Chapter Text
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Sanji took a deep breath, inhaling the rich scent of espresso and warm pastries as he flicked his wrist, pouring the perfect rosetta into a cappuccino. Absolute artistry. He placed it on the counter with a satisfied smile, ready to call the order—
And then, Nami grabbed the cup and slid it into a to-go sleeve without a second glance.
"At least appreciate the latte art before you destroy it," Sanji huffed, watching in horror as she snapped a lid on top.
Nami didn’t even look up. "Customers don’t care, Sanji. They just want their caffeine and to leave."
He rested his forearms on the counter, dramatically swinging his head down. "Oh Nami, you wound me. A good barista puts love into every cup—" His reply had produced a smirk and he found it so enticing that he wished to provoke some more. "Just like how a good customer knows to appreciate the effort."
"A good barista makes drinks fast," she shot back, already punching in the next order. "Unlike some people who take forever because they’re too busy flirting with the foam."
Sanji grinned wider, eyes sparkling as they wandered a bit over her. "Hey, it’s not flirting if it’s art ," he teased, his voice low and playful. "But I guess, if it’s for you, I’d take all the time in the world."
Nami’s eyes flickered up to meet his for a moment. He saw her cock her head and the way her brows scrunched up in contemplation did something weird to his stomach. However, she rolled her eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
He rested his chin on his hand, gazing at her with a playful glint in his eye.
A wild mess of curly dark brown hair peeked in from the kitchen. "Sanji! You said you’d make more croissants! We’re almost out, and it’s only ten A.M!"
"Shit! It’s ten A.M?” Nami frantically untied her apron. "Fuck, I completely forgot about my history lecture today. Cover my shift, will you, Sanji?" She flashed an innocent smile, as if that would somehow persuade him—like they didn’t work the same damn shift.
Sanji blinked. "I’m already— That’s not how this works, Nami." He shook his head, half-disappointed, half-amused. She was so smart, yet somehow… Oh. It finally clicked. She wanted him distracted by that exact thought while she made her escape.
Too late. She was already halfway out the door, leaving him to deal with the chaos. He sighed in defeat.
"Sanji! Croissants! Now!"
"Usopp! Who’s going to take the orders and make coffee?!"
Just then, a way too relaxed for the current situation, tall man with a green buzz cut strolled in, yawning of course, “Hey guys, what’s up?”
Sanji let out a long, suffering groan. "Oh, for fuck’s sake. Usopp, get on counter! I’ll handle the kitchen!" He called over his shoulder, trying to outmatch the volume of the already chaotic café.
This kind of chaos wasn’t uncommon. With the café wedged right in the middle of a college campus, students flooded in between classes, during breaks, and— god help them all —to study. Finals season? Absolute hell.
The only place Sanji could get a minute of peace and quiet was the kitchen. People knew better than to disturb him there. The kitchen was the one place he was truly in his element. Besides, Sanji wasn’t even a student at the university—he was enrolled at the culinary school a few blocks away. He never imagined himself working at a café, but, well…
His uncle Zeff kind of kicked him out of his restaurant.
It’s a long story—one that not even Sanji fully understands. It was an action of tough love apparently.
But, looking back on it now, Sanji couldn’t deny that it had led him to some of the best people he’d ever met. There was Usopp, the type of guy who can make anyone laugh, always coming up with ridiculous jokes and wild stories that somehow make sense in the moment. He’s an engineering major, so he’s got a mind that loves to tinker and figure things out, even if it means getting lost in blueprints and half-built projects. God knows how he manages to balance both the frustration of his school work and dealing with Zoro and his own bickering. When it’s time to get serious, though, Usopp knows how to buckle down, putting his skills to work with impressive focus. But, at the same time, he’s the first to chicken out when things get too intense—like a guy who’ll bravely face down a challenge... until it actually comes to confronting it. Still, despite his occasional hesitation, his heart’s always in the right place.
Eh, as mentioned earlier, there’s a guy named Zoro too. He’s bland, always yawning like he’s perpetually bored with life. He thinks his green, grown-out buzz cut makes him look cool, but it’s more “whatever” than anything else. He’s not Frank Ocean, no matter how much he wishes he were. Oh, and he's got three piercings in one ear, but none in the other, like he's trying to be edgy or something.
And then there was Nami…
She wasn’t like the rest of them. While Zoro tried to look cool with his mismatched piercings and green hair, Nami didn’t need to try—she just was. Sharp, witty, and always one step ahead, she had a way of making everything around her feel like it had purpose. Sanji couldn’t help but admire that about her. Every day, she walked in with her usual mix of confidence and mischief, making the café feel just a little more alive.
Her hair, a fiery cascade of orange, was always perfectly tousled, like she’d just stepped out of a dream. It framed her face with soft waves that shifted with every step she took, almost as if it had a life of its own. Sanji couldn’t help but catch the scent of her perfume every time she was near—sweet, floral, but with just a hint of citrus that made his heart skip.
Her voice was like music to his ears and he found that he was hung up on every word her perfectly rounded lips uttered. But it was her lips… every time she smiled, or worse, pouted, it was like his mind decided to take a detour and forget all about the coffee machine in front of him—damn it, his mind was starting to wander.
He quickly snapped out of it, shaking his head as if to reset himself. It wasn’t the first time his thoughts had drifted like this, but every time felt like the first.
He looked down and realized he’d over-kneaded the dough. Sanji cursed under his breath and refocused on the croissants, exhaling sharply. rolling his shoulders as if he could physically shake the thought of her off. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.
It was just Nami. Nami, who stole his coffee without a second glance. Nami, who conned him into taking her shift at least once a week. Nami, who made snarky comments about his “foam flirting” yet somehow managed to be the only person who made him actually want to show off.
Damn it. He pressed his fingers into his temple. He needed to get a grip.
“Oi! Earth to Sanji!”
Usopp’s voice shot through the kitchen, startling him out of his spiral. Sanji whipped his head up, only to see Usopp staring at him with a deeply unimpressed look, arms crossed.
“You gonna make those croissants, or are you just gonna stand there sighing like a tragic romance protagonist?”
Sanji scowled. “I don’t sigh.”
“You just did.”
“I was exhaling.”
“Right. My bad. You were ‘exhaling’ dramatically.”
Sanji huffed, but this time, he made sure it wasn’t dramatic as he grabbed a fresh batch of dough. “I don’t see you making yourself useful, long nose.”
Usopp held up his hands while going back to the front counter. “Hey, I’m pulling my weight out front! But if Zoro comes back here looking for food again, I’m throwing him in with the pastries.”
Sanji groaned. “That idiot better not—”
Suddenly, the bell above the kitchen door jingled again. Sanji didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.
“Got anything to eat?” came the all-too-familiar lazy drawl.
Sanji slammed a hand onto the counter in exasperation. “Go bother Usopp, I’m baking.”
But it wasn’t Zoro who strolled into the kitchen. No. It was her.
Nami.
“Ah, look who it is. Apologies for my manners beautiful.” He looked over his shoulder at his gorgeous co-worker, the gold in her eyes caught the light, making it impossible to look away.
“Back already? Missed me too much, I hope?” Sanji turned, flashing a grin, but the moment his eyes landed on her, something in his chest faltered—an all-too-familiar hitch, like a trip over his own heartbeat.
She stood in the doorway, effortless as ever, her orange hair catching the glow coming from the large arched window at the end of the kitchen. Could her smile be any prettier, he wondered. When she flashed him the briefest of smiles, he felt like an idiot. There she stood, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip, she looked like she owned the place. Like she owned him. And maybe, in a way, she did.
“Sure, whatever you say.” Her voice was light, teasing, but there was that knowing glint in her eye. “Lecture got canceled. Snowstorm. Professor got ‘caught up’ in something.” She wandered in without hesitation, hoisting herself onto the counter like she belonged there.
“Ah- No...” Sanji bit his tongue, fighting the urge to scold her for treating the workspace like her personal seat. But who was he kidding? Even if he tried, she wouldn’t listen. It was Nami. And when it came to her, his protests never really held any weight.
And maybe he had a soft spot for her. Too soft. Judging by the way she smirked at him just now, she knew it too.
Sanji wiped his hands on his apron, turning to face her. “Well, what can I help you with then? Another ridiculous drink request?” The look on his face was playful, but his thoughts were anything but light.
Nami hummed, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back on the counter. “Mmm… nothing, really,” she mused before her eyes dropped to the dough in front of him. “You look pretty occupied. Croissants, I assume?” Luckily, his brain was still half working and he managed to create a somewhat coherent answer.
“Yeah. We ran out, and the morning rush isn’t even over yet.” Sanji exhaled, rolling his shoulders before glancing at the trays stacked beside him. “Should be quieter in twenty minutes, but these won’t be ready before then—they still need to bake.”
Nami studied the flour-dusted counter, the way Sanji’s sleeves were rolled up just past his elbows, exposing his forearms as he worked. Then, after a beat, she said, “Show me how you do it.”
Sanji blinked. “Do what?”
“Bake,” she said simply, lifting her gaze back to him. Then, with that smile that always had him dangerously close to losing his composure, she added, “I mean, you’re really brilliant at it. Tell me about yourself, Sanji. We’ve been working together for two months, yet I know almost nothing about you. There’s gotta be more to you than a cute face and a good chef.”
Cute face.
Sanji nearly dropped the dough scraper in his hand.
It wasn’t the first time she’d teased him, but something about the way she said cute face made his stomach do an embarrassingly ridiculous flip. He barely had time to recover before she hopped off the bench with practiced ease, moving like she owned every space she walked into.
She reached back, gathering her long hair into a ponytail, and Sanji’s mouth went dry.
God, did she look beautiful.
She had her hair up high, lush curls tracing over her shoulder. The way her arms lifted, the smooth stretch of her neck, the way her fingers wove through thick strands of orange, gathering them effortlessly—he had to physically force himself to look away.
This was unfair.
And then, as if to make things even worse for him, she walked over to his side, close enough that he could catch the faintest trace of citrus from her shampoo. She leaned a little, peering over his shoulder, on the tips of her toes, to see the dough he had barely touched.
“I mean, come on,” she continued, spinning around him to stand on his other side, completely oblivious to his internal struggle. “I’ve tried your miso-glazed salmon with jasmine rice and that tart raspberry cheesecake. That’s not just normal cooking.”
She continued talking as if she hadn’t just made Sanji’s brain shortcircuit.
Sanji was still stuck on cute face.
“I—uh, well,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Sanji was always really confident but something about the way he could feel the warmth of her standing next to him. The way she tilted her head slightly, waiting for his answer. She knew his weak spots—it was painfully obvious.
“I don’t have much to say about myself,” he admitted, exhaling as he finally turned his attention back to the dough. “I’ve been cooking since I was young. No one really appreciated it until I met Uncle Zeff. He taught me almost everything I know.”
He began folding the dough, dusting it lightly with flour before pressing his fingers into it. His hands moved out of habit, muscle memory taking over as he layered butter between thin sheets, but his thoughts were still slightly tangled in her presence.
“I worked at his restaurant from a young age, so I’ve seen a lot of talented chefs, I guess…” His voice trailed off as he realized he was rambling. He dared a glance at Nami, half-expecting her to look bored, but she wasn’t.
Instead, she was watching his hands, fascinated, biting her lip pensively as if she were deep in thought. Then, slowly, her eyes lifted to meet his.
“So basically, you’re a prodigy,” she teased, bumping her elbow lightly against his arm. “Why am I not surprised?”
Sanji let out a huffed laugh, shaking his head. “Hardly.”
Nami stared at him with curiosity and Sanji fumbled a bit with his movements, quite taken aback, it seemed. The way she was looking at him, with actual interest, with something almost unreadable behind those sharp eyes—he swore his heart skipped a beat.
And as he continued shaping the dough, forming each perfect croissant, he couldn’t help but think that for the first time in a long time, someone was really watching him.
Nami hummed, watching the way his hands worked the dough. “And this?” She gestured toward it, stepping a fraction closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his. “How do you shape them?”
Sanji swallowed again and focused—really focused—on his task. “You have to fold the butter into the layers just right,” he murmured, voice lower than usual. “Too much pressure, and it melts into the dough instead of creating golden crisps.”
She observed him, quiet, attentive.
“Here,” he finally said, shifting slightly. “Try it.”
“I’d love to, but…” Nami glanced down at her shirt, then at the flour-dusted counter. “I don’t exactly have an apron, and I’d rather not ruin my outfit with butter stains.”
Sanji barely hesitated. “Hold on.”
He turned, moving quickly to grab a spare apron from the nearby hook.
“Here,” he said, shaking out the apron before stepping behind her.
Nami blinked, clearly surprised, but didn’t object as he slid the apron over her head. The fabric settled over her shoulders, and before she could move, his fingers were already brushing against the back of her neck, sweeping her hair to one side.
Sanji heard her inhale softly.
He ignored the way his pulse jumped. Focused on tying the strings at her back instead, fingers working quickly. Not a big deal. Normal. Completely normal.
“There,” he said, stepping back just enough to avoid lingering. “All set.”
Nami turned her head slightly, her eyes flicking to his face. There was something unreadable in them—something amused, maybe. But she didn’t comment on it.
Instead, she just smirked. “Alright. Now show me.”
Sanji exhaled, forcing himself to smirk right back. His eyes fixated on a spot above her head, like he couldn't look into her eyes. He let out an exasperated hiss, visibly trying to force the words out of his mouth.
“Here,” he finally said, shifting slightly. “Try it.”
Sanji felt his own breath hitch. He had been prepared to guide her, to correct her movements, but he hadn’t been prepared for how close she’d be—how the warmth of her skin would radiate so close to his own.
His heart kicked up a little. Shit.
“You’re overworking it,” he muttered, voice tighter than he intended. He reached out, his hands covering hers for just a second—just long enough to slow her movements, to shift her touch so it was lighter, more controlled.
And for a split second, they both froze.
Sanji let go first, flexing his fingers again as if he could shake off whatever had just passed between them.
“Better,” he said, forcing himself to awkwardly smile. After all, he didn’t want to look too smug about the fact that she wasn’t exactly doing it right. “Not great, but better.”
She rolled her eyes, something softer at the edges of her expression. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Comes with being this good,” Sanji chuckled, spotting a window to slip back into his usual confidence—grasping at it, really, in a desperate attempt to recompose the nervous mess he’d become around her.
She scoffed, but her hands kept moving over the dough, her touch now deliberate.
Sanji exhaled slowly. This was dangerous.
And yet, he didn’t step away.
For a moment, they worked in silence, the quiet hum of the café around them making the space between them feel smaller. Sanji watched as Nami’s brows furrowed slightly, her focus narrowing in on the dough beneath her fingers. She was determined—he’d give her that.
Then, without warning, her hand twitched.
Sanji barely had time to react before a soft dusting of flour landed on the front of his apron.
He blinked.
Nami’s lips twitched. “Oh, oops! Clumsy me.”
Sanji’s stare sharpened. “That was intentional.”
She pressed her lips together, barely holding back a laugh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
A slow smirk curled his lips. “You sure about that?”
Before she could react, he dipped his fingers into the flour and, with practiced precision, reached up and brushed a light streak across her cheek.
Nami gasped, stepping back in surprise. “Sanji!”
His grin widened. “ Oops . Clumsy me.”
She licked a bit of flour off the side of her cheek.
“Ah- Don’t do that you'll get sick!”
She huffed, swiping at her cheek, but there was no real annoyance in her expression—just something bright, something teasing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re a menace,” he countered, crossing his arms. “But you still need to finish folding that dough, so unless you want to end up covered in flour, I’d focus.”
Nami, a playful glint in her eyes, reached for a handful of flour. She moved closer, feigning a clumsy stumble, aiming for his chest. Sanji, anticipating her move, caught her wrist in mid-air. The flour poofed slightly, dusting them both. Their eyes met. The playful banter faded, replaced by a charged silence. His fingers tightened slightly around her wrist, his thumb brushing against her skin. Nami’s breath hitched. They were close. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from each other, close enough to see the minute details in each other’s eyes. The air crackled with unspoken tension. Nami’s hand, still holding a bit of flour, hovered just inches from his face. Neither of them moved. The world seemed to slow down, the only sound was the low, soothing notes of jazz playing in the café.
Right on cue, the door swung open, crashing against the wall and kitchen appliances beside it. Zoro, stretching with a yawn, "What’s up, Sanji? Got any food?" He mumbled, voice low and uninterested.
Sanji startled slightly, his fingers loosening as he instinctively dropped Nami’s wrist. She stepped back just as Zoro looked up, scanning the scene with a raised brow.
Zoro looked up, assessing the situation. “Oh shit. Sorry. Am I interrupting?” His gaze flickered over to Sanji and Nami, although he didn’t immediately seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. He just shuffled toward the counter, scanning for food. “Whatever, I’m starving.”
Sanji glanced at Zoro, who seemed more focused on the fridge than anything else. He let out a small sigh of relief, but the warmth between him and Nami hadn’t quite faded. It was like a thread pulled taut, still there in the air.
Zoro’s lazy drawl broke through the quiet tension. “You guys need a hand or what?”
Sanji barely turned, already scoffing before he even processed the question. “Oh yeah, like you’d know the first thing about baking, mosshead.”
Zoro paused mid-chew, shooting him a flat look but ultimately deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.
Oblivious to whatever was going on, he grabbed a bag of chips from the cupboard and flopped onto one of the stools, crunching away. “Alright, well, I’m here to stand around. You two are just… baking stuff, right?”
And just like that, the spell was broken.
Nami stepped back quickly, dusting her hands off on her apron with an awkward laugh. “Just… baking croissants, nothing more.”
The café kitchen was warm, smelling of butter and vanilla, with golden light spilling through the high windows. The countertops were a mix of chaos and precision—flour dusted here, perfectly arranged pastries there. A radio crackled soft music in the background, barely audible over the vibrations of ovens and the occasional beep of timers.
Sanji glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, his sight landing on Nami, biting the inside of her cheek. Was she nervous? Or was that just wishful thinking? After all, he had never seen Nami nervous , per se. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the tension still buzzing in his fingers. “Yeah, just croissants. Nothing interesting.”
From the corner, Zoro sat slouched on a stool, lazily working through a family-sized bag of chips like it was his life’s purpose. He barely looked up. “Cool. Just don’t burn the place down.” Crumbs rained down onto his lap as he spoke.
Sanji rolled his eyes, grabbing onto the normalcy of the moment like a lifeline. “You on break? Doesn’t Usopp need help at the counter?”
“Nah, he said he's got it”
Sanji let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, you probably fucked something up, so he sent you back here.”
Zoro didn’t even argue. Just crunched another chip.
A soft chuckle broke the tension as Nami untied her apron. “Well, anyway, Sanji…” She hesitated just for a second before looking up at him. “I want you to teach me how to bake. Maybe next time? I should go help Usopp out front since Zoro clearly isn’t, and we don’t need three people in the kitchen.”
Sanji perked up immediately, the corners of his mouth lifting into a slow grin. “I can teach you anything you want. From apple pie to a special dish made just for you, you name it, and I’ll make sure you get it perfect.”
She snorted, folding her apron in her arms. “Don’t you sound enthusiastic?”
“I’m confident in my abilities to impress you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she teased.
Before anything else could be said, Zoro’s phone suddenly blared an obnoxiously loud audio—some distorted mess of yelling and static. He didn’t even flinch, still focused on his chips. “Sorry, guys,” he mumbled through a full mouth.
Sanji and Nami exchanged a look before bursting into laughter.
Just another day in the café.
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Since then, had settled into a peaceful stillness, the kind that only came when the last customer had long since left, leaving behind the lingering scent of coffee and vanilla. The warm glow of the pendant lights softened the empty space, casting gentle shadows over polished tables and chairs tucked neatly in place. Through the large front window, the streetlights flickered lazily, their warm glow reflecting against the glass. Beyond them, the snowfall continued, quiet and unhurried, blanketing the sidewalk in a thin, untouched layer. Every so often, a passing car sent slushy tire tracks through the otherwise pristine street, but the world outside remained mostly still, wrapped in winter’s hush.
Near the entrance, a row of potted flowers lined the window sill, their petals folding inward as if closing up for the night. A faint layer of condensation clung to the glass, blurring the streetlights into soft halos of gold. Sanji wiped down the counter, his rhythm slow and methodical, listening to the muffled quiet of snowfall beyond the walls. Nights like this made the café feel smaller, cozier—like the whole world had shrunk down to just this space, just this moment.
Usopp slung his bag over his shoulder with a tired stretch, letting out a yawn. “Man, I don’t know how you do this every night. The second the last person walks out, I’m ready to pass out.”
Sanji scoffed, setting a clean glass onto the drying rack. “Because you barely do anything while you’re here.”
Usopp gasped, “Excuse me? I am an essential worker. Do you think those pastries restock themselves? That the register magically opens and closes? That customers know how to form a single-file line without me guiding them?”
Sanji smirked but didn’t look up from cleaning. “Yes, actually.”
Usopp sighed, shaking his head. “Ungrateful. Anyway—you’re closing up, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Get outta here,” Sanji muttered, already moving to turn off one of the coffee machines.
Usopp lingered, rocking back on his heels before stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. “Hey, listen—Franky’s throwing together a dinner tomorrow. You should come. Whole gang’s gonna be there. Robin, Luffy, Zoro, Nami, and me!”
Sanji raised a brow. “Ah, so Franky is doing another dinner party?”
Usopp shrugged. “It’s more like him grilling an unreasonable amount of meat in the dead of winter and calling it a gathering, but same thing.” He nodded toward the window. “We’re all bringing something, by the way. Luffy’s probably just gonna show up with a mountain of snacks, Zoro’s bringing drinks—bad idea, by the way—Robin’s making some fancy salad, and Nami’s got dessert covered.” He jerked a thumb at Sanji. “You? You could probably bring something edible for once.”
Sanji scoffed, feigning offense. “As if I’d show up empty-handed.”
Usopp smirked. “Good. ‘Cause I already told Franky you’d be bringing something, so now you kinda have to.”
Franky was a friend of Usopp’s—well, a friend of pretty much everyone. Loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore, he had a way of making himself the center of attention without even trying. He went to the same university as Nami and the others, though Sanji had only gotten to know him through the café. Franky had a habit of swinging by after classes, always ordering the largest coffee on the menu and downing it like water before launching into some absurdly passionate rant about his latest engineering project. It was nice to see Usopp and Franky babble over absolute nonsense. Not that Sanji knew the first thing about engineering, but he could listen to them talk about it all day… well, maybe not all day but you get the idea.
Everything about him was big—his voice, his laugh, the way he clapped people on the back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of them. He had a sharp jaw, a mess of short, spiky blue hair, and a wardrobe that was entirely questionable for winter. No matter how cold it got, he stuck to Hawaiian shirts left unbuttoned over a tank top, as if sheer confidence alone could keep him from freezing.
And thanks to these occasional gatherings he’s been hosting, his place had become the unofficial hangout spot. Usually filled with half-finished projects, old records, and an ever-growing collection of mismatched furniture scavenged from thrift stores.
Sanji exhaled, glancing outside. The snow had thickened, settling into soft piles along the street corners. A couple of footprints trailed past the entrance but were quickly fading beneath fresh flakes. The café felt warmer by contrast, the whisper of the espresso machines and the barest scent of cinnamon lingering in the air like a well-worn comfort.
Usopp smirked at his silence. “Think about it,” he said, pushing open the door with a sly chuckle. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the crisp scent of snow and the distant hush of the city before the door swung shut behind him.
And just like that, the café was empty.
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Sanji’s kitchen was the heart of his apartment—small but undeniably his. Warm, golden light spilled from the hanging fixture above, spilling dim patterns of shadows over the dark countertops. Everything had its place, from the neatly arranged knives on a magnetic strip to the spice rack lined with labeled glass jars, their contents worn down just enough to show frequent use. A sleek gas stove sat at the center of it all, a pot of simmering soup sending up lazy puffs of steam that stuck to the air with the scent of caramelized onions and rich broth.
The counter beside him was dusted lightly with flour from earlier that morning, when he’d shaped the bread he’d left to proof overnight. The round sat neatly on a baking sheet now, rising perfectly while the oven preheated. Store-bought wasn’t an option, not when freshly baked bread could actually do justice to the soup. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, glancing at the time. If he timed everything right, the bread would be golden and crisp just as the soup reached its peak.
For a kitchen in a small apartment, it didn’t feel cramped. It felt lived in. A place that saw long nights of cooking, early mornings with coffee in hand, and moments of quiet routine. It was his space—one of the only places that felt like his own.
As he moved around the kitchen, his mind wandered. He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to this dinner. It wasn’t that he didn’t like hanging out with them, but big, chaotic gatherings weren’t really his thing. Still, Usopp had barely given him a choice, running his mouth to Franky before Sanji could even decline. Not that he would’ve, necessarily.
He leaned against the counter, absentmindedly watching the soup as it thickened. He’d have to grab some cheese later—gruyère, ideally—so he could finish it off properly at Franky’s. Maybe some extra wine, too, since Zoro was bringing drinks and that was a disaster waiting to happen.
His eyes flickered to his phone on the counter, debating if he should text Usopp to ask what Nami was bringing. Not that it mattered. But if she’d already planned something sweet, maybe he could make something to compliment her dessert.
Sanji scoffed at himself, shaking his head as he pushed off the counter. He had better things to do than stand around overthinking. With a quick flick of the stove knob, he lowered the heat, letting the soup settle. The oven chimed, and he turned to grab the tray of dough.
Fine. Maybe he was actually looking forward to tonight.
Maybe.