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Zoro woke up warm.
Too warm. And with a weird tickle in his face. Was that… hair?
He cracked one eye open and realized he wasn’t in his bed.
The ceiling was wrong. The smell was wrong. The mattress was too soft. And most importantly, there was a leg hooked over his.
Zoro froze. He tilted his head slightly to the side.
The cook was draped across him like a smug blanket, hair a mess, mouth slightly open in the most annoying peaceful expression Zoro had ever seen.
He blinked. “The fuck.”
The cook groaned and shifted, burying his face deeper into Zoro’s chest. “Ugh… shut up…”
Zoro stared at the ceiling in horror.
“…Why am I in your bed.”
The cook cracked an eye open and blinked at him, surprised. Then smirked, far too awake for someone who had been unconscious on his chest a few seconds ago.
“Well, well, look who came crawling into my bed during the night,” he said, voice smug and raspy with sleep. “You lost? Your mossy brain forget where you sleep?”
Zoro’s eye twitched. “I what?”
“Didn’t think you were the cuddly type, marimo.”
Zoro sat up immediately, dislodging the cook who groaned in protest and flopped back. “I don’t cuddle,” he snapped. “I don’t even remember coming in here.”
“Oh, how nice,” the cook said, stretching like he wasn’t at all affected. “You wanted to be close to me subconsciously.”
Zoro stood, grabbing his swords without looking at him. “I’m leaving.”
He slammed the door on his way out accompanied by the cook’s snickering.
--
He tried to forget it.
The embarrassment faded quickly – he’d made worse mistakes. It was a fluke. A weird one, sure, but still. Not worth thinking about.
He doubled his training time and it was working, except every damn time he passed the cook, the bastard raised an eyebrow and smirked just enough to be unbearable.
“You sleeping better these days?” the cook would say, mock-concerned. “Need another midnight cuddle, Moss-chan?”
Zoro gritted his teeth and vowed to chain himself to his hammock.
Which made it even more annoying when a few days later he woke up to a foot in his ribs. He stared down at the cook, who was face down in his pillow, one arm thrown dramatically over the side of the bed.
“Oi.”
The cook jerked upright, hair flopping into his face. “Wha– huh–?”
“You’re in my bed.”
The cook blinked blearily at him. Then at the wall. Then at the swords hanging above them. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered.
Zoro folded his arms. “So who’s sneaking into whose bed now, curly?”
The cook rolled onto his back, rubbing his face. “I don’t even remember coming in here.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Must’ve been sleepwalking,” the cook grumbled, pushing his hair back and scowling. “It’s your fault for leaving the door open.”
“It was closed,” Zoro said, annoyed.
The cook waved that off. “Semantics.”
Zoro narrowed his eyes. “You look very comfortable for someone who broke into my room by accident.”
“I was probably chasing a dream.”
He snorted. “Don’t go having that kind of dream about me.”
The cook shot him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve had indigestion more romantic than this.”
Zoro grabbed his pillow and threw it at him.
The cook caught it with ease and stayed where he was.
--
It became a pattern. Neither of them meant for it to continue, but it did. One night in his room, the next in the cook’s.
“Your hammock creaks like a dying goat,” the cook muttered as he climbed into Zoro’s bed again.
“Your mattress smells like rosemary and pretension,” he shot back, already half-asleep.
“Better than blood and dumbass.”
“Go sleep in your own bed, then.”
The cook didn’t. Instead, his leg stayed pressed against Zoro’s under the blanket.
Zoro didn’t mean to get used to it, but he did. He found himself listening for the sound of the cook’s footsteps at night. The click of the door. The muttered insults when they argued over who got which side of the bed, or who kicked whom in their sleep.
One night, he stayed up in the crow’s nest to avoid it. Just to see. Just to prove this wasn’t a thing.
The night felt too quiet, the floor too cold. His back ached. Nothing to lean on. Nothing to warm up with.
He barely slept.
Next night, he showed up outside the cook’s door. The door was cracked open. The light was off. There was only the soft sound of uneven breathing.
Zoro hesitated.
Then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The cook was already in bed, facing the wall.
He stepped in. Shut the door. Didn’t say anything.
“About damn time,” the cook muttered, not turning around.
Zoro dropped his swords against the wall and lay down without a word.
He fell asleep within seconds.
--
Zoro stopped keeping track of whose room it was supposed to be. He just ended up wherever he ended up. Sometimes the cook was already there. Sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes they arrived at the same time, bumped into each other in the hallway, argued about who got there first.
Always ended the same, though: Zoro on the right. The cook on the left.
Eventually they stopped arguing at night. The body pillow jokes stopped. The territorial grunts stopped. Now it was just the cook opening the door with a half-scowl, Zoro scooting over, and both of them falling asleep before they had to think too hard about it.
Zoro didn’t mind. Wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t like he needed it. Just made sense. The ship got cold sometimes. Hammocks sucked. The cook had softer bedsheets.
Whatever.
--
Zoro woke up to a muttered curse and a tug at the blanket.
“–greedy bastard –always hogging the damn blanket–”
He didn’t open his eyes. “Am not.”
The rustling stopped. There was a pause.
“You’re awake?” The cook’s voice sounded caught like he hadn’t expected an answer.
“Wasn’t,” he grumbled, voice rough with sleep. “You woke me up.”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t roll yourself up like a goddamn rock with self-esteem issues –”
He shifted slightly. “Could’ve just pulled harder.”
A long, tired sigh. “I did, moss-for-brains. You just didn’t notice. Because you sleep like someone knocked you out with a brick.”
Zoro didn’t answer. Just grunted and shifted onto his side, tossing part of the blanket in the cook’s direction with a lazy flick of his leg. “There. Happy?”
There was a moment of silence, like the cook hadn’t expected that either. Then, with a sarcastically muttered, “Ecstatic.” the cook yanked at the covers with a dramatic flourish before rustling some more to get comfortable.
Zoro thought that was the end of it. He was already starting to drift again when the cook made a frustrated noise and the mattress dipped.
He slid an eye open.
The cook was facing him now, head buried half in the pillow, only one eye visible through the mess of his hair. He didn’t seem to realize how close they were until Zoro looked at him. Barely a few inches between them. The cook’s hair was a mess and one arm was curled under his head, the other awkwardly wedged between them. His expression was soft, slack from sleep, but his eyes were open, and he was staring.
Zoro stared back.
“You’re breathing loud,” the cook said.
“You’re in my face.”
“I’m on my side.”
“So am I.”
A tense beat. Neither of them looked away.
Zoro could feel the warmth radiating off the other, that citrus-and-cigarette smell that always lingered when the cook got too close. The cook's breath was even, but shallow. Like he wasn’t sure if he should move.
Zoro wasn’t sure either.
And then – before Zoro could register why or how – the cook leaned in a little.
Zoro didn’t think. Just met him there. Closed the distance without overthinking it.
The kiss was quick. The kind of kiss that could be explained away if it needed to be. If either of them wanted to. No angle. No hands.
They both froze afterward.
The cook blinked at him. “That didn’t happen.”
Zoro closed his eye. “Nope.”
A beat. “We’re just tired.”
“Middle of the night,” he agreed.
“Probably thought you were someone else.”
“You’re noisy.”
“You snore.”
“You kiss weird.”
“You kissed back,” the cook snapped.
Zoro shrugged with one shoulder. “Whatever. I’m going back to sleep.”
The cook made a soft noise – something between a sigh and a scoff – and rolled onto his back, dragging the blanket with him.
Zoro didn’t move. Just stayed facing the same way.
After a moment, the cook’s voice drifted through the dark.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
Zoro let himself drift. “Obviously.”
--
Zoro woke up a second time that night and the cook was awake, too, judging by the pointed sigh when Zoro shifted onto his side. “What.”
“Nothing,” the cook muttered. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head, hair a tousled mess.
Zoro stared for a second, then let his eye slide back closed.
They lay there in silence.
Ten seconds.
Thirty.
He didn’t open his eye. But he could feel it – the cook watching him. Not saying anything, not moving. Just thinking loud enough that he could almost hear it.
Eventually, the cook shifted. Pulled the blanket higher. Huffed once, like something had annoyed him. Zoro waited, but that was it. No complaint. No insult. Just a vague, unfinished noise.
He turned his head slightly. “Spill, cook.”
The cook hesitated. The blanket shifted again when he moved closer – slowly, like he didn’t want to be noticed doing it.
Zoro felt the cook’s leg brush his under the covers.
Then, like it was nothing, the cook leaned forward and kissed him.
“Don’t do this with anyone else.”
Zoro snorted. “Wasn’t planning to.”
--
Apparently, they fell back asleep because Zoro woke up for a third time that night when it was barely dawn.
He hadn’t meant to get up yet, but the cook’s leg had ended up somewhere near his bladder again, and there was only so long he could ignore that.
He slipped out of bed quietly – or at least tried to. The cook stirred the moment the mattress dipped. Didn’t open his eyes, but muttered, “Don’t trip over your own swords.”
Zoro didn’t answer. Just grunted and grabbed them, slipping out the door before he could do something stupid. Like reach out and stroke over those soft-looking blond strands.
The hallway was cold. The galley was already warm, but empty. He sat down at the table, arms crossed, waiting for the unease in his chest to go away.
It didn’t.
“Morning,” came Nami’s voice as she stepped in, mug in hand.
He grunted.
Robin followed behind her, as unreadable as always. “You chose to rise early today.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Zoro muttered.
Nami raised an eyebrow, about to say something – probably a comment about his training obsession – when the door opened again and the cook walked in.
Hair still messy, shirt half-buttoned, no tie. And completely ignoring Zoro’s existence.
“Good morning, my radiant angels!” he sang as he entered, sliding smoothly back into character.
Robin smiled. “Good morning, Sanji-san.”
“You’re up late,” Nami said, squinting at him.
The cook brushed it off. “Restless night.”
Zoro blinked.
The cook moved around the galley like usual, starting on breakfast, humming some tune under his breath, but he noticed anyway. The cook was deliberately avoiding looking in his direction.
Not a single glance.
He stood up.
Nami glanced over. “Leaving before breakfast?”
“Not hungry.”
--
He made it to the deck, leaned against the railing, and closed his eyes. He rolled his shoulders to release the tension making him twitchy inside.
“You’re sulking,” came the cook’s voice from nearby.
Zoro didn’t open his eyes. “Am not.”
“Liar.”
Footsteps. Then the soft clack of a lighter, and the faint smell of smoke.
Zoro slid his eye halfway open. The cook stood beside him, staring out at the water. Didn’t say anything else for a while.
Zoro side-eyed him. “What was that?”
The cook took a long drag. “Making breakfast?”
Zoro crossed his arms. “Didn’t look at me once.”
Sanji shot him a look, cigarette between his lips. “You jealous?”
Zoro didn’t rise to it, just stared.
A pause. The wind tugged at the cook’s hair. “…Didn’t wanna make it weird,” the cook muttered finally. “The crew doesn’t know." Another pause. "Not like there’s anything to know, right?”
Zoro frowned. “Didn’t say there was.”
“Exactly.”
They stood in silence again.
Then, quieter: “…Still don’t want you kissing anyone else.”
Zoro looked over. The cook didn’t look at him, but his ears were pink.
He smirked, just a little. “Now who’s jealous?”
The cook scoffed. “Shut up.”
Zoro leaned in slightly, close enough that their arms touched. “Make me.”
The cook glared at him, eyes narrow. Then he kissed Zoro again. No warning, just cigarette flicked over the rail, hands in his pockets, lips warm and dry and fast.
Zoro blinked.
The cook pulled back, turned away. “That should shut you up,” he muttered, walking off toward the galley.
Zoro stared after him.
“…Idiot,” he said to no one in particular.
--
Zoro didn’t follow the cook right away. He stayed leaned against the railing, staring at the horizon. Eventually, he pushed himself off the railing, cracked his neck and walked slowly back toward the galley. He stepped into the galley just in time to hear Usopp shriek, “SANJI, WHAT THE HELL – ARE YOU SMILING??”
He paused in the doorway.
The cook had a pan in one hand and was plating eggs with the other, but sure enough, there was a stupid little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but definitely real.
“Shut up,” the cook muttered and slid a plate toward Luffy, who was already halfway across the counter trying to grab food with his bare hands.
Zoro made his way to the corner and sat down without saying anything. The cook didn’t look at him. Just set another plate on the table near his elbow, casual and wordless.
Zoro stared at the food for a second.
It wasn’t his usual.
He glanced over at the cook. “You made onigiri this early?”
The cook didn’t look at him. “Felt like it.”
Zoro squinted at the yellow shapes on his plate. “Is that ginger?”
“It’s good for digestion.”
Zoro tried to come up with a retort but couldn’t. The food smelled amazing. He took a bite, grunted in satisfaction, and kept eating. The cook still didn’t look at him, but his ears were pink again.
That night, Zoro’s room was empty, so he pushed the door to the cook’s room open. The cook was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He didn’t look up when Zoro entered.
Zoro leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I wasn’t gonna skip tonight.”
Silence.
Then a quiet reply: “Didn’t want to assume.”
Zoro stepped forward and sat down beside the cook, shoulder to shoulder.
The cook sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, but otherwise stayed silent.
Zoro shifted to look at him. “Don’t really care what this is,” he said, voice low. “Just don’t want it to stop.”
Finally, the cook looked up, met his eye. Then he leaned in – slower this time – and kissed him again. When they pulled apart, the cook rested his forehead against his, eyes closed, scoffed and muttered under his breath, “Stupid marimo.”
That night, they slept tangled up and warm.