explain why it hit him so hard. It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t fair. But some part of him, wound tight and left too long without touch, had taken one look at a guy who wasn’t even flirting with him and decided, that one. Just from a goddamn chat thread and one dinner.

He’d seen the profile picture: a half-lit shot with messy hair and a crooked grin. That should’ve been fine. But the real thing was worse. The way Sanji moved. The low rasp of his voice. The little smirk when something landed right. It all lodged somewhere in Zoro’s head like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

And the gym session had not helped. Sanji in shorts that clung and rode up with every running step, showing thighs like marble and golden hair that caught the light. A tank that revealed far too much lean muscle, dark with sweat, his goatee damp and glinting under his lower lip. There was even chest hair. Golden, curling chest hair.

It was unfair. Zoro had always been a sucker for sweat and effort. The smell of exertion. The sheen of it. The taste. And Sanji was just… too much.

They’d exchanged words in the gym – something vague and awkward – and then Sanji had left, towel slung around his neck, like he hadn’t just punched Zoro’s brain full of static. Zoro had stared after him, dumbbells forgotten, thinking maybe he should knock his own teeth in and save himself the trouble.

He wanted a sign. Some divine thumbs-up. A ghost dropping in to say it’s okay to want something again. To try. But no ghost came. So he waffled between guilt and longing, memory and need, until his head felt like it was caving in.

After finishing his workout, he hit the showers and changed into track pants and a sleeveless t-shirt, his usual shipwear. And if he ironed the shirt first? That was between him and the fabric steamer.

He climbed the stairs to the main deck, then crossed into the lounge, its low leather couches still scattered with someone’s game controllers and a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. From there, a short hallway led into the dining room, a separate, wood-paneled space with three long windows, warm yellow lighting, and a sturdy dark table long enough to seat all ten crew members. The smell of citrus polish lingered from the night before. Mellow rock filtered in from speakers overhead.

Robin was already seated at the end nearest the window, one leg crossed over the other, a digital tablet in her hands. Her coffee steamed delicately in a stone-blue mug. Someone – probably Sanji – had already set out the carafes: tea, coffee, and fresh-squeezed juices. There were bowls of cereal, pitchers of milk, fresh-cut fruit, and a tray of tiny croissants still warm and wrapped in a folded towel.

Zoro poured himself a glass of orange juice, the tang hitting his nose pleasantly, and wondered if it would be pushing it to ask for a protein shake.

“Morning, Zoro,” Robin murmured without looking up. “Your shirt looks nice.”

Zoro felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. “Shut up.”

Robin gave him a sidelong smile, more amused than teasing.

He exhaled through his nose. “Does everyone know?”

“No.” She tapped her tablet thoughtfully. “Nami, Usopp, and I suspected. But you’ve only just confirmed it.”

“Great.” Zoro chomped into a croissant like it had personally offended him.

“If it’s any consolation,” Robin went on mildly, “Nami’s hoping you’ll distract him enough that he’ll stop putting his foot in his mouth. Apparently, he kissed her hand when they first met.”

Zoro stared. “And he’s still alive?”

“Nami set him straight. He apologized. More than once.”

Zoro picked up an apple and turned it by the stem. “Think he likes only women?” he asked, trying to sound neutral. It didn’t work.

Robin hummed lightly. “Perhaps we should ask him.”

Footsteps in the hall made Zoro flinch. He turned, and there was Sanji, walking in with platters balanced effortlessly on each arm, smelling like lemon soap and whatever spiced cologne he used that shouldn’t have smelled so damn good at breakfast.

“Ask who?” Sanji said, stepping inside.

Zoro’s face burned. “No one.”

“If it’s not too presumptuous,” Robin said traitorously, “we were curious about your dating preferences.”

Sanji faltered. His eyes cut to Zoro, assessing, then quickly away again. “I’m open to either gender,” he said carefully. “Is that… a problem?”

“Not at all,” Robin said, sipping her coffee. “In fact, I believe the information is welcome.”

Zoro wondered how badly Franky would beat him if he threw Robin overboard.

“Of course,” she continued, “it would be irrelevant if you were in a relationship.”

Sanji placed the platters down and shook his head. “Uh, no. I’m single.” His voice was warm, but slightly uncertain, like he wasn’t sure where the conversation was going.

Maybe Zoro would toss Robin a float ring. Later. Maybe.

Sanji glanced between them. “You’re with Franky, right?”

Robin nodded. “Four years together. Married for three.”

“That’s nice,” Sanji said, genuine. “I always hoped to find someone like that.”

“Perhaps you will.” She glanced meaningfully at Zoro. “Maybe someday soon.”

Nope. Cancel the float ring. Let her drown.

Sanji blinked. “Uh… okay?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Zoro snapped. “She’s full of shit.”

“Don’t talk about a lady–” Sanji caught himself, and Zoro watched the visible stutter of his thoughts. That old gallantry clashing with the teasing edge of their banter. It was oddly endearing.

Zoro smirked. “What’s wrong? Gonna stick your foot in it again?”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed. “At least I have manners. Unlike a musclehead such as yourself.”

Zoro folded his arms, biceps flexing intentionally. “Jealous that I actually have muscles?”

Sanji scoffed. “Please. All those are good for is preening at your own reflection.”

“Ex-SEAL, remember?”

“More like a walrus.”

Zoro choked at the insult, and Sanji smirked like he’d just won something.

Robin sipped her coffee serenely.

Zoro glowered. “Make me a protein shake, cook.”

Sanji offered a mock bow. “Your wish is my command,” he said smoothly before heading out.

Zoro slumped into his chair. “Don’t even,” he warned.

Robin looked at him over her cup, amused. “He’s single. Apparently open to men. And might have a fondness for pinnipeds.”

Zoro hurled the apple at her. She caught it one-handed and bit into it, utterly unbothered.

“You’ve done your worst. Now leave it.”

“Very well.” But her smile didn’t fade, and Zoro knew she was already planning how best to pass the gossip to Nami and Usopp.

He rubbed his temple, sighing into his orange juice.

His head still hurt. But not in quite the same way.

They reached the coordinates of the search quadrant just before lunch on the third day. 

Excitement hummed quietly through the crew, a low buzz beneath the steady drone of the ship. Usopp had invited Sanji down to see the multibeam sonar launch – a sleek, active sonar system designed to map the seafloor in meticulous detail and detect objects suspended in the water column or resting along the ocean floor. The transducer array, a complex cluster of sensors embedded beneath the hull, sent out rapid sound pulses and listened for their echoes, creating a three-dimensional soundscape of the abyss below. The images streamed onto a bank of flat, high-definition screens. Recorded. Archived. Analyzed. At the press of a button, they could rewind the ocean’s last breath.

Nami’s plan was methodical: run north and south across the quadrant in systematic sweeps to build a complete seabed map. If they found wreckage, they’d send the ROV, but if it wasn’t the One Piece, they’d mark the spot for future exploration or salvage and press on. Sanji had been warned it would take weeks to chart the entire quadrant. Still, the crew carried themselves as if they might uncover the treasure on the very first pass. That kind of infectious hope stuck to Sanji, and he found himself lingering by the monitor in Usopp’s workspace, eyes glued to the sonar’s ghostly images until duty dragged him away to the galley.

He’d inventoried the galley the day before and had already cornered everyone during lunch about their dietary quirks. The information let him build out a thirty-day rotating menu, exactly the kind of thing that kept a kitchen humming without chaos. He knew when to start prep, how long each dish needed, which days to bake bread, when cleanup would run late. It gave him a sense of control, a rhythm to follow. Predictable and clean.

The days settled into that rhythm quickly. Sanji ran on the treadmill first thing, then made breakfast. He spent the lull between breakfast and lunch either hanging out with Usopp or fishing off the aft deck with Luffy and Chopper, sunlight catching on the swell of the sea. After lunch, he either tackled a chore – inventory, repair, reorganizing pantry shelves – or stretched out in a shaded lounge chair and let the ocean breeze lull him into stillness. Some evenings, he sparred with Jinbe. Others, he joined movie nights or got his ass handed to him in video games.

And always, always, the Sunny swept the ocean in tireless passes, twenty-four/seven. Someone had to man the helm and sonar overnight. They rotated. Sanji got a crash course in the systems and found himself weirdly suited to the calm solitude of the night watch. He prepped breakfast and lunch ahead of time and welcomed the strange, eerie serenity that fell once everyone else was asleep. The Sunny’s engines thrummed like a heartbeat. Outside, the black water stretched forever, salted wind slipping through the open bridge window like a secret.

It was just past three in the morning when Sanji sat at the helm, two weeks into his journey aboard the Sunny, with a mug of coffee cooling in his hand.

The bridge was bathed in soft sapphire light, the kind of glow that made everything look like it existed underwater. High-tech didn’t begin to describe it. The control panels were sleek touch interfaces, recessed and backlit with precision lighting. A transparent OLED display curved across the forward console, projecting maps, charts, sonar readouts, and navigational diagnostics. Holographic indicators pulsed above their respective stations. Every surface had the clean, carbon-skin polish of money – stupid money. More than just functional; it was beautiful in the way well-designed things always were.

Outside, the night pressed black and vast against the windows. The sea was calm, the moon a thin sliver barely lending light. Stars littered the sky, so many it hurt to look at them for long. 

He’d cracked a window to let the sea air drift in, sharp and cold, briny enough to sting the back of his throat. It helped. Took the edge off the craving that had crept up on him around hour two of sitting in silence, nursing lukewarm coffee and watching sonar lines crawl across the screen. He didn’t smoke inside, ever. The Sunny was too clean, too high-tech, too not his for that kind of disrespect. Besides, no one else on the crew smoked, and he wasn’t about to be that guy who made the whole place stink of ash. Still, the itch was there, coiled low in his chest. The kind of pull that usually came with stress or boredom, or some combination of both.

He really should quit. For real this time. It was expensive, terrible for his lungs, and made him reek no matter how much cologne he used afterward. People didn’t even try to hide their disgust anymore – scrunched noses, subtle lean-aways, the occasional pointed cough. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them. Smoking stank. Always had. Out here, surrounded by clean sea air and crew who didn’t touch the stuff, the habit felt even more out of place. Like dragging an ashtray into a cathedral.

He glanced at the nav panel, course locked in, GPS autopilot syncing smooth corrections along the programmed path. The ship didn’t need steering, just someone awake to monitor the systems and respond if something went wrong. The side-scan sonar station sat tucked beside the helm, rendering the seabed in slow, ghostly sweeps. It didn’t produce the high-resolution, full-color topography like the multibeam sonar in Usopp’s workspace, but it was steady, reliable, and good for catching anomalies in real time. Sanji preferred the bridge, anyway, with its quiet hum, its panoramic views, and its stillness. It felt like being in the eye of some great, silent storm.

Footsteps echoed behind him, soft and hesitant on the polished floor. Sanji swiveled in the chair, surprised to see Zoro standing there. It was well past the usual hour for anyone to be awake. The quiet hum of the night made it unlikely someone would visit without a reason. 

But here he was. Shirtless. Sleep-mussed. Half-lidded and barefoot, with a beer in hand and shadows under his eyes. His hair was flattened on one side like he’d just peeled himself off a pillow. His loose sleep shorts hung low on his hips. Sanji felt heat bloom in his chest at the sight. His gaze landed on the long scar cutting diagonally from Zoro’s left pec down across to the opposite hip. A wound that defied explanation, not the neat, precise kind of surgical scar.

Sanji and Zoro moved around each other like partners in a careful dance, cordial and polite, never rude but never quite close. They saw each other all the time – gaming together, eating side by side, working out in the same space – but their conversations were friendly and often edged with a teasing sharpness, never clipped but never lingering long enough to be truly personal.

Sometimes, Sanji glimpsed something raw in Zoro’s eyes: an unexpected flash of heat, or a shadow of grief so sharp it cut right through his usual composure. It was never there for long. Just a moment, and then Zoro would pull back, hiding behind that laid-back front like nothing had slipped through at all.

Sanji had known from the beginning, since that first encounter in the gym, that Zoro carried more than just old wounds. There was guilt in him. Grief that ran deep and silent. It wasn’t shyness, not really. More like a quiet, deliberate retreat. A man still walking around the edges of something he hadn’t made peace with.

So they kept circling each other in this strange, steady rhythm. Close, but never touching. Teasing, but never too far. Comfortable enough to banter, distant enough to avoid anything real.

Sanji couldn’t tell if the stability of it was comforting or maddening. The interest – his own – wasn’t subtle, and he wasn’t blind to the flickers that sometimes answered back. But Zoro never acted on them. Never crossed that invisible line.

They were caught in the middle, locked in a dance that neither of them seemed ready to change. A routine polished by restraint and quiet understanding, and maybe a little fear of what might happen if either of them stepped forward.

Zoro wandered up to the nav station, the soft creak of his bare feet barely audible over the hum of the ship’s electronics. He glanced at the monitors, their glow casting pale reflections across his face, and took a slow sip from his beer. “Hey,” he said with a gravelly voice that still carried the weight of sleepless nights. “I can take over if you want.”

Sanji shook his head, dismissive but steady. “I got it. It’s my night. I prefer to carry my weight.”

“I’m awake anyway,” Zoro shrugged, settling against the control panel with a lazy ease. “May as well take advantage of the reprieve.”

Sanji scowled, lips tightening. “I said I got it, marimo.”

Zoro gave him a confused look, raising a brow. “Marimo?”

“It’s an alga that develops as a bright green sphere – a moss ball,” Sanji explained, pointing with a teasing smirk at Zoro’s hair.

Zoro snorted, a rough sound that bounced off the walls. “Really? You’re making fun of my hair? What are you, ten?”

“You’re the one who’s almost forty dying your hair that obnoxious color.”

“Franky’s older than me and he dyes his hair,” Zoro shot back.

Sanji made a dismissive noise, eyeing the vivid grass-green shade that caught the low light. “He pulls it off better.” He leaned in slightly, curiosity softening his tone. “Why do you dye it, anyway?”

“Luffy did it,” Zoro said, voice quieter now as he fiddled with the damp label on his beer bottle. “Thought I needed a change.”

“And did you?”

Zoro’s gaze dropped, a flicker of something deeper flashing in his eyes before it vanished. “Yeah,” he admitted, tone rough and low. “I did.”

Sanji hesitated, chewing on his inner cheek. They didn’t really know each other, not yet. But how else to bridge the silence if not by asking? “Something happen?”

Zoro glanced up, shrugged. “Lots of shit. And since I’m not in the Navy anymore, none of it matters.”

“Is it okay to ask…?” Sanji motioned toward Zoro’s face.

Reflexively, Zoro’s hand brushed over the bottom of the scar. “IED.”

Sanji winced. “That sucks.”

Zoro let out a small, bitter laugh. “Understatement.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“Yeah.” He took a long drag of his beer and exhaled sharply. “One teammate lost both legs, another took some nasty punctures. No one died, so… lucky.”

“Yeah,” Sanji said softly, eyes drifting to the scar across Zoro’s chest. He pointed. “What about that one?”

Zoro glanced down, shaking his head with a self-mocking laugh. “That was me being an idiot.”

“So your normal state of being, then,” Sanji smirked, earning a glare in return. “What did you do?”

“Swordfighting with real swords,” Zoro answered with dry humor. “Those things are sharp.”

Sanji laughed, the sound light in the stillness. “That’s… precious.”

“Shut up,” Zoro grumbled. “I was twelve and had something to prove.”

“Please don’t remind me of that age,” Sanji groaned. “I dressed like a reject from The Matrix and listened to Emo and Gothic Metal.”

Zoro laughed, a rough, gravelly sound that warmed something inside Sanji’s chest. “Now I know why you wear your hair like that.”

Sanji gasped, horrified, clutching his bangs that covered one eye. “Oh my fucking god, you’re right. Kill me now.”

Zoro’s laughter grew louder, pure and unguarded. “Franky has black eyeliner if you want to borrow it.”

Sanji flicked him off, grinning despite himself. “At least I didn’t nearly chop myself in half with a sword. You were probably a fantasy nerd. Did you have elf ears?”

“No,” Zoro chuckled. “Worse. That Zorro movie came out, with Antonio Banderas. And since my name is Zoro…”

Sanji snorted so hard it hurt. “Did you wear the mask?”

Zoro looked sheepish. “Yeah, outside of school. I wore all black and calf-high boots otherwise.”

“Fuck, I’d pay to see those pictures.”

“Oh hell no. Bad enough they exist somewhere.”

“Is that why you went into kendo, Mr. Banderas?”

Zoro gave a dry look. “Funny. No. I was already in kendo. Started when I was six. My foster parents stuck me in it to keep me from running wild.”

Sanji tilted his head, curiosity softened by empathy. “Foster parents?”

“Yeah. Both my parents died.” Zoro’s voice dropped, distant. “My mom had cancer, died when I was three, and dad got killed in a hold-up. I don’t really remember too much about them.”

Sanji looked down at his coffee, turning the cup between his hands. “My mom died, too. Cancer. I was seven.” He remembered her in that soft, blurred way time allowed – impressions more than images, the shape of a hug, the echo of a smile, warmth without edges. “She’s why I became a chef. I used to cook for her whenever I could, and she always told me she loved it. Even if it probably sucked ass.”

“Sounds like a good memory,” Zoro said quietly.

“Yeah, it is.” Sanji swallowed the lump in his throat. Everything after that was stuff nightmares were made of. He buried those memories deep, where they belonged.

He glanced at the nav console, checking their course. The glowing interface mapped out their route with a precision that only top-tier tech could manage. Touchscreen panels hummed softly, trimmed in brushed metal, with interfaces cleaner than anything he’d seen even in high-end commercial kitchens. Everything was seamless, sleek, automated where it could be, but manual where it mattered. It didn’t just feel expensive, it felt deliberate. Purpose-built.

“Hey,” he said, breaking the silence, “do you know who’s funding all of this?” He motioned vaguely at the nav console, the equipment glowing softly in the dark.

Zoro took a slow pull from his beer, eye narrowing just slightly. “Why do you ask?”

Sanji leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the screen like he was watching the sea draw its own secrets. “I just find it hard to believe treasure hunting is that lucrative. I mean, I get passion projects and eccentric rich guys blowing their cash on dumb shit, but this–” he gestured again, more broadly this time, “–this is a floating fortress. Someone’s pulling strings.”

Zoro shrugged, but there was a little too much casual in the motion. “No one important,” he said, tone a bit too light. “We run the operation ourselves. No interference.”

Sanji leaned back with a short, humorless snort. “Right. Because that’s how the world works. Some mysterious donor hands you a billion-dollar boat, military-grade sonar, custom ROVs, and a floating fortress of luxury – and asks for nothing in return?” He shook his head, the bitter twist of his mouth speaking volumes. “People like that don’t give out favors. They collect debts.”

He didn’t explain further. He didn’t have to. His voice carried the edge of lived experience.

Zoro didn’t rise to the bait. Not at first. His jaw worked once, twice, like he was weighing what to say, or if he’d bother saying anything at all.

Finally, he said, “Whatever you’re imagining, it doesn’t happen here. We answer to no one. That’s not just talk.”

Sanji’s laugh was sharp and disbelieving. “You expect me to buy that? The Sunny’s not some repurposed fishing trawler with a coat of paint. It’s state of the art, cutting edge. Someone’s footing that bill. And in my experience, the richer they are, the more power-hungry they get. Lines get crossed. Hands get greased. Someone always wants something.”

Zoro’s gaze turned flinty. Not quite a scowl, but colder. Harder. “Not on this ship,” he said, voice like steel pulled taut.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it bristled. Charged with things neither of them was quite ready to say.

Sanji raised a brow. “You can’t seriously expect me to believe someone gives you all this without wanting something back. There’s always a price, marimo. Always.”

“Believe what you want.” Zoro shoved off the panel. “Since you’re not switching, I’m going to the gym.”

Zoro left the bridge without waiting for a reply, his footsteps swallowed quickly by the soft hum of the ship. Sanji leaned back in his chair, tension crawling along his spine like static. The shift had happened so fast. One moment they were laughing, genuinely talking, and the next, a cold wall had slammed between them. He couldn’t pin down exactly what had triggered it: the question about money, or the fact that Sanji hadn’t bought Zoro’s answer.

He turned his gaze outward, to where the sea stretched endlessly into the dark, the surface broken only by starlight and the subtle glint of swell and foam. Quiet, open, empty, and yet something felt off. Deeply off.

Treasure hunting wasn’t that profitable. Not enough to explain a floating marvel like the Sunny: fully stocked, perpetually upgraded, sleek and silent as a warship but dressed in explorer’s skin. It ran too well, too clean. Someone with serious power and deeper pockets had to be backing them. Either that, or there were pieces Sanji hadn’t seen yet. Pieces hidden too far beneath the surface to make sense of.

Still, he took some small, bitter comfort in one thing: the Vinsmokes had no part in this. This operation didn’t scream power or publicity. It was too low-profile, too quiet. No camera crews, no press releases, no legacy to build. It wasn’t the sort of thing his family would waste a dime on.

But that didn’t rule out others.

People with money and no morals. The kind of bastards who didn’t need headlines, who dealt in black market salvage, Cold War relics, sealed canisters at the bottom of the sea, maybe even bioweapons long forgotten and never meant to be found. Shit people weren’t supposed to look for, let alone retrieve.

Sanji rolled his eyes and exhaled through his nose. Fuck. He really needed to stop reading Clive Cussler before bed.

Still, the discomfort didn’t go anywhere. It sat low in his gut, coiled and watchful, like something waiting to breach.

He sipped his coffee slowly, the warmth long faded to a lukewarm bite, more bitter than comforting. Outside, the sea was black glass, the sky above it a darker void pricked with distant stars. His eyes followed the line where they met, seamless and endless. The night wrapped around him like a shroud, heavy with salt and silence.

And still, the mystery pressed on his chest, denser than the humid air, more suffocating than the dark. He hated the feeling – of being on the outside, of shadows shifting behind polished glass, just out of reach.

The longer he thought about it, the worse it felt.

He’d grown up watching what wealth and power did to people. What it warped them into. He’d lived under the thumb of a family that measured love in obedience, loyalty in usefulness. He knew exactly how easily cruelty could be dressed in sharp suits and called destiny.

And the Sunny – beautiful, quiet, humming with top-shelf tech and blank-slate secrecy – was too clean. Too perfect. All shine and silence.

Someone, somewhere, was pulling the strings. And Sanji wasn’t sure if he wanted to know who.

The multibeam sonar pinged its first real find four days later: a wrecked airplane, broken clean in half, the outline crisp and eerie on the three-dimensional scan. The image hovered like a ghost on the monitor.

“Plane,” Usopp muttered, already reaching for the ROV controls. “Tail’s mostly intact. Might still have a registration number.”

Sanji leaned in, watching over his shoulder as the small remotely operated vehicle descended into the blue murk, its lights slicing through suspended particles and darkness. The fuselage lay crumpled at an angle, the tail wedged under a blanket of soft sediment, strands of something stringy swaying like hair around it.

“We’ll need to stop for this,” Usopp said, flicking on the intercom. “Jinbe, can you hold position?”

Jinbe’s voice crackled back, calm and low. “Copy that. Dropping speed and locking thrusters. DP’s running warm, so don’t take too long.”

From behind them, Franky chimed in over the shipwide: “Yeah, if we’re gonna hover here longer than ten, I’m cutting the thrusters. I don’t want to burn out compensators babysitting a faulty read. Gyro’s still pissed about Tuesday.”

“Noted,” Usopp said, already moving the ROV into place. “Five minutes, tops.”

The ROV’s mechanical arms moved with practiced precision. Usopp coaxed them forward, brushing away the crusted buildup from the aircraft’s tail. A strip of clean, uncorroded metal glinted beneath the lights.

“There. Got it. Plane number,” he said, scribbling quickly into the logbook before pressing the beacon tag button to mark the coordinates.

Sanji straightened, arms crossed as he watched the number flicker onto the top of the monitor. “You said you send these to the FAA?”

“Yeah. Assuming the satellite doesn’t crap out again before I upload it.”

“Try during a lull in cloud cover,” Sanji said dryly. “Apparently the signal’s allergic to atmosphere.”

Usopp snorted but didn’t argue. The two of them stood for a moment in the glow of the monitor, the image of the lost plane still hovering like something left behind mid-breath.

A few days later, they found more wrecks.

One was a rusted fishing trawler, its hull pitted and split near the stern, half buried in sediment and cloaked in brittle tube worm colonies. The next, a mid-20th century cargo ship, square-bowed and skeletal. Another ROV dive followed. Usopp stayed glued to his console, fingers dancing across the control sticks.

“We’re in international waters,” he explained to Sanji, tapping a command to sweep the cargo hold. “So technically the Coast Guard can’t do anything about these. But they’ve got extensive records, especially for this stretch of the Atlantic. We file reports, send photos, tag the sites for follow-up.”

“You get a lot of commercial stuff out here?” Sanji asked, sitting beside him with a mug of coffee, steam curling upward.

“Oh, tons,” Usopp said. “Small planes, lost fishing vessels… real Triangle shit.”

Sanji raised a brow. “Triangle shit?”

Usopp grinned, then dropped his voice theatrically. “Absolutely. You know the stories – magnetic anomalies, ghost ships, rips in the space-time continuum.” He swept his arm toward the sea, like presenting a stage. “Captain Usopp once led an army of 6,000 brave warriors through these very waters. We fought off sky-beasts, reverse sirens, and alien pirates trying to harvest our memories. Barely made it out with my crew intact.”

Sanji chuckled. “Six thousand, huh?”

“Plus or minus. They kept shapeshifting.” Usopp’s grin twitched, nervous now. He leaned closer to the monitor. “But seriously… this place creeps me out sometimes. Things don’t sink here. They disappear.”

There was a flicker in his eyes, part performance, part genuine unease. Sanji didn’t mock him for it. He’d spent enough time staring out into the endless black of ocean to know that superstition wasn’t always nonsense.

The Sunny continued south, steady and deliberate, crawling along Nami’s marked grid like a tractor cutting rows through an invisible field. North to south, then a tight shift east, then back again. Line by line. Day blurred into day in the slow, methodical sweep of the search.

Sanji’s routine settled with it – mornings in the galley, sparring sessions with Jinbe that left him sweat-slick and steady, quiet evenings shared with Robin, Usopp, or just the soft hush of the sea rolling past the hull. But beneath the rhythm, a chill lingered. A thin, stubborn thread of silence that hadn't quite unraveled.

Zoro had pulled away.

It wasn’t blatant, not rude. Just distance. A tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there before. Conversations that ended too soon. Averted eyes. It made Sanji feel… sad. A flicker of defensiveness. But not guilt. He hadn’t asked anything unreasonable. Wanting to know who funded the ship that fed and housed them all didn’t seem out of line. Still, the silence between them echoed in strange places – at meals, in passing, even in the weight of an untouched second beer on the table.

And the attraction hadn’t gone anywhere. It was just frozen. Trapped in the same quiet orbit they always kept.

The rest of the crew had warmed to Sanji in small, steady ways. Even Nami, sharp-tongued as ever, seemed less ready to chew him out over every misstep. Usopp turned out to be excellent company, sharp, talkative, and more capable than he liked to let on, especially when it came to the fine motor work of piloting the ROVs. Sparring with Jinbe had become a favorite part of Sanji’s routine; their conversations between strikes were always thoughtful, grounding.

Robin was the one he gravitated toward most. She had a quiet depth, a vast store of historical knowledge and shipwreck lore, and over coffee they’d trade stories – hers from the early days of the Straw Hats, his from smoky kitchens. He liked hearing about the Going Merry, about a time when it had just been a handful of people chasing rumors on a much smaller ship.

Luffy made him laugh in spite of himself, and Chopper’s wide-eyed joy infected every corner of the boat. Sanji didn’t spend as much time with Franky, Brook, or even Nami, but there was an easy rhythm between them now, like he’d finally stopped being a guest and started being crew.

It was a good feeling. Subtle, but steady. Like warmth returning to his hands after cold.

That afternoon, Sanji fixed a small tray: two mugs of coffee and a handful of cookies just out of the oven. Buttery, with the faint bite of lemon zest. Robin had promised him the story of the Oro Jackson, the ship that led them to the One Piece, and Sanji didn’t plan on showing up empty-handed.

The hall was cool and still as he carried the tray down the corridor that led to the crew’s workspaces. The soft clink of porcelain tapped in rhythm with the muted thrum of the ship’s engines beneath his feet.

Nami’s office was lit but empty, the chair askew like she’d stepped out mid-thought. Brook’s door was closed, a faint strain of violin slipping out in fits and starts. Zoro’s door stood half-open – too casual to be deliberate – and voices carried from inside.

Sanji slowed, his hand adjusting slightly on the tray for balance. He didn’t mean to listen in. It wasn’t like he was trying to pry. But the voices carried in the narrow hall, clear and low and threaded with the kind of focus that caught his ear before his conscience could stop him.

“The dynamic positioning system’s throwing errors again. Some kind of gyroscopic desync,” Franky said. His tone was flat but not casual.

“How bad?” Zoro’s voice followed.

There was a scrape of something, maybe a chair leg or a boot heel, and then Franky replied, “If it craps out mid-dive, we’ll have to run ops manually. That means at least double the crew on every move, probably triple the risk. Doable, but not smart.”

A quiet moment passed. Sanji stood just outside the frame of the doorway, unmoving, eyes on the thin line of light spilling out across the corridor floor. There was a dull tapping from inside, irregular, metallic. A pen against wood, maybe. Just a rhythm, a thinking sort of noise. Not something Sanji had heard Zoro do before.

“You want to fly out replacements?” Zoro asked eventually.

“Would be wise,” Franky said. “It’s stable enough now, but I don’t like tempting fate with shit that keeps the ship from drifting.”

“Okay. I’ll approve the funds and call Drake.” Zoro’s voice was clipped but calm, like this wasn’t even an inconvenience. “You need anything else while he’s flying out?”

There was a pause, just long enough for Sanji to imagine Franky rubbing the back of his neck, deciding whether it was worth saying. Then:

“Since he’s already in the air, I should fix the satellite internet, too. The actuator’s shot. Salt corrosion. Not a big deal yet, but if it fails and we lose the link completely…” Franky gave a low whistle. “Nami’s already pissed about the weather updates lagging. If she misses a pressure shift again, we’re all dead.”

Zoro gave a short laugh. “Fair. Order it.”

Franky leaned back in his chair. “Might want to check if she needs anything else while you’re at it.”

Zoro nodded. “I’ll text her. May as well make Drake earn his paycheck.”

Franky snorted. “Think he’d just be happy to fly that fancy copter of yours.”

“He complains every time that it’s not big enough.”

“He’s the same size as me and Jinbe,” Franky replied, “and we’ve got plenty of legroom.”

Sanji slipped past before the conversation could close. He didn’t want to be seen standing there, tray in hand, looking like he cared more than he wanted to admit.

But the words stayed with him.

Zoro’s voice, steady, confident. In control. The way he talked about funds, about authorizing expenses, sounded like someone with full authority, not just a hired blade. Sanji had been told Zoro was security. And, vaguely, that he handled “numbers stuff.” But bookkeeping? Accounting? That wasn’t security detail. It was finance. Administration. That wasn’t just some side task. And the way Franky had said your copter…

It scratched at Sanji’s brain. A small detail that shouldn’t have meant anything, but did.

Zoro owned that aircraft?

It didn’t make sense. Navy SEALs didn’t walk away with million-dollar helicopters. And Zoro had been medically discharged – Sanji knew that for sure. Which meant he hadn’t put in the twenty years it took to earn a military pension. Not unless the military had started recruiting teenage math prodigies who could deadlift small cars.

Which raised the real question: if Zoro wasn’t just the ship’s muscle… then what exactly was he?

Sanji shook his head. He was spiraling again. All this silence from Zoro had sent him chasing shadows. He wasn’t about to start pinning conspiracy theories to the galley wall. Yet he couldn’t quite let go of that lingering question: Who was really footing the bill?

He reached Robin’s door and knocked once, gently.

“Robin,” he said, pushing it open a crack. “I’ve got cookies and coffee. And I’m ready to hear about pirate ships and the Oro Jackson.”

Zoro was sprawled on the couch in the main deck lounge, long legs stretched out, one ankle hooked over the other. The big sliding doors to the aft deck were cracked open, letting in the scent of salt and engine exhaust, warm air tinged with ocean. Somewhere topside, gulls called faintly as the late afternoon sun turned the lounge a dusty gold.

He squinted at the TV screen, controller in hand, and kicked Luffy’s ass in Call of Duty. Again.

Zoro had a bit of an unfair advantage. His unit used to play console games like this during downtime. It wasn’t realistic, not by a long shot, but it sharpened hand-eye coordination and reflexes. And since he only had one eye now, keeping those perceptions tight and responsive was double important.

“Aw, no fair,” Luffy groaned. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Tough shit,” Zoro muttered, not taking his eye off the screen. “Combat doesn’t wait for you to be ready.”

“It should wait for snacks.”

Zoro huffed a low laugh, ducked his character behind a burned-out vehicle and scanned beneath it, looking for boots, movement, shadows. A flicker of motion across the screen caught his attention. Luffy’s character had sprinted into the open and taken cover behind a wall across the street. Zoro caught a glimpse of an ankle sticking out. One tap of the trigger later, and Luffy was bleeding out on the digital pavement.

“Damn it!” Luffy cried. His avatar slumped with a dramatic ragdoll bounce. His real-life straw hat dangled loosely around his neck on a cord, flipping forward as he flopped back on the couch in defeat.

“Heh.”

Luffy fumbled at his controller, punching buttons to activate a first aid sequence on his screen. Zoro took the opportunity to lift his beer from the floor beside the couch and sip it, letting the cold trickle down his throat.

The air smelled faintly of oil and melted cheese. The lounge still held traces of the afternoon's snack explosion – stuffed pretzel bites, half a tray of pizza pinwheels, and some sort of buttery crack Luffy had demanded after Drake’s helicopter landed.

Drake had dropped off their supply order a couple hours earlier, the copter now safely strapped down to the deck. He'd stayed to chat with Nami and the cook. Zoro hadn’t lingered long; Drake’s stern, joyless personality grated on him. The guy carried himself like he was allergic to smiling. Zoro could appreciate seriousness – hell, he was serious – but even he managed to find humor here and there.

Drake had exchanged a few words about the copter – still bitching about the cramped cabin – and then Zoro passed him off to Sanji, who promptly started plying him with food. Something about needing to replenish calories after flight, or prepping for the return journey. Or maybe just because that’s how Sanji handled things: with his hands, with food, with effort.

Zoro’s brow furrowed as he stared at the screen without really seeing it. The thought of Sanji soured the beer in his mouth.

That damned conversation still sat in his gut like lead. Money. Always money. Why’d the guy have to dig at something that didn’t matter? He had his paycheck. The ship had supplies. No one was cutting corners. There was nothing shady going on, so why ask?

“You’re making that face again,” Luffy said, around a mouthful of pretzel bite.

Zoro blinked, pulled back into the present. “What face?”

“The constipated one,” Luffy replied, but the words came out garbled: Da conshipadid done.

Zoro shot him a glare. “I do not make that face.”

“Uh-huh.” Luffy swallowed. “So… what’s bothering you?”

Zoro hesitated. He could brush it off, but Luffy had a way of prying things out without trying too hard. They were alone up here – Jinbe was on the bridge, Robin in her office, Usopp fiddling with gear somewhere below. Everyone else was scattered. The lounge was quiet, except for the hum of the console fans and the faint clink of ice in the glass on the table.

He exhaled. “Sanji asked about the money.”

“What money?”

Zoro rolled his eye. “The money behind the ship. The one that bought it. That pays for fuel, gear, equipment. That money.”

“Oh.” Luffy reloaded his gun on-screen. “What’d you tell him?”

“Nothing. Told him it wasn’t his business.”

Luffy’s brow crinkled, confused. “Isn’t he part of the crew?”

“For, like, a month,” Zoro muttered. Irritation prickled hot along his shoulders. “He doesn’t need to know jack.”

“But I thought you liked him.”

Zoro paused. The controller suddenly felt heavier in his hand. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Luffy shrugged, distracted as he moved his player character behind a crumbling wall. “Friends shouldn’t have secrets.”

Zoro rubbed at the corner of his eye, slow and tired. Sleep had been hard lately. The kind of hard where you closed your eyes and just kept remembering things you didn’t want to. “It’s been a month, Luffy. And you know I don’t like talking about that shit.”

Luffy’s character ducked behind cover again, and then he said, simple as anything, “You should just tell him. And tell him that you like him. And then play kissy-face.”

Zoro thumbed his character into a new position, took aim, and shot Luffy’s guy clean through the head.

“You could’ve just said no!”

Luffy flailed as his avatar collapsed again, groaning loudly.

Zoro took a slow drink of beer and stared at the screen, thoughts turning over like slow waves. He hated how much sense Luffy’s words made. And how much he didn’t want to follow them.

Aside from the fact that he didn’t like talking about it – had never liked talking about it – there was the very real chance that telling Sanji would change everything between them. Not that there was anything between them. Just a stalled possibility. A tension he hadn’t quite decided whether to chase or kill.

None of the others had ever made it a thing. Of course, most of them had been there during the devastating time. Franky had come with the ship; he already knew. Brook and Jinbe had joined later. Brook only found out because he’d asked about processing underwater DNA, and Jinbe had just wanted to upgrade the yacht’s steerage system. Nami had pointed him to Zoro without ceremony, like it was the most natural thing in the world. No awkward silence. No pity. No veiled accusations. It had just… come out. Quiet. Respectful.

But Sanji – Sanji had come at it differently. The way he’d asked, with that sharp-edged suspicion, it had stuck. Like he recognized something. Like he’d seen that kind of money up close before and didn’t trust it. But Zoro had combed his background himself: clean. No priors, no history in corporate finance, no ties to fraud or embezzlement or white-collar crime. A restaurant kitchen and a spotless resume. So where the hell had that gut reaction come from?

It left a bad taste. A real one. Bitter. And it clawed at the worst-case fear, that Sanji could still become one of them. The kind of people Zoro hated. The kind who didn’t see a person, just a balance sheet. Like the receptionist at the financial firm who practically undid her blouse every time he walked in, like her bra strap could buy her a yacht. The ones who smiled wide and leaned close when they thought they were about to touch gold.

And if Sanji – Sanji – turned out to be like that?

This fragile, flickering thing, whatever it was between them, would be dead in the water.

And Zoro didn’t want that.

Because, in spite of everything, he liked Sanji.

Liked how he slid into the crew like he’d always belonged. Liked how he noticed chores that needed doing and just did them, without being told. Liked how Usopp grinned more now, really grinned, like he’d found a brother who got his weird, wound-up energy. Liked how Sanji got under Brook’s skin and made Jinbe laugh with offhand snark. Liked how he trained with focus and discipline, like it mattered. Liked how he was working with Chopper to quit smoking. Liked how his cooking made even an average day feel like a damn celebration. Liked the quick snap of his mouth, fast and biting, but never cruel. Always sharp, sometimes defensive. Never hollow.

Their moments together hadn’t been frequent, especially after that funding conversation drove a wedge between them. But Zoro still saw him. Watched him.

And he liked what he saw.

Which made all of this – him – a risk. A risk Zoro wasn’t sure how to take.

Luffy had reloaded into a new match, muttering under his breath about betrayal and sniping. Zoro refocused on the game and lined up his next shot.

Better to keep the secret for now. Better to keep the peace. At least until he figured out whether what he wanted – who he wanted – was worth opening himself up. To something real. Something he hadn’t expected to find ever again.

And in the meantime, he’d kick Luffy’s ass.

“We have a contender!”

Usopp’s voice crackled over the Sunny’s intercom, slicing through the humid, sun-blurred haze of late mid-morning. Somewhere above the galley skylight, the sea shimmered in motionless peace, but that calm didn’t reach the decks. The crew was already moving. Sanji could feel it in the rhythm of booted feet pounding across the upper levels and the rush of anticipation vibrating through the hull like a taut wire.

Forty-five days. That’s how long it had been since Sanji had stepped aboard the Sunny, still unsure if this would work out or if he’d be cast off. But it had. Gods, it had. He loved this floating madhouse. Loved the wild, knotted tangle of personalities, the seafoam in the air, the way each day brought something electric and new.

If only things weren’t still awkward with Zoro. That low, quiet tension whenever they ended up in the same room, a kind of magnetic push that didn’t quite pull back. 

He rubbed a hand through his hair, sighing out the itch of old habits. If Zoro didn’t want to talk, that was his choice. Sanji wasn’t about to push. He’d already stepped on his own foot with Nami early on. He’d come in guns blazing with charm and old-world chivalry, not realizing that was off-putting and desperate-seeming. She didn’t want that, just respect. He wasn’t making that mistake twice.

So Sanji stayed on the edges of his own feelings, pining quietly, politely. And instead of hoping for more, he tried to focus on what he did have: a real place on a crew that didn’t see him as some royal failure, just a man who could cook, fix, fight, and belong.

He headed down to the marine ops center, where tension already clung to the air like static. He knew the room well by now - designed like the command bridge of some luxury spacecraft, all clean lines, layered tiers, and slick surfaces that whispered money. Inset screens glowed from every console, tracking depths, currents, and oxygen levels in real time. A wide, tinted viewing window overlooked the moon pool and submersible bay, casting the space in filtered blue-green light that rippled like stained glass across the walls and floor.

Luffy was practically draped over Usopp’s back, fingers twitching with energy. “Is this it? Is this it? Is this it?”

“I’m trying to find out!” Usopp hissed, hunched over the dual joystick setup for the ROV. His face was a mix of focus and rising thrill. The new dynamic positioning system kept the Sunny locked in place as the ROV crept across the ocean floor, its thrusters humming low through the feed.

The little machine was beautiful in motion: a yellow chassis with twin articulated arms, sonar and camera clusters bristling from its head, and a soft blower jet that pushed sand aside in delicate streams. Not enough to stir up a silt cloud, but enough to whisper secrets from the seafloor.

The wreck lay on a rocky shelf, its bones swallowed by coral and sediment. One side of the hull had collapsed inward like a ribcage punctured by time. Sea fans waved lazily from the wood. Tiny fish flitted between rusted fittings and beams.

Sanji edged closer, shoulder brushing the cool bulkhead as he watched over the others. Franky, Chopper, Robin, Brook, Nami – all drawn in. A low murmur of chatter passed among them: theories, what-ifs, gentle arguments about preservation versus salvage. Fingers drummed on tabletops. Someone muttered odds under their breath. A few tossed out half-formed plans, like what they'd do if it was the ship, how they'd pivot if it wasn't. No one wanted to say too much, afraid to jinx it.

Sanji stood toward the back, arms folded, eyes flicking to the screen, then to Zoro. Zoro leaned against the bulkhead, arms loose at his sides, gaze sharp and locked on the footage streaming in. Completely focused. Not talking, not posturing, just watching. Intent. Engaged. Present.

Sanji’s stomach gave a faint twist.

For a split second, the thought crept in uninvited, that maybe Zoro was memorizing details for someone else. Reporting back to some shadowy hand pulling the strings. Stupid. Paranoid. Sanji exhaled and gave his head a small shake.

That was the Vinsmoke in him talking. The old rot that whispered betrayal in every silence. He wasn't that kid anymore. He shoved the thought down and focused on the screen.

The ROV swept gently past a tangled net of seaweed and revealed a curved notch in the stern planking. Usopp nudged the blower up a hair and cleared a delicate arc of sand from the carved wood. There, unmistakably, was the top edge of a letter. A curve. Maybe the upper sweep of a P. Maybe an O.

“I think we found it,” Usopp breathed, voice reverent, like he was in a cathedral, not three hundred feet above a tomb of timber and secrets.

The silence that followed was total – held breath, stunned stillness – and then—

Shouting. Cheering. The room exploded with sound. Luffy spun in place and whooped, limbs flailing. Robin’s quiet smile widened. Franky let out a triumphant “Super!” and pulled a bottle of champagne from some pocket of engineering space-time. The cork popped, echoing off the bay walls. Bubbly sprayed in a golden arc. They passed it around like holy wine.

Sanji laughed, teeth bared in a grin so wide it made his cheeks ache. He hadn’t felt this kind of collective joy in – hell, maybe ever. This wasn’t his old kitchen. This wasn’t performance. This was discovery. Belonging.

“Okay, okay,” Nami cut through the noise, grinning despite herself. “Back on task. Usopp, depth?”

“Two hundred sixty-three feet,” Usopp replied, tapping readouts. “The wreck’s on a rock shelf. Stable enough for a manned dive.”

“How wide is the shelf?” Zoro asked, stepping in, his voice cutting clean through the celebratory buzz.

Usopp angled the ROV toward the edge. The sand slipped into sudden inky blackness. An underwater cliff. “Drop-off’s about twenty meters off the port side. But the structure is intact.”

“Storms?” Jinbe asked, eyes calm but serious.

Nami gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing for a week. That system I was watching blew itself out.”

Luffy bounced in place. “Can we go? Can we go? Can we go?”

Sanji didn’t even have to look to know every eye in the room was flicking to Zoro now. The master diver. The expert. The man who'd spent half his life breathing through regulators and watching the world through tempered glass.

Zoro studied the feed for another long beat, then nodded once. “We’ll use Mini Merry II. Teams of two. Tech dive protocols. One hour max at depth. We rotate teams, one per day. Rest day in between to reset and debrief.”

“Wahoo!” Luffy whooped, pumping both fists in the air.

Zoro’s gaze swung to Sanji. “You certified to tech dive?”

Sanji’s gut sank. “Only Advanced. Rec limits.”

Zoro gave a grunt of acknowledgment. “You’re out for this one, then. I’ll run a cert course next off-season.”

The words stung. Sanji bit back the defensive edge rising in his throat. He knew the risks: oxygen toxicity, narcosis, the cascade of fatal errors that came with arrogance at depth. He wasn’t going to be that guy.

“I get it,” he said instead. “No complaints.”

Zoro nodded once, then turned back to the crew. “First dive’s after lunch. Me and Luffy. Jinbe and Robin tomorrow.”

Everyone scattered, the room dissolving into movement and purpose. Sanji headed for the galley, pulling up the NOAA dive nutrition guidelines on his phone. Hydration. Light carbs. Low fat. Simple protein. Nothing too acidic or fibrous. Meals that wouldn’t sit heavy in the gut or spike glucose in the middle of a nitrogen-saturated descent.

He prepped grilled chicken and couscous with lemon zest, sliced oranges, and lightly dressed greens. Bottles of electrolyte water, soft rolls with honey for sustained sugar. Luffy tried to grab thirds. Sanji whacked his hand with a spoon.

Lunch hummed with barely restrained excitement. Everyone was tense with energy, the kind that buzzed low in the jaw and made knees bounce under the table. Zoro barely spoke. Luffy vibrated. Even Robin had a quiet gleam in her eye.

When it came time to launch, Sanji followed the crowd down to the bay. The moon pool was open, the sea visible below through the grated platform. Mini Merry II – a stubby, pressure-rated little beast of a sub – hung from its cradle. The steel of it gleamed under the floodlights. Tank racks were strapped inside. Dive computers were double-checked. Cameras tested.

Zoro and Luffy stood at the edge in matching black wetsuits, flippers in hand, masks around their necks. Their tanks hissed softly with each breath test. Lines from Usopp’s ROV ran down into the blue like lifelines.

Final checks.

And then, with a synchronized step, they dropped below the surface and were gone.

Sanji drifted back toward the control center, folding himself into the shadowed corner of Usopp’s station. Robin and Franky leaned forward, watching their own diagnostics. Chopper hovered over vitals, monitoring oxygen loads, ascent rates, breathing rhythms. Every beat was precise. One mistake could kill someone.

The ROV feed showed the world below as the divers descended. Darkness swallowed color. The blues turned to green, then into the grayscale of twilight. Shadows stretched like ghosts across the silt.

And yet, Luffy was… graceful. No flailing, no rushing. Just long, measured kicks, fluid in the water like he’d been born there. Zoro flanked him with the calm of a man who’d seen everything that could go wrong, and still chose to descend.

They reached the wreck and began the slow, methodical process of mapping the outer hull. ROV lights swept across beams and hatchways. Nothing was disturbed. No one moved fast. One mistake could mean sediment clouds or an entrapment hazard. They marked entrances, traced carved lettering, and pinged sonar off the denser sections for later survey.

By the time the hour was up, barely half the broken ship was uncovered.

Sanji stood off to the side in Usopp’s operations center, arms crossed tight over his chest, feet aching, neck stiff from watching the monitors. His eyes tracked every flicker of movement on the screen – Luffy’s streamlined ease through the water, Zoro’s deliberate, precise survey of the wreck. Bright beams from helmet lights cut through the dark like blades, casting long, ghostly shadows against the warped ribs of the sunken ship.

It was beautiful in a strange, distant way. Quiet. Sacred, almost.

And slow.

Sanji shifted his weight, barely suppressing a sigh. “Is it always like this?” he asked, voice pitched low enough not to break the rhythm of the room.

“Yeah,” Franky answered without looking away from the readouts. “One wreck took us thirty-two days. Luffy’s a completist, and Zoro’s a safety freak.”

Sanji huffed a faint laugh through his nose but felt the letdown settle between his shoulders like wet fabric. From above, treasure diving had sounded like chaos – chests bursting with gold, sudden finds, quick grabs, heart-pounding escapes. But down here, it was patience. Math. Depth calculations and gas mixes. Scrubbing sand grain by grain with remote arms or gloved hands. No rushing. No dramatics. Just reverence for the wreck.

Sanji could respect it. Hell, he did. But he hadn’t expected to feel so distant from it.

If he’d been in the water, maybe it would’ve felt different. Maybe the slow unspooling of history beneath his fingers would’ve hooked into his blood. But from topside, standing still and watching monitors scroll by frame after frame, it didn’t feel like being part of the crew. Not really. Not yet.

He stayed long enough to see Luffy and Zoro return to the sub’s interior, already in the early stages of decompression. Smooth. Clean. Safe. No emergencies. No missteps. Just professionalism and discipline.

He turned away quietly, casting one last glance at the flickering monitor before slipping out of the room. He fetched his laundry bag, phone cradled loosely in his hand, already half-scrolling through recipe ideas out of habit. The fizz of excitement that had lit up the ship earlier had long since faded, leaving only the soft hum of machinery and the low murmur of voices behind him.

He’d come aboard the Sunny chasing something electric. Adventure, purpose, maybe even freedom. He wanted to know what it felt like to live between nothing but sky and ocean, to shake off the weight of dry land and see what life could be when the horizon wasn’t blocked by buildings or bloodlines. Something that would knock the dust off his soul.

Instead, he found himself heading off to do laundry.

He didn’t resent it. Not exactly. The wreck was fascinating in its way – haunting, slow, heavy with time – but it wasn’t the wild, cinematic rush he’d imagined. It wasn’t diving headlong into history. It was logging readings and waiting for safe ascent. It was careful, deliberate work. Necessary work. But from where he stood, it felt quiet. Remote.

Maybe that was how it always started. The extraordinary tucked into the folds of the ordinary. He just hadn’t expected to feel quite so much like a bystander while it happened.

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and kept walking, the rhythm of his boots soft against the deck. Salt air, narrow corridors, the steady beat of shipboard life.

For now, it was laundry. And later, dinner prep. The rest would come in time.

The second day of the dive, Robin and Jinbe went down after breakfast. Sanji stopped by the marine operations center briefly to check on progress. He found Zoro had taken Robin’s usual seat, hunched forward with his arms folded and brow furrowed at the monitor’s live feed. His posture didn’t just suggest ex-SEAL or experienced diver, it radiated protectiveness, a quiet, vigilant care for his crewmates below the surface.

Sanji didn’t stay long. The room buzzed with purpose, and he wasn’t part of the dive crew. He spent the rest of the day otherwise occupied. At lunch, Robin and Jinbe shared that they’d finished the outer survey of the wreck. The next day’s dive would begin the interior sweep, which would be more confined, more unpredictable, and far more dangerous. Sanji felt a flicker of worry but forced himself to trust their skill. Usopp’s drones would accompany them, and every move would be monitored top to bottom.

On the eighth day, the danger struck. A hose snagged on jagged metal, a ruptured rib of the ship’s hull, rusted but still sharp. Robin's secondary air supply deployed smoothly, and both divers evacuated to the sub without a hitch. No panic. No showboating. Just two calm professionals doing a deadly job with the ease of breathing.

Sanji, on the other hand, had fretted enough for the whole crew. When he fretted, he baked. And cooked. And fussed. The Sunny’s galley had become a shrine of distraction: citrus tarts, pecan cookies, smoked meat pasties, trays of shortbread and brioche. Enough food to almost keep Luffy full.

The following morning, Zoro descended with a slice of foam – bright blue, carved neatly from a pool noodle – and wedged it over the metal shard that had caught Robin’s hose. Simple, effective, and weirdly thoughtful.

Sanji felt… out of his depth. Not in the water, but here, among them. The others weren’t all divers, but every one of them contributed. Chopper monitored vital signs pre- and post-dive with quiet precision. Nami and Brook refilled mixed-gas tanks and logged hours. Franky went over the submersible’s joints and seals every evening like a man fixing his own heart. When remains were located, Brook joined Usopp at the monitors, working through the drone cameras to map the wreck room by room on a slowly blooming schematic. Once the interior survey was complete, Brook would descend himself.

And Sanji? Sanji cooked. Cleaned. Asked questions at the ops center, careful not to hover or irritate. Sometimes he felt like a guest in someone else’s obsession. But every time, Usopp or Franky or someone else in the room made space for him. Answered him. Made him feel, fleetingly, like he belonged.

Day fifteen brought a shift. The captain’s quarters were located, intact but crumbling, tucked at the rear of the wreck beneath layers of silt and ballast rock. A steel chest had been wedged near the collapsed writing desk, its sides streaked with corrosion but still largely intact, chained to the beam beside the bones of the presumed captain. A drone hooked it and brought it up slow and careful.

Robin stood near the moon pool as it breached, her face lit with anticipation. Sanji helped Jinbe hoist the chest from the sub's platform. Saltwater sluiced from its seams as they set it onto a rubber-lined cart and wheeled it to the briefing room.

A waterproof tarp had been spread across the table, an empty tub beside it. Nami stood ready with bolt cutters and lockpicks, latex gloves already in place. The gleam in her eyes reflected a hunger for precision, control, and maybe just a dash of gold.

The chest was the size of a breadbox. Cold-rolled steel, dark with tarnish, its edges softened by time. Its lock was swollen with rust and the faint hint of sea life etched along its base. Nami knelt and began her careful work with the lockpicks. “We try to preserve as much as we can,” she murmured, eyes narrowed at the mechanism. “But this has been sitting in seawater since the 1720s. At 263 feet? That’s over 117 psi. Six years down there and steel might hold. At 300? It’d be a miracle this didn’t collapse or corrode straight through.”

“Whaleskin,” Robin said softly. “That’s what protected it.”

Nami looked up. “You noticed?”

“I felt it in the seam. Lined around the inner lid, likely wrapped around the contents.”

Sanji glanced between them, confused. “Whaleskin?”

Robin nodded, reverent. “Tanned sperm whale dermis. Rare, but once used to wrap waterproof documents at sea. It resists salt and mold. If it’s sealed tight enough, it creates a microclimate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning whatever’s inside might just be readable.”

It took Nami over thirty minutes to work the lock. Her face never showed frustration, only focus. When the hasp finally gave with a groan, she eased the lid open and leaned back as brackish water drained into the tub. Robin stepped forward, arms now sheathed in long gloves, and peered inside.

The first item to come out disintegrated, leather gone to pulp, revealing a cascade of gold coins that gleamed dull and stamped. Sanji recognized a few from history books: Spanish doubloons, Portuguese cruzados, likely minted between 1710 and 1725.

Then came jewelry: tangled rings, a delicate crucifix, a cracked emerald brooch. Nami sorted while Robin dug deeper, brushing away sediment.

Then Robin stilled. “There.”

She withdrew a wrapped item with utmost care. The whaleskin binding glistened, oily and dark. Her breath caught. “If we’re lucky…”

She dabbed it dry, moved it from the tarp to the sanitized far end of the table, and unwrapped it layer by careful layer. Inside lay a stack of journals, thread-bound. She used a delicate bone tool to turn the cover of what looked like a ship’s log. The ink had faded, but the paper had held.

Robin exhaled with the hush of a prayer. “It’s intact.”

Sanji, watching, could feel the energy in the room change. Not excitement exactly. Awe. Reverence. Like they’d opened a tomb and found a voice still whispering inside.

“You want to move it to your office?” Nami said. “Get it climate-controlled?”

Robin nodded. “I’ll set up the portable case, airtight, with temperature control. It’ll go straight in.” She turned toward Jinbe. “Jinbe, will you help?”

“Of course.”

They vanished, careful and quick, already discussing cleanroom setup. Sanji lingered with Nami, who was still sorting coins from sludge. “This is a good find, huh?”

Nami laughed under her breath. “Good? This is the kind of find we fantasize about. Contemporary logs, not copies. It’s like getting an extra cherry on top... if the cherry were rare, handwritten, and possibly worth more than the sundae.”

By the time the crew gathered for lunch, the galley hummed with anticipation. The table overflowed with platters – grilled fish, rice, soup, warm bread, pickled vegetables – Sanji’s way of participating in the dive. Luffy had already licked his plate clean once and was hovering near the serving dishes when Robin stood, hands folded in front of her, calm and composed despite the ripple of attention that passed through the room.

“The chest contained logs,” she said, voice even but edged with quiet excitement. “Wrapped in whaleskin, preserved beyond hope. And based on the entries I’ve reviewed so far, we can now confirm: this wreck is the One Piece.”

Silence snapped taut through the room.

Then Luffy’s chair clattered back as he jumped to his feet and bellowed, “MEAT TO CELEBRATE!”

Zoro grinned and thumped his fist against the table. Usopp whooped, nearly dropping his bowl. Chopper launched into happy little hops, and Franky threw his arms skyward with a “THAT’S SUPER!” Brook burst into delighted laughter. Jinbe’s eyes crinkled as he nodded with steady pride. Nami sat back with a slow, satisfied exhale, like every calculation she’d ever made had just paid off.

Sanji leaned back in his chair and smiled as the chaos took over. 

Glasses lifted. Hands raised.

“To the logs!”

“To the find!”

“To the One Piece!”

They toasted with whatever was within reach – bottles, bowls, glasses, even soup. The noise rang clear to the terrace deck and echoed below like something mythic had finally come home.

The energy didn’t settle right away. Luffy was already on his third plate, talking animatedly through a mouthful of grilled tuna. Brook hummed a sea shanty while Chopper peppered Jinbe with information about eighteenth century medicine. Franky and Zoro were debating whether the found crucifix was decorative or devotional, loud enough to draw interjections from Nami.

Sanji leaned back in his chair beside Usopp, the warmth of the room wrapping around him like the scent of lemon and roast garlic that still lingered in the air. He watched the crew laugh, eat, and talk over each other with a fondness he didn’t quite know what to do with.

“This is a big deal,” he murmured to Usopp, keeping his voice low amidst the happy chaos. He knew from the crew’s reactions, and Robin’s stories over coffee, that the One Piece wasn’t just some historical score. “You’ve all been chasing this for a long time.”

Usopp nodded, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “It’s what started Luffy’s dream to become a treasure hunter. And the reason he dragged me into it right after high school. We’ve been chasing it for twenty years.” He glanced toward their captain, who was now pointing triumphantly at a slab of roast pork. “This has been our white whale.”

Sanji hesitated. “So… what does it mean now that you’ve found it?”

He didn’t mean to sound nervous, but part of him couldn’t help it. This was the legendary endgame, right? Had he just joined a team that had completed its greatest quest?

Usopp caught the undertone and grinned. “It means a little bit of fame and a lot of bragging rights in the community. That’s about it.”

Sanji blinked. “That’s it?”

Usopp chuckled. “Robin’ll find the next lost and obscured-through-time target, and we’ll spend the next twenty years chasing that one. We’ll keep diving, keep salvaging, keep doing what we do.”

Sanji let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Around them, chairs scraped and silverware clinked, Zoro’s laughter barked across the table, and Nami shouted something about cataloging the coins before dinner.

“So… it’s not the end of the road,” Sanji said, more to himself than anything.

“Not a chance,” Usopp said. “Treasure hunting’s in our blood. In all our blood.” He bumped Sanji’s shoulder with his own. “Hopefully in your blood now, too.”

Sanji met his grin with one of his own. “It’s getting there.”

Usopp popped a piece of lemon shortbread into his mouth. “It’ll be even more fun once Zoro gets you certified for tech dives. If I wasn’t deathly allergic to diving, the open ocean, saltwater, sharks, jellyfish, and drowning, I’d get certified, too.”

Sanji laughed. “That’s a lot of allergies for someone living on a boat.”

“Captain Usopp fears nothing,” Usopp declared, striking a dramatic pose with a fork. “Except maybe Nami when she’s had less than six hours of sleep.”

Sanji raised his glass in salute. “Fair.”

After lunch, Sanji drifted back to the briefing room. He found Zoro already there, alone, bent over something on the table. A sword. Not the corroded decorative kind tourists gawked at, this was a real weapon, severe and sea-worn, its dignity weathered but unmistakable. The blade, though dulled and pitted from three centuries buried in saltwater silt, still held its shape. What little steel remained visible beneath the crust of corrosion shimmered faintly in the light, hinting at craftsmanship that had once been peerless. The leather-wrapped hilt was almost black from age and water exposure, fraying in places, and the brass guard had bloomed with a soft green patina of oxidization. It looked like something that had survived the sea by sheer will alone.

Zoro turned it under the lights like it was something precious.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Mr. Bandares,” Sanji said, the words slipping out without thinking.

Zoro snorted, a surprised laugh breaking through his usual stoicism, a brief grin flashing across his face. “I never should have told you that.”

“Too late.” Sanji stepped fully into the room, the faint hum of the ship’s ventilation filling the silence between them. He glanced at the sword in Zoro’s latex-gloved hand. “Where did you find that?”

“Captain’s quarters,” Zoro replied, holding the blade up under the harsh overhead light. “Right beside the captain.”

Sanji let his eyes roam over the corroded steel. “I suppose a sword doesn’t do much good when you’re dead.”

“True.” Zoro turned it slowly, examining the pommel. “I was hoping to find a swordsmith’s mark.”

“Would that change its value?”

“It could.”

Sanji folded his arms, his mouth tugging with faint disdain. “Bet your boss would be pleased if it was worth a fortune.”

Zoro’s expression darkened, shadowed by something sharper than rust. “What is with you and this obsession with money?”

Sanji’s smile faded. He pushed a stray lock of hair from his face, fighting the pull of old habits to grab and tear. “I’m not obsessed with money,” he said, voice low. “I just know what it does to people who have too much of it. Makes them think they’re untouchable.”

“And you think that’s what’s going on here?”

“I don’t know. I asked you, and you gave me the runaround.” Sanji shoved his hands deep into his pockets, fingers grazing the metal of his lighter. The patch on his arm reminded him: no smoking. He clenched his jaw and fought the craving.

Zoro set the sword down and peeled off his gloves, the soft snap echoing in the small room. He clenched his jaw, eye narrowing. “Where’s this experience of yours coming from? You binge too many exposés on tech billionaires with god complexes? Too many crash-and-burn documentaries about crypto bros, oil dynasties, secret space programs?”

Sanji gave a short laugh, dry and sharp. “You mean the ones where they buy private islands, fund shadow governments, and call it philanthropy? Yeah, maybe I watched a few.” He hesitated, then added, “But it’s not just that. I’ve lived it.”

The weight of memories sat heavy on his chest, but maybe if he opened up, Zoro would do the same. “I’m a Vinsmoke. Vinsmoke Technologies – one of the biggest weapons manufacturers around. My father… he’s a nouveau riche power trip wrapped in money. And he’s not a good man.” The words felt like acid on his tongue.

Zoro blinked, surprise flickering in his eye. “But your last name’s Black.”

“I changed it when I turned eighteen.”

Zoro’s gaze sharpened. “So, the whole ‘working in kitchens forever’ thing was a lie?”

“No.” Sanji met his gaze squarely. “I ran away when I was eight. Met Zeff. Worked and lived with him ever since.”

Zoro frowned, muscles tensing as his hands clenched the edge of the table as he leaned against it. His brow knit, eye narrowed in disbelief. “And your richer-than-Midas father just let you vanish? Didn’t even try to track you down?” His voice was edged with doubt, like he was trying to line up a puzzle piece that refused to fit.

Sanji snorted, bitterness laced in every syllable. “That abusive bastard was probably relieved I disappeared. As long as I didn’t cause a scene or trend online, he could pretend I never existed.”

Zoro paused. “Abusive?”

Shit, Sanji hadn’t meant to say that. “Water under the bridge. Over the dam. Dead and buried. Forget it.”

Zoro’s eye locked onto his with a new intensity. Then, in a low, almost whispered voice, he said, “Money let him get away with the abuse.” It was a statement, not a question. 

Sanji jerked his gaze away, fingers tightening on the lighter until the metal bit into his skin. “My past is my past. Let’s leave it there.”

Zoro was silent for a long moment, the kind that stretched uncomfortably, before he said, almost reluctantly, “I’m the boss.”

Sanji blinked, thrown off. “Come again?”

“I’m the one with the money.” Zoro folded his arms across his chest like a barrier and shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable. “I, uh… I own all this.”

Sanji stared at him, slow to process. “You? But… you’re ex-military. That whole rough-and-ragged warrior thing—” He cut himself off, brain scrambling through every prior detail – the state-of-the-art gear, the helicopter, the way everyone deferred to Zoro without blinking. “Holy shit. You’re him.”

Zoro gave a single, curt nod. “Inherited it. Don’t like talking about it.”

“Oh.” The word left Sanji on an exhale. He leaned a hand on the edge of the table for balance, trying to wrap his head around it. Zoro – the gym bro who looked like he belonged in a trench and not a boardroom – had money. A lot of it. Enough to fund the Sunny, the tech, the dives. All of it.

“That… must be nice,” Sanji said, the words hollow as they came out.

Zoro scoffed, sharp and bitter, like something lodged in his throat. “Nice? It’s not nice. It’s numbers in an account that never should’ve been mine.” His arms tightened across his chest. “I didn’t earn it. Didn’t want it. I had to lose everything to get it.”  His voice cracked at the edge, raw and broken. “This fucking money means nothing.”

The words hung there, suspended like dust in sunlight.

Sanji didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

He watched it break across Zoro’s face – grief, raw and sudden. Not the cold kind that lived deep and silent, but the kind that ripped straight through. His jaw locked, muscles in his cheek twitching like he was trying to hold it in. Then, without warning, his hand came up, fingers pressing against his eye, trying to hide it.

“Shit,” Zoro muttered, barely audible.

Sanji’s chest cinched tight, the way it always did when something hit too close to home. He knew that look, that effort not to crack, not to let the world see where you were bleeding.

It was jarring. Zoro, who moved like stone and cut through problems like steel, was unraveling in front of him. And not in some dramatic way – no wailing, no fists through walls – just quiet, clenched devastation.

And fuck, Sanji understood that.

Sanji had suffered through the loss of his mother, and sometimes that pain still surfaced, sharp and unexpected, sneaking up in the kitchen or in the pauses between recipes. But what he saw in Zoro’s grief was different, much more raw, far fresher, cutting deeper than anything Sanji had ever known.

Without thinking, Sanji stepped in – careful, measured. He laid a hand on Zoro’s shoulder, the muscle taut beneath his palm. He didn’t pull him in, not yet, just left his touch there as a quiet offer.

Zoro didn’t flinch. Didn’t move away.

So Sanji pulled him into a side hug, rough, awkward, but solid. He held him there, one arm across his back, not saying a word. Not offering sympathy. Just presence. A moment to breathe.

Zoro smelled faintly of clean soap and sun-dried cotton, his body tense, coiled tight as if unwilling to show weakness, but not resisting the comfort. That was enough.

“Fuck,” Sanji murmured, voice low and tight with emotion. “I didn’t know.”

He meant it. And not in the empty way people said it. He meant it in the I-see-you kind of way. The I-know-this-hurts kind of way.

Zoro didn’t resist. He didn’t lean in either, but he didn’t move away.

Sanji stood beside him, steady, offering what little comfort he could without demanding anything in return. He didn’t say sorry. That never helped. He just stayed, letting the silence say what words couldn’t.

He knew what it was like to carry loss, to wake up every day with a hole in your chest that didn’t shrink. But whoever Zoro had lost… that wound was still raw.

Eventually, Zoro drew in a long breath and let it out, shaky and uneven. He cleared his throat, gruff. “Thanks.”

Sanji took it for what it was – the truest kind of gratitude – and stepped back. He turned toward the sword on the table, giving Zoro a moment to pull himself together without the weight of someone watching.

The hum of the lights returned. The faint sway of the sea beneath the hull made the overhead fixtures creak. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed.

Zoro moved beside him again, pulling on fresh gloves. His voice came a little stiffer now, as if regaining his footing. “Anyway… hope that clears up your suspicions about the money.”

Sanji glanced sideways at him, one brow raised. “It does. Unless you really are secretly an asshole under all that ridiculous hair, marimo.”

A bark of surprised laughter broke out of Zoro. “Please. Like you’re one to talk, Neo.”

Sanji recoiled with a strangled sound. “No, no, hell no. Bastard!”

Zoro was grinning now, unrepentant and smug. The tension between them cracked like ice under sun, and something warmer crept in to take its place.

Sanji shook his head, but he was smiling too. “Fine. You’re an asshole. But you’re not that kind of asshole.”

Zoro rolled his eye. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Still doing it.”

They stood together in that comfortable quiet, side by side at the edge of the table, looking down at the rust-worn blade between them. Something had shifted. Sanji could feel it. Not just the thaw between them, but the sense that maybe they weren’t just tolerating each other anymore.

Maybe they were starting something.

Sanji finally knowing about the money brought an unexpected sense of relief, a release that proved Luffy had been right all along, and Zoro should’ve just told him sooner. Even better, Sanji wasn’t one of those guys who immediately wanted to be best friends because someone had cash. In fact, it was the opposite. Sanji gave him shit about it. Sharp-tongued, relentless, merciless shit.

“What, afraid to get your Armani track pants dirty?”

“You’d think you, of all people, could afford shoes.”

“Bet you insured your pecs for two million dollars – a million per tit.”

“Guess money can’t buy manners.”

It was brutal, cutting, and right in Zoro’s face – and he loved every second of it. The others didn’t give two shits that he had money, but Sanji didn’t care in the best way. 

And because of this, that thing that Zoro had been pushing aside came roaring back to the forefront. 

He liked Sanji. And maybe wanted to try something more.

He remained skittish about it, though, because grief could still hit him like a wave out of nowhere, nearly flattening him. Guilt showed up uninvited, too, whispering that maybe he wasn’t being faithful. But logically, he knew it was okay to want again. He was only thirty-eight. Bad things could happen, but they might not. There was a long life ahead. Did he want to spend it alone?

His friends were all for it. What started as Robin, Nami, Usopp, and Luffy knowing about Zoro’s interest soon spread to the whole crew. They loved hearing Sanji roast him and exchanging knowing glances when Zoro fired back. Hell, for all he knew, Sanji was waiting for him to make the first move.

Still, they were in the middle of the dive, and Zoro’s focus had to stay there. They’d cleared about five-sixths of the wreck’s interior, with the lowest hold left untouched. Brook still needed to dive, and Zoro always went down with the old man. That meant he’d still be underwater every other day, while the second team – Jinbe and Luffy – raised the rest of the artifacts.

But that didn’t stop him from spending time with Sanji, shooting the shit, taking verbal beatings, and enjoying every second of it.

“I don’t even know how you play this,” Sanji grumbled, perched next to Zoro on the worn sofa. Feet curled on the cushion, knees bent, wrists resting on his thighs as he wrestled with the controller. His avatar kept somersaulting in place instead of clearing the barrier.

Zoro smirked. “Some of us have better controller skills than a toddler.”

“Fuck off, grass for brains.” Sanji jabbed at the buttons, frustration mounting as his avatar collapsed prone and started crawling. “This is stupid.”

“You probably only play Stardew Valley.”

“Stardew Valley is relaxing and doesn’t involve jumping over fucking walls.”

Zoro laughed, the sound low and teasing. “Can’t take the heat, cook?”

“Very original.” Sanji shot back. “Why don’t you spend some money and buy yourself some new material?”

“Maybe I should buy you some skill.”

“Maybe you should buy a new console, because I’m about to throw this one off the damned ship.”

“Heh.” Zoro maneuvered his avatar right up behind Sanji’s and shot it in the ass.

“Oh, you fucker.” Sanji kicked Zoro hard in the thigh. “Trust you to shoot a man while he’s down.”

“All’s fair in love and Call of Duty.” Zoro smirked.

“And they say romance is dead,” Sanji griped, and managed to make his avatar stab Zoro’s avatar with a knife. “Ha. Take that, marimo.”

Zoro had his avatar shoot Sanji’s between the eyes. 

Sanji sighed as his avatar was killed. “You suck.”

“Talking about yourself again, Neo?”

“Just wait. I’m going to kick your ass at Stardew Valley.”

Zoro sat hunched at his desk, the soft clack of keystrokes and the faint rustle of receipts the only sounds in his dim office. A single desk lamp illuminated the space in a cone of amber light, casting shadows across stacks of paperwork and the wooden surface scarred by coffee stains and beer rings. Beyond the tinted window, the sea was ink-black, the subtle sway of the Sunny creating a rhythmic creak in the floor. Faint echoes of laughter and music filtered in from the lounge, voices rising and falling in waves like the ocean beneath them. Somewhere closer, the low hum of the filtration system buzzed steadily, a kind of heartbeat for the ship.

His track pants hung low on his hips, soft with age and frayed at the hems. The black tank clung faintly to his torso, damp at the collarbone and spine with the room’s stale warmth. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, fingers brushing the edge of his glasses, before glancing between a wrinkled receipt and the open accounting software glowing on his screen. The numbers blurred briefly, fatigue pressing behind his eye.

His office was the same size as the others, compact but efficient. The desk faced the door, a well-worn slab of wood bolted to the floor, much like the heavy file cabinet at his side. Two utilitarian chairs sat in front of it, mismatched and scuffed from use. Closed library cases lined the back wall, holding diving logs, decompression tables, marine forensic studies, ROV diagnostics manuals – more technical binders than any non-engineer on board, though he read them all. Framed along the walls hung three ceremonial katanas, their lacquered sheaths gleaming faintly in the lamplight, along with photographs Nami made him hang "so your office doesn’t look like a depressed accountant works in here," she’d told him, and he hadn’t argued.

Robin was in her office next door, their walls shared by a thin bulkhead that didn’t block sound as much as muffle it. He could sometimes hear the turning of ancient pages when it was quiet enough. Tonight she was likely bent reverently over the salvaged captain’s logs they’d recovered from the wreck – leatherbound tomes sealed tight by whale oil and centuries of pressure, now breathing dry air again for the first time since the ship went down. Her reading lamp burned until late most nights, always a steady golden glow spilling into the hallway. 

It was his off day tomorrow. He wasn’t on the rotation to dive. They were nearing the end of the site work. Luffy and Jinbe had raised every artifact found so far, now delicately excavating the ocean floor around the wreck for anything else hidden beneath centuries of sediment. Brook was methodically documenting skeletal remains in the fragile, silt-covered rooms; bones discolored and brittle, partially buried but still recoverable for DNA testing. 

The last few days had been a forced pause. A storm system had rolled through, nothing serious, but it was enough to toss the Sunny in slow, groaning arcs. Zoro had called off the dives without hesitation. He didn’t risk people underwater when the weather turned. Some crews did – he’d heard stories from Usopp about contractors diving in unsafe conditions just to hit quotas, about greedy ops that sent rookies into silt clouds blind. That wasn’t how they worked. From the start, Luffy’s contracts had prohibited hard deadlines. No time pressure, no deliverables calendar. Salvage took as long as it took. They owed that kind of clear thinking to Grandpa Garp.

The numbers shifted line by line. Nothing flashy, just expense reports, logistical charges, ship maintenance, supply drops, gear replacements. Zoro worked his way through the receipts with practiced efficiency, checking totals, scanning for mistakes, making sure the inputs matched what was actually spent. Every penny had a paper trail. He made sure of it.

Technically, he didn’t have to. He worked with a financial firm that handled the large-scale management – a team of licensed CPAs, advisors, trust overseers, and compliance officers. But Zoro still went over the numbers himself. He needed to. That kind of wealth didn’t sit comfortably with him unless it was watched.

There was more money than anyone should ever have to think about. More than he’d spend in five lifetimes, more than the crew would burn through even if they tried. It hadn’t come from effort or ambition or anything earned. It was inherited, dropped into his lap after everything else had fallen apart. A fortune so massive it had to be hidden behind blind trusts and layered holdings just to keep it safe. It didn’t sit right with him, not really. Zoro had never cared much for excess. Give him iron to lift, a steady place to sleep, and something worth protecting – that was enough. But now he carried a different kind of weight: the kind people kill for, sue for, manipulate and lie to get close to. And because it came from someone who mattered, he couldn’t let it rot.

Most of the work was digital now, but Zoro still made regular trips to the financial firm, sitting face-to-face with the accountants and advisors who handled the lion’s share of the money. He wanted to see the people behind the numbers, to ensure no shadowy figure could taint what had been entrusted to him. Money was a force. One that could corrupt or protect. He had inherited wealth he neither sought nor desired, but he would be damned if he wasn’t the best steward of it.

He oversaw a network of charitable efforts, grants, and foundations – some established long before, others born from his own resolve – infusing each with a careful sense of purpose. These were never just numbers or transactions; they were commitments, deliberate acts meant to foster change and bring meaning to what had been lost. In this way, he honored the legacy entrusted to him, determined that the trust placed in him would never be regretted.

The Straw Hat Corporation had belonged to Luffy long before Zoro came aboard, but his investments ensured the crew’s health and well-being, their future secured without the weight of financial worry, himself included. It was a safety net woven with care, allowing them to focus on what they did best, whether sailing into storms or diving into the unknown, without the creeping shadow of uncertainty pulling at their backs.

Sometimes he thought about making it official, doing an online degree, sitting for the CPA exam. Numbers came easy to him. If he hadn’t been pulled into the Navy by Grandpa Garp, he probably would’ve become an accountant – the most musclebound bastard to ever balance a budget.

Maybe he still would. He hadn’t decided yet.

The cursor blinked as he entered a correction. Just a single digit off, but enough to throw the whole line into question. He adjusted the figure in the software, then flicked his gaze over the top of his glasses to recheck the number against the receipt in his hand. The glasses were plain, narrow-framed, utilitarian. Good enough for close work, not meant to flatter. Still, they sat firm on the bridge of his nose, the weight a familiar pressure as he leaned closer to the screen.

Beyond the muted glow of his desk lamp, the office was quiet. The only sounds were the slow creak of the ship beneath him, the faint buzz of electronics, and the constant thrum of the water filtration system, steady and reassuring, like a distant engine’s heartbeat.

A door somewhere down the corridor shifted open.

Zoro logged the next line, fingers tapping slow and deliberate, but a subtle tension drew through his shoulders. The crew lounge had quieted a few minutes ago, voices muffled now behind closed bulkheads. Robin was still next door. He could almost picture her in that calm, reverent way she had, bent over pages sealed in darkness since the 1700s. She moved like a ghost when she wanted to, but he would’ve heard her door open if she’d left.

Footsteps. Light ones. Measured. Coming closer.

Zoro’s jaw flexed. He didn’t stop working, but his attention narrowed. Not Jinbe. His gait was heavier, deliberate. Not Luffy either. Luffy moved like a small tornado, all stomping feet and bursts of uncontained noise. Not Brook, either; Brook hummed to himself more often than not.

Still, his spine straightened a little, senses sharpening despite himself.

The footsteps slowed as they neared his door, then paused before a single, soft knock, knuckles tapping gently against the wood of the half-open door.

Zoro didn’t look up immediately. He marked the line item with a comment note and saved the draft. The amber glow caught the edge of his lenses, reflecting dim light in the glass. Condensation from the beer bottle he hadn’t touched in over an hour left fresh rings on the worn wood of the desk. He felt the subtle shift of the ship rocking with the tide.

Then he leaned back slightly and called out, quiet but steady, “Yeah?”

The door creaked open, and Sanji stepped inside, the faint scent of spiced cider trailing behind him like a warm invitation. His eyes immediately caught the narrow, black-framed glasses perched on the bridge of Zoro’s nose.

“You wear glasses?” Sanji asked, stepping closer with a surprised tilt of his head.

Zoro reached up and slid the narrow spectacles off, letting them rest on the scattered papers. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little self-conscious. “I know, it looks stupid with only one good eye. I only really need them when I’m doing paperwork.”

“No, they were—” Sanji cleared his throat, a blush tinting his cheeks as his gaze flicked away briefly. “Anyway, surprised they aren’t thicker framed – mask of Zorro style.”

“Fuck off,” Zoro said with a low chuckle, the sound rough around the edges but warm.

Sanji crossed the compact office with a confident stride, setting down the steaming mug and bowl of snacks on Zoro’s worn desk. His dark eyes flicked toward the scattered papers, then lifted with a teasing smirk. “Security work?” he asked dryly, sarcasm clear.

Zoro picked up the mug and blew off a bit of steam before taking a sip. It was laced with something warm and biting – brandy, maybe – and the spices settled comfortably in his mouth. “Okay, fine,” he admitted with a soft laugh. “I’m the crew’s accountant.”

“‘Number stuff,’” Sanji echoed with an exaggerated sniff. He grinned. “What, afraid your gym rat rep would take a hit if I knew you had more than two brain cells to rub together?”

Zoro snorted, but the heat rising in his face was harder to ignore. He hid it in another sip. The cider was strong, its sharp cinnamon bite making his tongue tingle pleasantly.

Sanji’s gaze wandered around the office, curious but lighthearted. “Never been in here before. So where’s the vault full of gold? You roll around in it at night, or do you just dive into it like a pool?”

“Funny,” Zoro said, deadpan.

His eyes landed next on the three ceremonial katanas hung precisely above the library cases. “And they let you keep these where everyone can see them? Nobody worried you’re gonna slice yourself in half one of these nights?”

Zoro leaned back in his chair with a lazy smile. “Don’t be surprised if your wardrobe gets mysteriously replaced tomorrow, Neo.”

Sanji grinned at that, then stepped toward the wall of photographs. Zoro grabbed a handful of snack mix and stood up, joining him a moment later. Sanji gestured to one of the older pictures – a casual summer shot of five boys crowded around a fire pit, all sunburned grins and dirty knees.

“You, Usopp, and Luffy look like actual kids here. Who’re the other two?”

“Luffy’s brothers,” Zoro said. “That summer, we went camping with Grandpa Garp.”

Sanji glanced over his shoulder. “Wait, isn’t that Luffy’s grandfather’s name? The Admiral?”

Zoro nodded, still looking at the photo. “He wasn’t the kind of admiral who wore medals for show. Garp was built like a tank, barked like a drill sergeant, and laughed like he didn’t take orders from anyone. He made us carry our own gear, start our own fires, and purify water from the river like it was boot camp. I think I was sixteen.”

The next picture drew Sanji’s attention: a formal portrait of Zoro in full dress uniform, standing beside an older man in pristine admiral whites. The man’s medals stretched halfway across his chest in perfect rows, colorful, brilliant. His smile was fierce, proud, and half-shadowed beneath a peaked cap set at a razor-sharp angle. Zoro stood stiffly beside him, his own medals fewer but hard-earned, his jaw set and dark hair cropped military short.

“This him?” Sanji asked. “Garp?”

“Yeah,” Zoro confirmed, popping a peanut in his mouth. “That was the day I got pinned.”

Sanji turned to him, confused. “Pinned?”

“Means I earned my SEAL trident,” Zoro clarified. “Officially joined the team.”

“Ah. Thought it was gonna be some Navy BDSM shit,” Sanji said, deadpan.

Zoro laughed unexpectedly, a rough, rich sound. “Not that kind of ceremony.”

Sanji’s eyes drifted to the next photo – Zoro, in a crisp kendo gi, the deep blue dyed darker with sweat. His jaw was bruised, hair soaked, but his posture was flawless and centered. A large gold trophy stood at his feet, polished like a blade. Beside him stood another man – older, refined – wearing a tailored black dress shirt, half unbuttoned, silver rings on his fingers, and a wine-dark silk scarf slung rakishly at his collar. His eyes were sharp, his presence magnetic, and even frozen in the photo, it was clear he and Zoro had something unspoken tethered between them.

“You look like a samurai,” Sanji said. Then, squinting, “Who’s this? Is that your sensei or something?”

Zoro’s gaze lingered on the image, not flinching. “That’s the day I won my seventh straight All Japan kendo title. And no, not my sensei.” His voice dropped a little. “That was my husband.”

Sanji’s head snapped toward him, a little too fast. “Husband? But I thought you were– wait–” He stopped mid-sentence, the math working its way across his face. “Oh. Oh shit.”

Zoro nodded once. “Plane crash. He was on his way back from a meeting. Not long after I left the Navy.”

Silence stretched a few seconds. Then: “Zoro…” The way Sanji said his name was low, full of that aching kind of sympathy that didn’t try to smooth anything over. 

Zoro didn’t look away from the photo. He remembered the way his husband had stood beside him that day, always with that annoyingly perfect posture, like he’d been born in a cravat. He’d hated getting his hands dirty, never broke a sweat if he could help it, but gods, he’d cheered louder than anyone when Zoro landed that final point, beating the record. He’d looked at Zoro like he’d hung the goddamn moon.

Zoro cleared his throat and stepped back from the memory. “Anyway. That’s him. Where the money came from. Been six years now.”

“He must’ve been something,” Sanji said quietly. “To land you.”

That startled a laugh out of Zoro. “He was a pretentious prick. Total wine snob. Judged my chopstick grip. You’d have hated him.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Most days,” Zoro said, smiling crookedly. “But he was phenomenal in bed, so I made the necessary sacrifices.”

“Ah, so you’re easy,” Sanji said, with mock solemnity.

Zoro laughed again, bright and open. “Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before.”

Sanji’s gaze swept down his body with no pretense of subtlety. “Really? Because all that muscle is definitely giving, ‘I own six dildos and a gym.’”

Zoro flexed a bicep in response, amused. “This isn’t for show.”

Sanji stared – blatantly – and then tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Well, you are an accountant. You need every advantage you can get.”

Zoro saw it in the way Sanji said it, too casual. He wasn’t fooling anyone. The tension between them had turned. Shifted. Changed the shape of the air.

Zoro let his gaze slide over Sanji, appreciating the sharp line of his trousers, the fitted stretch of his dark gray button-down, the hint of golden hair at the open collar, soft and fine where it disappeared beneath the fabric. Desire sparked low and warm in his gut. “Accounting’s a deadly profession,” he murmured, voice dipped in want. 

“Spreadsheet samurais?” Sanji asked, stepping closer.

“Number ninjas.” Zoro’s fingers itched to touch. 

“Audit assassins.”

“Pencil-pushing pirates,” Zoro said, watching his mouth now. “I really want to kiss you.”

Sanji didn’t hesitate. “I really want you to kiss me,” he answered, half a breath away. Then, with a flicker of a smirk, “But put the glasses back on. They make you look really hot, Mr. Accountant.”

Zoro huffed a soft laugh, reached back to grab the glasses off his desk, and slid them on. He didn’t even get the words out before Sanji’s shirt was fisted in his hand and he was pulling him in, mouth already curving.

The kiss struck like a clean flame, sure and grounding, with none of the hesitation he half-expected. Just heat.

Sanji’s mouth was warm and certain against his, tasting of spiced cider and something Zoro couldn’t name but already wanted more of, and the feel of his mouth against Zoro’s was everything Zoro had missed. Soft but assertive, teasing but real. The press of lips was confident, coaxing – not pushing, just offering – and Zoro leaned into it instinctively, the way he might settle into a kata he hadn’t practiced in years but still remembered in his bones.

It was the kind of kiss he thought he might never feel again. And it didn’t ache the way he’d braced for.

No ghosts. No guilt. No shadows crowding the corners. Just Sanji’s breath warm against his cheek, the quiet press of his body, the steady rhythm of the moment anchoring him in now.

A quiet warmth unfurled in his chest, curling into places he’d let go cold. It wasn’t forgetting. It wasn’t replacing.

It was something new. Something he wanted.

The truth of it was there, steady as the press of Sanji’s mouth to his own.

Sanji eased back, close enough for Zoro to feel his breath, eyes searching. “This okay?” he asked, voice gentle, not tentative – wanting, but giving Zoro the room to step back if he needed it.

Zoro didn’t. He felt the answer settle in him like gravity. Yes. Not just to the kiss, but to everything it meant.

He slid his arms around Sanji’s waist, holding on not tightly, but with intention. “Yeah,” he said, steady and sure. “It really is.”

Sanji Googled Zoro.

He told himself it was just curiosity. Harmless, practical even. Having all the pieces laid out made it easier not to press Zoro for answers he clearly wasn’t ready to give. Still, it felt like something more. A quiet way to understand the man behind the calm gaze and slow smirks. A way to meet the part of Zoro’s past that still lived, quietly, in the corners of his presence.

He was curled on his side in bed, the soft hush of the ocean pressing against the hull of the yacht, low and rhythmic, like a lullaby he wasn’t quite ready to surrender to. The glow of his phone lit his face in the dark, casting shadows against the sheets. His body was warm beneath the covers, but there was still a hum just under his skin – the kind that came from a good kiss and a better promise.

They hadn’t done much. Just a few more kisses before Zoro blushed, rubbed the back of his neck like a schoolboy caught out, and ducked behind his desk again with a half-smile that made Sanji’s toes curl. Nothing rushed. No assumptions. Just the kind of quiet certainty that made Sanji want to take his time. It had been a long while since he’d dated anyone seriously. He wasn’t rusty, exactly, but out of practice with someone who actually mattered. And he appreciated that Zoro wasn’t just looking to get laid. Neither was he. They were grown-ass men, after all. The slow burn suited him just fine.

The first link was a Wikipedia page. Sanji blinked, brows lifting. He’d expected some articles, maybe a few kendo matches on YouTube, not this. He tapped the link, thinking it had to be a different Zoro Roronoa.

But there it was – Zoro’s unsmiling face, dressed in the same traditional garb as the photo in his office, staring back from the header like some stoic ghost from a modern legend.

Roronoa Zoro (ロロノア・ゾロ, west: Zoro Roronoa), the page read, widely regarded as the greatest master kendo swordsman of all time.

Sanji scrolled.

Twelve-time consecutive All Japan Kendo Champion.

Seven of them at the 8th Dan Tournament level – the highest attainable through physical trial.

Three-time World Kendo Champion.

The All Japan runner-up, apparently, had only six national titles. Zoro had doubled that man’s streak like it was nothing. And had done it consecutively. 

The page laid out his background in neat, clinical lines: a Japanese father, a Japanese-American mother, early childhood in Japan until the age of five, then raised near San Diego in foster care. Enlisted in the Navy after high school. Became a SEAL. Married at twenty-three. Widowed at thirty-two. Stopped competing at twenty-nine.

Sanji’s chest tightened a little. There it was, facts laid bare in sterile font, stripped of all the weight they must have carried.

One link led to a wiki page of Zoro’s spouse.

Sanji hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen before he tapped.

The face that appeared matched the photo in Zoro’s office. A man in a sharply tailored suit, posture straight-backed and exacting, with features honed like sculpture, elegant, precise, and cold. His expression was all control: mouth set in a thin, calculated line, eyes unreadable. He looked every inch the kind of man who measured conversations in silence and let the world adjust to his pace. Uptight as hell. Maybe even a little smug.

Sanji didn’t recognize the name, but that didn’t mean much. Not everyone with money was a show pony like his father.

He’d been seriously rich. Billionaire-level, with a résumé that read like a business school fever dream. Philanthropic ventures, private think tanks, multi-national holdings. But none of it came across as flashy. His wealth was the quiet kind, folded into bullet points beneath a cascade of corporate accomplishments and deliberate, large-scale giving. Zoro’s name appeared only once, buried toward the end like a legal footnote. A marriage acknowledgment, not a love letter.

Sanji’s throat tightened, not with jealousy, but with something quieter. An ache for a story he hadn’t been part of. For someone who had clearly meant the world to Zoro, in ways Sanji was only beginning to understand.

He scrolled to the references and clicked through to the plane crash article.

Private aircraft. Small engine. Sierra Nevadas. Density altitude issues. Sanji skimmed the black-and-white details with a frown. No scandal. Just cruel, ordinary tragedy.

He went back a page and followed a couple of links to news articles referenced in Zoro’s paragraph – there were no photos of a courthouse wedding, just a brief mention tucked inside a business feature. The gossip rags hadn’t let up, though, tossing around labels like boytoy and gold digger with careless abandon. Sanji snorted. Anyone who’d spent more than five seconds with Zoro would know he couldn’t fake politeness, let alone affection.

It became clear that both men were fiercely private. No red carpet appearances. No flashy galas. The articles that did mention them focused on business and charitable work, not society chatter.

Maybe that’s why it worked for them.

And maybe that’s why Zoro had held so much so close to the chest – his wealth, his loss, the quiet grief Sanji had glimpsed but never dared ask about.

Sanji exhaled slowly and set his phone down on the charger, the soft pulse of lo-fi beats spilling into the quiet cabin. The kind of music made for late nights, steady and mellow, with a rhythm that felt like a slow breath, a heartbeat in the dark.

He sank back into the pillows, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes tracing the shadowed ceiling as the gentle sway of the yacht rocked beneath him. The muted hum of the engines and the faint creak of settling wood wrapped around him like a familiar cloak, grounding him in the moment.

He didn’t feel like he’d intruded. Not really. More like he’d been introduced. To the man who had loved Zoro before him. To the life Zoro had been part of, and the one he was still learning how to live past.

Zoro hadn’t just lost someone. He’d loved someone. Deeply. And now, slowly, he was choosing again. Choosing Sanji.

That thought lingered, soft and steady, an unspoken promise in the quiet of the night. He remembered the stark words from Zoro’s Wikipedia page – the champion swordsman, the Navy SEAL, the widower. The weight behind those facts suddenly felt less distant, more human.

A slow grin tugged at Sanji’s lips as he pictured young Zoro, utterly serious, watching and rewatching the Mask of Zorro – swinging his shinai with fierce determination, imagining himself as the greatest swordsman the world had ever seen.

“Marimo Bandares,” Sanji muttered with affection, already scheming. The accountant swordsman. Masked vigilante by night. Spreadsheet tyrant by day. Wielding twin fountain pens and a calculator sword.

Weak to affection. Weakest when blushing under kisses.

Maybe he’d bake him a cake. No sugar, just espresso and spice, with green frosting shaped like a three-bladed abacus.

Zoro would hate it.

Sanji’s grin deepened.

He couldn’t wait to see the look on Zoro’s face.

And maybe steal another kiss while he was at it.

Zoro, Sanji quickly learned, was confident but deeply reserved. He bantered easily, tossed out innuendo like bait, and didn’t mind goofing around. Friendship-level intimacy came naturally. But anything deeper made him pause. He was direct when he wanted something, yes, but only in private, and even then, there was usually a flicker of hesitation behind it. As if the wanting itself was fine, but the asking still felt like too much. Intimacy for him was measured in quiet gestures. Small, certain choices. Moments that lingered instead of burned.

It was almost the opposite of Sanji.

Sanji loved romance. Flirting, teasing, coaxing reactions with looks and touches. He doted, openly and often. He liked affection loud, visible, undeniable. Being wanted out in the open was half the fun. And yet, something about the quiet way Zoro approached closeness – with restraint, with care – made it feel even more meaningful. Starting something with him was unlike anything Sanji had ever experienced, regardless of gender. And maybe that was what made it so compelling. So worth taking slow.

He thought about what he knew now, some of it from Zoro, most of it from that night of curiosity and careful Googling. The quietness of Zoro’s past relationship. The focus and discipline of a Navy SEAL and a kendōka at the highest level. The gentle way he moved through the crew, affectionate, protective, the kind of man who handled dive safety checks with the same intensity he gave to balancing the books. 

At his core, Zoro was solid and unwavering... and Sanji found himself falling for him a little more every day.

It was the last day of the dive on the One Piece. All the remains had been documented, each artifact cataloged and brought aboard with care. Even the protective pool noodles – more than one having served its noble purpose – had been collected and stowed away. Luffy and Robin were the last divers in the water – the treasure hunter and the marine archaeologist – the two who loved wreck diving most of all.

Zoro sat on one side of Usopp, Sanji on the other, their knees brushing lightly in the tight quarters of the ROV station. Franky monitored the sub’s telemetry. Chopper kept watch on vitals. Everything was quiet, steady. Sanji had wanted to be here for this. To witness the final sweep, the slow closing of the chapter that had been his first real adventure with the Straw Hat crew.

Onscreen, the ROV moved in graceful silence through the dark water, its soft lights cutting narrow paths through the silt-filled gloom. Usopp guided it with practiced hands, taking one last pass through the sunken ship’s heart. A farewell tour before she slipped back into obscurity – her position marked on GPS, officially recorded in the treasure hunter annals as cleared. No need for future dives. No plunder left to claim. The One Piece had been found, and it belonged to the Straw Hat crew now, in story and in legacy.

Sanji watched the monitor in near-reverence, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The glow of the screen lit his face in soft blue and green, reflections of the wreck flickering across his eyes. The ROV floated through collapsed passageways and broken bulkheads, into rooms they'd surveyed, into silence. Haunted spaces. Spaces that had once held voices, commands, laughter, now surrendered to time and salt. The water moved gently through the ribs of the ship, like breath.

The items they’d recovered – brass instruments, a few corroded firearms, ceramic jugs, the captain’s sword, and fragments of uniform buttons – would be sent to a reputable maritime museum in Portugal, where the One Piece had first been built and christened. The most astonishing find was the captain’s logbooks, pages still intact thanks to the whale oil–soaked leather skin that had sealed it watertight inside a rusted steel box.

The only treasure they kept were digital scans: thousands of photos, high-resolution 3D models of every artifact. Memory preserved. Presence returned to the deep.

Robin would write an article – long, careful, academic but elegant – on the wreck’s discovery, on its contents, its tragic history, its context. The museum would host a minor press conference, nothing flashy, just a quiet acknowledgment of the find and its preservation. Usopp had already posted on treasure hunter forums, gleefully bragging about their success. Nami had updated her Instagram and TikTok, uploading candid footage of the crew mid-work: Luffy grinning in full gear, Robin brushing silt from a nameplate, Zoro hauling crates from the sub lift, muscles flexing under a sweat-damp sleeveless shirt, expression unreadable.

Even Sanji had been caught with his arms deep in bread dough, flour on his cheek, the caption beneath the photo reading: Best Chef on the Ocean.

It had brought a tear to his eye. Not because of the compliment, but because of the moment it represented – this crew, this strange and perfect group of people, had seen him. Had included him. Had made him part of something that would be remembered.

And as the ROV drifted forward for its final loop, Sanji felt it deep in his chest, that quiet, certain pride of a job well done, of a ship laid to rest, and of having been exactly where he was supposed to be.

Zoro leaned back, looked past Usopp, and shot Sanji a grin – short, crooked, and meant for no one else. Sanji’s heart stirred. This was what closeness looked like to Zoro in public spaces: the brush of a thigh beneath the table, a glance held just too long, a hand resting against his lower back in passing. Not declarations, but offerings. Little things, tucked into the day like folded notes. Things meant to be noticed only by him.

Sanji slipped away as the divers made their slow ascent, heading up to the galley with quiet purpose. The yacht shifted gently beneath his feet, the hum of engines barely perceptible beneath the rhythmic thrum of seawater against the hull. In the galley, it was warm and bright, sunlight pouring through the tinted windows, glittering off polished metal and catching in the steam rising from pots on the stove. Sanji moved with practiced ease, plating grilled chicken, arranging roasted vegetables, and brushing a glaze over warm rolls. He worked without hurry, the motions comforting, almost meditative.

And then there was the cake.

He’d made it that morning before the dive, while the ship was still quiet and the crew half-asleep. A chocolate sponge, dense and rich, shaped in layers to mimic the curve of a hull, its pointed prow nudging forward on the platter. The frosting was simple – dyed powdered sugar in soft ocean blues and weathered grays – and the sails were jagged shards of candy glass, translucent and sea-glinting, fixed to reusable straws that tilted at rakish angles like masts in full wind. It looked like a child’s science fair project, more whimsical than precise. He wasn’t a pastry chef. But it smelled good. It would taste better. And it was from him.

By the time the divers were out of their suits and back in dry clothes, lunch was ready and waiting. Sanji set the last of the dishes down and called over the intercom, “Lunch is up!” His voice rang out through the corridor, bright and steady.

They trickled in, Robin first, her gait unhurried and elegant. Luffy followed close behind, dropping into his seat like a man starved, already reaching for the nearest plate. Chopper bounded in next, springing onto the seat beside Nami, who was scrolling through her phone with a grin, quickly tapping replies to comments. Usopp and Franky arrived together, elbowing and laughing, loud in the way only success made them. Jinbe came a moment later, calm and steady, his presence grounding the room. Brook floated in last, humming something old and wistful under his breath, his boa slightly askew.

Zoro took the seat next to Sanji, his sleeveless shirt damp and clinging along the collarbone and ribs from helping recover the last dive crates. The scent of salt, neoprene, and faint copper clung to his skin. 

There were murmurs of appreciation at the spread, at the warm bread, the bright salads, the grilled chicken. But it was the cake that drew the most noise.

“Holy crap,” Usopp breathed, leaning over the table. “Is that supposed to be the One Piece?”

Sanji feigned nonchalance. “Close enough. The frosting gave me hell, but it should taste good.”

“You made sails,” Nami said, raising an eyebrow. “You made candy sails.”

Robin smiled softly. “It’s lovely.”

Brook let out a theatrical gasp. “Sweet heaven! A chocolate ship! I must resist the urge to marry it – though I haven’t got the bones to consummate the union! Yo-ho-ho!”

“I thought,” Sanji said, straightening a plate, “since we celebrated with champagne at the start of the dive… we could commemorate with a cake at the end.”

There was a quiet beat before anyone spoke. The clink of silverware. The faint creak of the ship. A warm breeze stirred through the open windows. Luffy broke the silence with a delighted, “Can we eat it now?”

Laughter rippled through the room, easing the weight in Sanji’s chest. They passed plates, poured drinks, and fell into familiar rhythms – sharing stories, teasing one another, letting the food fill more than just hunger.

Zoro didn’t say anything about the cake, but Sanji noticed him take a sliver. Just a forkful, barely a bite, but enough to mean something. He didn’t even like chocolate. But he ate it anyway, his thigh pressed against Sanji’s under the table.

For a while, they ate. They savored. The cake was messy and sweet, sugar crackling between teeth, chocolate melting slow on the tongue. Chatter moved easily around the table, laughter cresting and dipping in waves. Franky declared the cake “SUPER.” Jinbe offered a quiet compliment on the chicken, and Robin asked after the glaze. Chopper had frosting on his nose. Luffy tried to eat an entire sail in one bite and nearly choked, saved only by a quick slap on the back from Usopp.

And beneath it all, beneath the buzz of voices and clatter of forks, there was that quiet undercurrent. The one that settled in after something big. The kind of stillness that came only at the end of a story. This one had just finished its last chapter.

Sanji leaned back, drink in hand, and looked around the table. At the crew. At his crew.

“Where to next?” Chopper asked, swinging his legs under the seat and happily demolishing the last of his slice. “Are we heading back to Miami?”

Jinbe folded his hands on the table. “We had that top-off eleven days ago. The tanks are good. We can travel quite far yet.”

Nami nodded, mental calculations already at work. “I say we finish mapping the quadrant. Who knows, maybe we’ll find something else while we’re out here.”

“Sounds super to me,” Franky said, raising a glass.

Robin gave a slow nod. “The museum isn’t expecting us until April.”

Nami turned toward Sanji. “How are we doing on food?”

Sanji tapped his finger idly against the side of his glass as he ran through the inventory in his head. “We’ve got another month before I need to restock.”

She looked to Zoro next. “Anything on your calendar?”

Zoro’s shoulders lifted in a loose, lazy shrug. “Nothing until tax season.”

Sanji leaned in with a grin and murmured just loud enough for Zoro to hear, “Accounting nerd.”

Zoro snorted softly, didn’t bother to deny it.

Then Nami turned to Luffy, the last box to check. “Captain?”

Luffy looked up, cheeks puffed out, crumbs on his face. “Mefs boo it!”

It took a second, then: “Let’s do it!”

The room erupted again – laughter, clinks of glass, the quiet buzz of future plans.

Nami grinned. “Then that’s the plan. Once Usopp and Franky finish cleaning the sub and drones, we’ll continue mapping.”

And just like that, the next chapter began to take shape. But for now, in the sunlit galley, with cake crumbs scattered like confetti and salt still drying in the seams of their clothes, the moment held. Full and warm. A crew satisfied. A wreck honored. A story, finally, theirs.

Night painted the sky in deep, inky hues, studded with stars so piercingly bright Zoro could see galaxies, long arcs of silver dust stretching into eternity. Without the haze of city lights, the sky unfolded like a living canvas, infinite and divine. The moon hung low, shaped like a half-eaten Oreo, soft light curving across the gentle swell of the sea. Its reflection danced on the waves, flickering like a flame, and it was impossible to tell where the sky ended and the ocean began.

The Sunny rolled steadily across the open water, carving a slow, deliberate path north to south, its instruments scanning and mapping the last corner of the quadrant. It was late – late enough that most of the crew had already turned in. But the ship, like the sea, never slept entirely. The hum of multibeam sonar echoed faintly through the hull, and somewhere below, a crewmate watched the helm, steering them forward with quiet precision. They’d found one more wreck earlier that day, a commercial trawler from the late ’70s. Not treasure, but closure – one more ghost named and noted.

Zoro sat in the hot tub on the terrace deck, head tilted back, gaze fixed on the stars. The warm water eased the lingering stiffness in his arms from hauling crates earlier, its surface rippling lazily around his shoulders. His phone sat on the ledge, pumping soft house beats, thump-heavy, steady, and familiar. The night air was cool, laced with the sharp tang of salt and the clean, open chill of midwinter ocean. Recessed lights cast a mellow glow across the deck, golden and low. He had a six-pack beside him – only three bottles remained now – and Sanji sat at his side, two of Zoro’s favorite things in one place.

Their legs brushed beneath the water, ankles loosely hooked, and the subtle intimacy of it settled deep into Zoro’s chest, low and quiet like a hymn.

Sanji gestured with his wine glass as he spoke, voice animated, passionately dissecting the differences between homemade pizza and store-bought. The nicotine patch on his upper arm stood out pale against sun-warmed skin. Zoro loved the rise and fall of his voice, the way the smoke-rough rasp softened around the edges when he got excited. He could’ve listened forever, chiming in only to agree or poke fun, not because he needed to, but because he liked hearing Sanji fill the space between them.

Sanji had a brightness to him that pulsed outward in waves, so different from Zoro’s husband. Not better, not lesser. Just different. Sanji was louder, looser, more dramatic and kinetic. He didn’t just care – he declared it. He gave Zoro shit openly, publicly, refusing to tiptoe around anything. He didn’t do half-measures: he ran marathons instead of jogging, cooked from scratch even when it would’ve been easier not to, and dove into the work of the ship like he’d been born for it.

Zoro was in love with him.

It was a steady thing. Not sudden, not confusing. Just a quiet realization that had grown roots inside his chest. He knew what love felt like, had worn it comfortably, mourned it deeply. He didn’t need to question or analyze it this time. He was thirty-eight years old. He’d lived enough to know what this meant.

They’d taken things slow, which Zoro had appreciated more than he could ever say. No rush to jump into bed. No pressure to perform or pretend. Just time, spent together. Time to make sure this new love could live beside the old one without guilt curling around the edges. Grief had shaped him, but it hadn’t broken him. His husband would have sighed and told him that he was being an emotional twit – and the thought made Zoro smile instead of ache.

“I draw the line at making sausage, though,” Sanji said, swirling his wine lazily. “If I’m going to play with condoms, they’re going to be stuffed with a different kind of meat.”

Zoro choked on his beer, coughing and sputtering with a laugh as Sanji grinned like the devil.

“You’ve got to admit,” Sanji went on, eyes dancing, “sausage casing looks like condoms.”

“I’ve never seen a sausage casing,” Zoro said, wiping his mouth. “So I’ll take your word for it.”

He studied the curve of Sanji’s grin, the way amusement glimmered in his eyes like starlight catching on glass. Something inside Zoro twisted, warm and familiar and real.

“I like your smile,” he said, quiet but certain. 

Sanji stilled, surprised by the simple truth of it. A faint flush touched his cheeks, not from the wine or the hot tub, but from the sincerity woven between them.

Zoro didn’t say things like that often but Sanji was so unapologetically open about what he felt, raw and honest, even if it was kept to private spaces. Affection wasn’t something he hid when he cared. And if Sanji could be so open with his feelings, Zoro figured he could try too, in his own way.

Sanji set his glass aside, glanced toward the stairs out of habit, and turned to face Zoro. His hand came up to cradle Zoro’s cheek, fingers warm and gentle, his thumb brushing the damp line of his jaw.

“Yours isn’t half bad either,” Sanji murmured, then leaned in for a kiss.

It started slow – a brush of lips more probing than bold, exploratory rather than demanding. The kind of kiss that asked, not took. Zoro didn’t hesitate. He leaned into it, into Sanji, setting his beer aside with careful fingers and shifting closer until their chests met, slick with heat and water. The quiet slosh of the hot tub faded beneath the rush of blood in his ears.

Sanji’s body was all warmth and tension, lean muscle beneath soft skin, and the subtle rasp of chest hair that left a trail of sensation down Zoro’s nerves. Every point of contact between them pulsed with something electric. Zoro’s breath hitched as Sanji deepened the kiss just slightly, tilting his head, inviting, not pushing.

It caught then, sharp and undeniable. Want hit Zoro like a tide, powerful and total, surging through him in one clean pull. He turned fully into Sanji, sliding a hand along his waist, pressing closer until water crested over the lip of the tub. Their bodies slid together, every movement stoking the heat curling low in his belly. He could feel Sanji's heartbeat in the press of their chests, feel the softness of his lips, the slight tremble in his breath.

But it wasn’t just want.

Zoro was ready.

It wasn’t a question anymore – not the grief, not the guilt, not the tangled loyalties that had once made him pause. Those feelings had been real and deep and sacred, but they weren’t holding him back now. He’d done the mourning. He’d honored it. And somehow, in the quiet of shared space and gentle affection, he’d found something new, steady and alive, blooming in Sanji’s touch.

Drawing back, he rested his forehead against Sanji’s, heart pounding so hard it felt like a drum in his chest. They were still tangled – legs hooked, fingers brushing, alcohol-dizzy and heat-drunk in the glow of the terrace lights.

Zoro swallowed once, low and sure, and murmured, “Chopper has condoms. In the med bay.”

He felt Sanji freeze for a breath, then go still in a different way – focused. A slow grin curved his lips, flushed and kiss-swollen.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” Sanji whispered.

Zoro laughed, caught somewhere between relief and joy as Sanji surged to his feet, sending water spilling over the hot tub’s edge. He yanked Zoro up with him, both half-drenched and flushed, adrenaline sparking in their veins like lightning. They grabbed towels, drying off in a haphazard rush, then padded barefoot down the steps, leaving a trail of damp footprints behind them. Their swim trunks clung wetly to their thighs as they snickered like schoolboys sneaking past curfew.

In the med bay, they rifled through drawers with fumbling urgency until Sanji found the box, flipping it over and squinting. “Still good,” he declared, brandishing it like a prize.

Zoro led Sanji down to his quarters because he wanted this – them – to begin in his space. Not borrowed. Not temporary. He wanted to invite Sanji into it, into his room, into his bed, carrying all the quiet meanings beneath the surface. This wasn’t just about sex. It was a choice. An unspoken welcome. A letting in. A letting go.

The space was dimly lit and still, the kind of hush that felt intentional, reverent. Zoro dropped his phone on the nightstand, the soft house beats still pulsing quietly, a steady rhythm underscoring a moment that mattered.

The room was just like the others: spacious and cozy, with understated luxury. A wardrobe, a desk scattered with dive logs and half-finished notes, a full-sized bed tucked beneath a shelf of books. But it carried his presence in subtle ways – a favorite hoodie tossed over the chair, a spare weight belt stashed beneath the desk, and pinned to the wall above the headboard, a wild, hand-drawn sticky note from Usopp. It was a silly conspiracy theory sketched in bright colors: Zoro as a merman, complete with fins, scales, and a trident. The note declared, “Proof he’s part of the sea itself!”

They kissed again the moment the door shut behind them, laughter and need colliding as they fumbled with damp trunks and clumsy fingers. Sanji’s mouth was hot and eager against his, hands roaming, tugging, coaxing. Zoro’s breath hitched as they tumbled onto the bed, limbs tangled, slick skin meeting skin in a rush of heat.

When Sanji pressed into him, Zoro saw stars behind his closed lids, stars that had nothing to do with the night sky. Every touch, every breath, every slow, deliberate movement seared itself into his bones, a quiet vow written deep within him. In that moment, there was no space for anything else – not ghosts, not grief, not doubt. Only Sanji. Only this fragile, perfect now.

Afterwards, they lay tangled beneath the cool sheets, bodies slick with salt and sweat, hearts still thrumming from the intensity of what had passed between them. Sanji’s head rested lightly on Zoro’s shoulder, one hand tracing lazy circles on his chest, anchoring them both in the quiet aftermath. The soft thump of music drifted from the phone, low and distant, wrapping around them like a gentle tide.

Their voices came in slow murmurs, heavy with sleep and contentment. They spoke of life, its sharp edges and soft moments. Of love, its risks and rewards. Of what the future might hold, uncertain but no longer feared.

In the stillness between words and breaths, Zoro was fully present, seeing only Sanji, feeling only him – two steady hearts joined in the night, quietly claiming what was theirs.

Sanji brought a mug of coffee with him into Zoro’s office, the scent of dark roast curling through the room like a ribbon. He set it on the desk, careful not to disturb the sprawl of papers and open notebooks, before moving around to slide his arms around Zoro’s shoulders from behind. The computer in front of Zoro glowed with the cool blue of a spreadsheet, lines of entries and numbers scrolling beneath a precise, furrowed brow. Scribbled notes and highlighters cluttered the surface – controlled chaos in Zoro’s exacting hand.

“How’s it going?” Sanji asked, voice low, brushing a kiss just behind Zoro’s ear. The faint clink of earrings followed, a familiar sound that made Sanji smile.

Zoro nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and rubbed under his eye with the heel of his palm. “Maybe another hour? This assignment’s a beast.”

“I brought coffee,” Sanji said, gesturing to the mug with a tilt of his fingers, his chin now resting on Zoro’s shoulder. “Nami texted the group, in case you didn’t see. Said her flight’s supposed to land at one.”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Zoro said, leaning back into the curve of Sanji’s body with a soft grunt of acknowledgment. He sounded tired, but not worn out – focused, grounded. “You still coming with me to the financial firm tomorrow?”

“Only if you get your homework done,” Sanji murmured with a smirk. “If you get less than an A, you’re grounded.”

“Ha-ha.” Zoro reached for the coffee and took a sip. He was still sitting on a 4.0 GPA, fifth semester running. Sanji’s smart, musclebound nerd. Mine, he thought, with a quiet curl of pride.

His gaze drifted across the desk to a framed photo – a real one, printed and mounted, because Zoro liked the permanence of physical things. The picture showed them in tuxes at a veterans’ gala, Zoro stiff-backed and formal, looking stoic and painfully aware of the camera. Sanji, caught mid-laugh, leaned just slightly into him. He could still feel the memory of Zoro’s hand against his lower back, steady and intentional. A claim without spectacle.

They’d just come back from visiting Zeff, a trip Sanji hadn’t realized he needed until he’d been standing in the kitchen of the Baratie again, watching the old man grumble and throw a dish towel at him for seasoning something "too goddamn fancy." The Thousand Sunny had gone into dry dock for a thorough cleaning and maintenance check. A perfect excuse to step away from the sea, if only for a week or two.

The dry season was coming soon. Another chapter. Another dive. Luffy had already secured a pair of salvage contracts starting in December. Not all their exploits were about pirate ships and legends. Some were just work. Purpose. Motion.

Now, the Sunny was back in the water, anchored in the marina at Miami Beach, rising and falling gently with the tide. The crew was returning, slowly reassembling from their own scattered lives and adventures. Franky, Jinbe, Brook, and Chopper were already onboard. Usopp was still off on vacation with Kaya, the two of them road-tripping across the West Coast. Luffy had gone inland to visit his brothers. Nami had flown to Vegas to see Vivi. Robin was still in France, neck-deep in records and forgotten schematics. Their next prize: the Polar Tang – the long-lost sister ship to Robert Fulton’s Nautilus, a man-powered submarine dreamt up two centuries ago.

Zoro turned his head and pressed a kiss to Sanji’s cheek, slow and deliberate. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Of course, love,” Sanji said, giving his shoulder a squeeze before pulling away. “I’ll let Mr. Marimo Bandares get back to his college work.”

Zoro flipped him off without looking, and Sanji left the office with a soft laugh under his breath, the door clicking shut behind him.

The quiet of the hallway wrapped around him like a warm coat. Overhead, recessed lights glowed softly against the cream-colored bulkheads. Sanji exhaled. When he’d taken the job as chef on the Thousand Sunny, he hadn’t known what he was sailing toward, only what he was leaving behind. Familiar shores. Predictable days. A steady job that paid well but starved his soul.

The ocean had always called to him – not just as a chef, but as a man. He’d wanted to taste freedom. To live in that wide, endless stretch where the world was all blue, where sky met sea in a seamless horizon and you could lose yourself in the space between. He’d wondered if he’d fit in. If he’d regret it. If he’d ever truly feel at home.

It had been better than he ever imagined.

He’d found a new family – chaotic, brilliant, maddening, loyal. A crew who bled for each other and laughed loud enough to shake the hull. He’d found a purpose, not just in the meals he made, but in how they anchored everyone. How they brought people back together after storms and danger and long days below the surface. He found himself in the rhythm of sea salt and heat, creation and care.

And most importantly, he’d found love – with a man who had once stood at the edge of grief and chosen to step forward. With a man who had opened his heart again, slowly, deliberately, and with terrifying honesty. A man who reached for him, and never stopped.

From a distance, the Thousand Sunny didn’t look like a typical treasure-hunting vessel.

But that was because it wasn’t.

It was a home.

End