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Zoro didn’t notice , nope not at all ,
He didn’t notice the way the cook drifted through the Sunny wrapped in everybody else’s hoodies—
Luffy’s red one dragging at the sleeves, the cuffs chewed and stretched while Sanji hid his grin in the too-big hood; Nami’s bright orange slipping off one shoulder, drawstrings tied in a neat sailor’s knot he definitely learned to keep her from charging “wind tax”; Usopp’s paint-splattered disaster hanging crooked because one elbow patch was heavier than the other, Sanji forever shoving the sleeves up to his forearms as he plated dinner; even Chopper’s fuzzy blue thing with tiny ear nubs that made Sanji look like a disgruntled snow rabbit muttering about “proper insulation.
He wore Robin’s sleek, dark hoodie like it was borrowed from a library—cuffs rolled exactly twice, not a speck of flour daring to land on it; Brook’s long black one with the little musical notes printed along the hem turned him into a polite, underfed reaper intern, cue Brook’s delighted “Yohoho!” every time; and Franky’s neon, star-zippered, borderline-sleeveless statement piece drowned him at the shoulders so he layered a thin tee under it and somehow made “SUPER streetwear” look normal.
—the very first time the pattern started was Right after Alabasta, a night gone sharp with desert-leftover chill, the Merry creaking while Usopp fussed with tar and nails. Sanji came up with a mug and a shiver he tried to pretend wasn’t there, and Usopp, magnanimous, shoved his hoodie at him. Sanji tugged it on in one smooth, irritated motion, hood half over his hair, nose already pink from the breeze. It hit Zoro like a punch—how stupidly cute that looked—and he covered it the only way he knew how.
“What, can’t handle a little breeze, cook?” he’d drawled, arms folded. “Need a blanket with your bottle, too?”
Sanji’s head snapped up, eyes sparking. “Some of us aren’t walking furnaces, marimo. Try standing still for once and see if your brain freezes.”
“Didn’t know you had one to freeze,” Zoro shot back, smug because it hid everything else.
Sanji’s foot twitched like a kick was negotiating with his better angels. “Say that again and I’ll salt your rice with your teeth.”
Usopp yelped something about teamwork! and the moment blew past like the wind—only it didn’t, not really. After that, the hoodies kept migrating. And Zoro kept pretending he didn’t notice… not at all !
A few days later, in a wind-burned little port where the Merry rocked against a creaking pier, Fire Fist Ace swung by like summer had decided to wear freckles and a grin. Come to to visit his brother see how is he Yata yata , that Evening was bit cold again. And fucking Ace snapped a tiny flame to life on his thumb and held it near Sanji’s hands—just enough heat to chase the red from his knuckles.
“Cold doesn’t suit you,” Ace said, lazy and warm. “Though orange does. You want the fire closer?”
Sanji huffed, the hoodie’s hood half up, his long lashes catching the firelight. “I’ll take the heat, not the lines,” he said, but he leaned into the warmth anyway, fingers hovering over Ace’s little sun.
Zoro’s jaw went tight. Open flames near the rigging. He stepped in under the pretense of checking the mooring, broad shoulder angling between them and the sail. “No fire on deck,” he grunted. “Try not to turn the ship into a torch.”
Ace’s eyes flicked over, amused. “Didn’t know you had a fire marshal.”
“Didn’t know you were trying to light the cook like a candle,” Zoro shot back, not bristling—just… responsible. He glared at the flame until Ace pinched it out with a laugh.
Sanji clicked his tongue. “Tch. Overprotective much?”
“Overprotective of the ship, ” Zoro said, very level, very not noticing the way the firelight had made Sanji’s mouth look soft. He told himself the twist in his gut was about sails and sparks and nothing else.
Ace tipped a salute, all easy charm. “Got it. I’ll leave the warming to the crew, then.” He winked— at the cook, of course—and hopped back to the pier.
Zoro watched him go and told himself the flare under his ribs was irritation, the same kind he got when Luffy stacked meat near open flame. It wasn’t anything else. Couldn’t be. He didn’t have time for anything else.
Well lucky for the bastard that he is Luffy brother or he would be in death list . Tsk .
Zoro didn’t even own a hoodie. Why would he? He barely felt cold; if the New World wanted to bite, he let it. Jackets were for people who didn’t train hard enough.
Then he noticed the pattern—Sanji noticed the cold and solved it by robbing the entire crew’s closets. Not stealing, exactly. Borrowing with ritual. On squall mornings the sky flipped from steam to sleet in fifteen minutes, and like clockwork a hoodie migrated to the galley bench by the stove. Sanji rolled cuffs twice if the sleeves ran long, tied the drawstrings into neat sailor’s knots so the ends wouldn’t dip in sauce, and tucked both hands into the kangaroo pocket between flips of the pan like he could simmer warmth there too. He always returned them washed and folded sharp enough to slice, smelling faintly of coffee, citrus soap, and smoke.
And every time Zoro’s brain grumbled the same thing
Why doesn’t the idiot use his own damn hoodie?
He knew why—he’d seen it. Sanji wore his at night watch until it reeked of brine and smoke, sea-salt damp and grease-splatter, then banished it to the wash. Cold mornings didn’t wait for laundry. Still… the ritual kept circling everyone else’s closets but his - not that he own one but still ! - and that was the part that got under Zoro’s skin.
So By the time they made port in the next island ,Zoro had quietly promoted the hoodie situation to a “training necessity.” He told himself he was looking for whetstones and spare bandages, not knitwear; that this wasn’t about wanting to see blond under green, just… logistics. The market spilled down a salt-slick street—steam carts, fish scales, racks of clothes swaying like flags. He kept pace with the crew, eyes forward, definitely not scanning for thick fabric and big pockets.
Zoro did not slow down, did not look, did not—
He stopped.
The vendor held up a deep green one. No logos, heavy knit, metal eyelets, big kangaroo pocket. It looked stupidly practical. Also—nope, not thinking about how it would look in that damn cook nope not cute at all .
Zoro tested the stretch like he was evaluating sword range. “Good for… uh… wind resistance.”
The vendor named a price that could’ve bought a small boat.
Zoro squinted at the tag. “For a hood with holes?”
“Those ‘holes’ are reinforced metal eyelets,” the vendor said, smile sharp. “Triple-stitched seams, salt-resistant fleece. Ten thousand beli.”
Zoro pinched the cuff like he knew things about fabric. “This stitch is crooked.”
“That’s called handmade. Eleven.”
Zoro blinked. “You just went up.”
“Quality appreciates the longer you look at it.”
He set the hoodie down like it might bite. “Eight.”
“Ten-five.”
“Nine. No bag.”
“Bag is five hundred.”
“I said no bag.”
“Exactly. A savings of five hundred,” the vendor said, utterly sincere.
Zoro’s eye twitched. He jerked his chin toward a rival stall. “They’ve got the same thing for seven.”
“Blends,” the vendor sniffed. “Pill after one wash. Yours looks like a man who appreciates longevity. Nine-eight.”
Zoro counted to three like it was sword form practice. “Nine. And I don’t tell the orange-haired woman over there you tried to sell me ‘salt-resistant fleece’ on the ocean.”
The vendor’s gaze flicked to where Nami was, indeed, glaring at a map and at prices in general. A calculation clicked. “Nine-two.”
Zoro folded his arms. “Nine.”
A beat. The vendor sighed like parting with a beloved child. “Fine. Nine. No bag, no returns, no complaining if your boyfriend cooks in it and makes it smell like heaven.”
“Not my—” Zoro felt his face heating. “It’s for training. ”
“Of course.” The vendor tucked the money away, amused. “May your… training be very warm.”
Zoro grumbled’ how the fuck that bastard knows that his so not boyfriend is a cook ! ‘
As soon as he approached them , Nami materialized at his elbow with a smile that belonged in a warning manual. “Buying outerwear , Zoro? Need me to expense that under ‘morale’?”
Robin tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes amused. “That shade flatters a surprising number of complexions.”
Usopp leaned over the table and stage-whispered, “Definitely not because someone will look adorable in it.”
“They should mind their own damn business,” Zoro said to the hoodie, which was safer than saying it to their faces. He yanked it on. The fabric fell solid over his shoulders; the hood sat easy over his hair. Too warm for him. Perfect for… for nobody in particular.
mind their own— He pivoted so the not-a-bag tucked under his arm vanished behind his swords. The thin paper sleeve the vendor had insisted on for “dust protection” crackled like a traitor. He tried to slide it down into his haramaki; a green cuff popped out like spring grass.
Nami drifted to his other side effortlessly, still smiling. Robin’s gaze dipped—one polite glance that saw everything. Usopp leaned in, unabashed, fingers already pinching the corner.
“It’s rope,” Zoro said, deadpan. “Extra grip tape.”
“Grip tape doesn’t have drawstrings,” Usopp murmured, eyes sparkling.
Robin’s smile was serene. “And this particular ‘rope’ is a very flattering shade of verdant.”
Nami tapped the paper with a nail; it rustled, louder. “Congratulations on your purchase. I’ll file it under morale … and charge a consultation fee.”
Zoro stuffed the sleeve deeper, bag edges still peeking like guilty eyebrows. “There’s no fee.”
“There’s always a fee,” Nami said sweetly. “Especially when someone’s hiding evidence.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“Of course not,” Robin said kindly. “We’ll all pretend not to see it.”
Usopp cupped a hand to his mouth, stage-whisper triumphant: “He bought the hoodie tax!”
Nami’s smirk sharpened. “So, how’s it feel to be… what’s the word… subtle? ”
“I’m not being anything,” Zoro grunted. “It’s for training. Sometimes you need… layers. For stealth.” (In bright green. Sure, genius.)
Robin’s eyes twinkled. “Stealth is easier when one blends with the environment. On our ship, that would be… the cook.”
Zoro peeled the hoodie off before his face did something treasonous. He slapped down belli. “No bag.”
“Aw,” Usopp crooned. “Someone’s going to ‘accidentally’ leave that on a galley chair.”
“Shut up.” Zoro flung it over his shoulder, very not-pointedly. He was absolutely not buying this because he thought the cook would look ridiculously good in it. He was buying it because the New World had stupid weather and someone on this ship refused to dress like a sane person.
If the hoodie happened to be a little roomy—if the sleeves would swallow narrow wrists and the hem would sit just right over slim hips—that was coincidence. A martial choice. Physics.
Back aboard the Sunny, he hung it on the back of Sanji’s usual bench “to air out,” then went to lift weights on the lawn deck and not look at the galley doorway every time footsteps passed.
Totally normal. Totally not plotting. Totally not imagining blond under green.
They should all mind their own business.
Ok that didn’t work ! Why the damn cook didn’t wear his hoodie !
Zoro left the hoodie in increasingly obvious places. On the galley chair Sanji always tugged out with his heel. Over the back of Sanji’s smoking bench. Folded—casual, innocent totally coincidence —on the railing by the spice rack. Once, draped over the figurehead “to air.”
Sanji looked at it exactly once. A quick glance, a thumb brushing the hem like testing a line, a tiny swallow—then he turned, tugged on Usopp’s paint disaster instead, and went back to dicing onions like the universe hadn’t just failed a very simple test.
What, not fancy enough for him? Did it need a star-shaped zipper and neon piping? Did the cook only wear things that came with ear nubs or a finance plan?
Zoro tried “subtle.” He tried “subtler.” He tried leaving a very normal note— crew use —that did not look like it was written by someone whose hands were shaking from push-ups. Sanji read it, huffed, and hung the green back on a hook with a polite little pat like he was returning a library book that didn’t suit his tastes.
“Maybe he thinks it’s yours,” Chopper offered, earnest, when he caught Zoro scowling at the hook. “Sanji’s really careful about people’s stuff.”
“It’s a hoodie, not a sword,” Zoro muttered, which, okay, was a lie and he knew it.
He should throw it at him. Better yet, burn every other hoodie on the ship so the damn cook had one option—green—and finally wear it.
Nami would kill him. Robin would smile pleasantly while it happened- then kill him - Usopp would write a ballad called The Arsonist of Fashion. Luffy would cry about losing the red one that smelled like meat. Brook and Franky will nag the shit out of him so no .
Zoro ground a hand over his face. “Uuugg.”
Next attempt: he “forgot” it on the back of Sanji’s chair at dinner. Sanji paused, fingertips lingering on the sleeve, eyes unreadable—and carried it back to Zoro’s bunk after dessert, folded so sharp it could cut.
Zoro stared at the razor-edged crease like it had personally insulted him. Fine. Been Subtle wasn’t working. If the cook wasn’t going to take the bait, he needed a new plan.
A brain. A schemer. Someone shameless enough to weaponize weather and laundry schedules.
…He knew exactly who to grumble at next.
Zoro knew his limits. Brute force? Great. Brains? That was Nami, Robin… and annoyingly, the cook.
It clawed under his skin every time Sanji tugged someone else’s hood up against the wind and smiled around a cigarette like warmth was a small miracle he could borrow.
It would look better in green, Zoro thought, and then pretended he hadn’t.
He tried strategy. Strategy looked like shit . So damn strategy.
So He found Nami in the map room, elbow deep in weather charts and a little mountain of coins she was absolutely not counting for any reason except the joy of it.
Robin settings nearby reading a book , he really didn’t want audience but he is desperate and plus Nami will tell her anyway.
“I need something,” he grunted
Nami’s eyebrow went up, dangerous and delighted. “Directions?”
Robin chuckles
“No.”
“A budget?”
“Hell no.”
She laced her fingers, smile slow. “Then what?”
Zoro folded his arms and stared at a knot in the floor until it confessed his sins. “The cook keeps wearing everyone’s hoodies.”
Nami stared. Then her mouth curved, shark-sweet. “Everyone’s but yours.”
“Shut up.”
“Are we… jealous, Marimo?”
Zoro’s ears went hot. “I’m not— It’s just— He’d look—” He gave up. “Can you fix it or not?”
“Oh, I could. ” She tapped a pen against her lips, eyes gleaming. “But why would I, out of the goodness of my heart?”
“Because you’re a good person?”
She laughed, bright and merciless. “That’s adorable. Ten thousand beli.”
Zoro sputtered. “For what, laundry?”
“For expertise,” Nami said. “And because you’re being pathetic. I charge extra for pathetic.”
He dug a wad of crumpled notes from his haramaki and slapped them down. “This is robbery.”
“That word means so little on a pirate ship.” She tucked the money away and rolled her shoulders like a cat about to pounce.
“I need a plan, Nami and fast “ he grunted. “I’m no brainer.”
“You don’t say,” she purred. “Lucky for you, a winter island’s ahead. Deluxe PackageI hide every hoodie on board except yours.”
“And Sanji’s?”
Nami twirled a pen. “Whoops—his might suffer an unfortunate maritime accident.”
“That’s—”
“—called strategy,” she said, palm already out. “Weather surcharge: ten thousand beli.”
He of course tell her to add it to his dept . She smiled like a cat that had finally monetized sunlight. Robin glanced up from a book, eyes warm and treacherously helpful. “I’ll draft an announcement about an ‘anti-static laundry rotation.’ It sounds official.”
Execution was surgical. As the air sharpened and the horizon frosted white, Nami posted: ALL THERMALS → LAUNDRY FOR DE-SALTING. SHIP SOP. Luffy’s red vanished under Nami’s arm, Usopp’s paint disaster got “quarantined,” Chopper’s fuzzy blue was “confiscated for medical fluff integrity,” Brook’s musical hem took a gentlemanly bow into a basket, Franky’s neon star zipped off to Maintenance, and Robin’s midnight hoodie was accepted with a serene nod.
Sanji’s? A gust snatched it off the line. Nami may have not snatched it back. A sea monster surfaced, blinked at the fluttering fabric, and ate it like salad.
“Ops,” Nami said, completely unrepentant. “Ocean tithe.”
Zoro stared. “You fed his hoodie to a fish .”
“An eel,” Robin corrected, kindly. “They prefer green though “
Snow began in pinpricks, then teeth. The Sunny groaned into the cold. Sanji, stubborn idiot that he was, did dawn prep in a thin shirt and a dish towel thrown over his shoulder like it could fight winter. Breath fogged. His Fingers went red. He kept blowing on them, pretending the sizzle of the pan was enough heat for two.
Chopper skidded up, frantic. “He’s getting too cold! He needs layers, now—vasoconstriction is—”
Zoro’s heart absolutely did not skip at the thought of Sanji shaking apart. Nope. It stayed steady. He moved.
He snatched the green hoodie from the galley chair and strode across the deck. Sanji looked up—smile cocky, hands not—just as the hoodie hit his face.
“Wear it,” Zoro snapped, voice rougher than he meant. “You’ll die at this rate.”
Sanji peeled the fabric down, blond hair static-kissed, eyes wide. “Tch. Bossy.”
“Not asking.” Zoro shoved it back into his hands, closer than necessary because the wind was a thief. “On. Now.”
For one heartbeat Sanji hesitated, pride wrestling practicality. Then he pulled it on in one smooth motion. The sleeves swallowed his hands. The hood shadowed his hair. He exhaled like the ship had turned the heaters on.
“…Warm,” he admitted, voice dropping. The cold left his shoulders all at once; he rolled the cuffs twice, like always, fingers finally steady. Something eased in Zoro’s chest he refused to name.
“Good,” Zoro said, glaring at the snow like this had all been its idea. “Don’t be stupid.”
Sanji’s mouth curved, small and real. “Worried about me, Marimo?”
“Worried about having to cook my own breakfast if you freeze,” Zoro said, totally not missing a beat. “You’re useless when you’re blue.”
A stage-whisper floated by on the wind: “You’re welcome,” Nami sang, palm outstretched as she passed. “Winter surcharge applies.”
Zoro stuffed more crumpled beli into her hand without looking away from the idiot in green.
Sanji tugged the hood a little lower, cheeks warmed by more than weather now. “I’ll wash it and—”
‘It was sooo red damn adorable’
“Don’t,” Zoro cut in, too fast. He cleared his throat, tried for lazy. “Wear it. Until you’re not an idiot.”
Sanji’s grin tipped wicked-soft. “Might take a while.”
“Yeah,” Zoro said, deadpan, and told his heartbeat to shut up. “I figured.”
Sanji’s gaze flicked to him, then back to the sea. “I didn’t think you liked people touching your stuff.”
“I don’t.” Zoro watched the wake shatter the sunrise into coins. “’S a hoodie. Not a sword.”
“Mm.” Sanji’s laugh fogged the air. “You guard both with the same face.”
Zoro grunted. “If I didn’t want you to wear it, I wouldn’t have left it out.”
“‘Left it out,’ huh?” Sanji’s voice was teasing, but soft. He pushed his knuckles deeper into the pocket. His shoulder bumped Zoro’s, just once. “Thanks.”
The word landed warm.
They stood like that a while—quiet except for the water and the distant thump of Luffy waking up like a thunderstorm. The wind had teeth, but the teeth were dull now, and Zoro could feel heat pooling where their elbows almost touched.
“You can keep it,” he said, too fast, then forced his voice lazy. “If you want.”
Sanji’s head tilted. Under the hood, his eyes went bright. “Just until I do the laundry?”
“Or longer.”
“Longer could be… a while.”
“I lift heavy things,” Zoro said, deadpan. “I’ll survive.”
Sanji’s smile sharpened into something pleased and shy at once. “Then I’ll take responsibility.”
“For the hoodie?”
“For the hoodie,” Sanji said. His foot nudged Zoro’s, a tiny, deliberate press. “And maybe for coffee, since you’re up at an ungodly hour and pretending it isn’t because of me.”
“I’m up because swords,” Zoro lied.
“Of course.” Sanji’s eyes danced. “Black? Two sugars? I’ve been paying attention.”
Zoro’s mouth moved before his brain could trip it. “Me too.”
Sanji went still, then the corner of his mouth curved again, this time slower. “Good.”
He ducked into the galley. Zoro stared at the empty space he left like it might confess secrets. His hoodie hung loose and green around the doorway a moment longer, then vanished with him.
“Payment?” said a voice, and Nami was suddenly at his elbow, hand out.
Zoro glared. “I already—”
“For the follow-through,” she said sweetly. “I threw in the sign and the weather. That’s a deluxe package.”
He stuffed another crumpled note into her palm. “You’re a menace.”
“And you’re welcome.” She tucked the cash away and leaned over the rail, satisfied. “Told you to smile.”
“I did.”
“Your face did something, at least.” She patted his arm. “If you want a matching scarf ‘accidentally’ to appear next week, I have rates.”
“Get lost.”
She drifted off humming, richer by a few zeroes.
Sanji returned with two mugs and that ridiculous green hood framing his hair like spring under pines. He handed Zoro a cup and, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, slid close enough their shoulders touched, solid and warm.
“Don’t get used to me stealing your clothes,” Sanji said, sipping his own coffee.
“Too late,” Zoro said.
Sanji’s laugh melted in the steam.
When Luffy burst onto deck five minutes later, yelling about breakfast and storms and meat, Zoro didn’t move. The world could do its worst. The cook was here, in green, and the wind had stopped biting.
Sanji bumped him again, light as a promise. “I’ll wash it with the good soap.”
Zoro’s hand found the edge of the pocket, fingers brushing Sanji’s inside. “Or don’t.”
“Greedy.”
“Pirate,” Zoro said.
Sanji’s smile went soft. “Yeah.”
Down below, Nami shouted about a missing sign and an unpaid invoice. Usopp wailed about betrayal of fashion. Chopper squeaked that Sanji looked cozy. Franky declared the entire situation SUPER. Robin turned a page.
Zoro drank his coffee and pretended he wasn’t memorizing the exact weight of Sanji against his arm.
He’d been a swordsman long enough to know: sometimes victory felt like a quiet deck, a warm mug, and a hoodie finally stolen by the right thief.