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Only chapter.
The desert heat felt strong in the middle of the day. Zoro’s supersport car, a sleek custom-tuned monster he used for private practice runs, sat dead on the shoulder of the old Route 66. The engine had sputtered and died after a near-fatal slide around a blind curve where the road had buckled from decades of neglect, one wrong twitch of the wheel and he would have been a smear on the sandstone. It bothers him, the thought that he could’ve been gone because he was lost in his mind.
Hyori, that witch, even after they broke up her ghost still lingered in his memories, but not in a good way.
He slightly squeezed the energy drink while drinking half of it in one big chug. And with no signal, no gas, and the nearest town a few miles away, Zoro did the only thing he could: he got out, threw the half empty can, braced himself… and pushed.
Hours later, every muscle screamed, sweat stinging his eyes when he finally rolled the car past a weathered wooden sign that read “Welcome to Galena”– Population 187.”
The town was a ghost of better days. Storefronts with peeling paint, a diner with a crooked “Closed” sign, an old theater whose marquee had lost half its letters. Not a single light was on. The sun had already dipped below the mountains, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges.
Zoro’s stomach growled viciously. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning—too focused on breaking his personal record of his practice lap times. His head throbbed, vision blurred, he decided it was smarter to sleep in the car than risk collapsing in the middle of the empty street. He barely remembered climbing into the driver’s seat before unconsciousness took him.
…
A sharp series of knocks on the window jolted him awake.
–Fuck– Zoro’s skull cracked against the steering wheel as he startled. Pain bloomed bright behind his eyes. The world tilted. He was dizzy, starving and every inch of him ached from pushing two tons of carbon fiber and steel through the desert.
A deep voice rumbled from outside.
—You okay, boy?—
Zoro blinked hard, trying to focus. A very tall, lanky man in a sheriff’s uniform stood beside the car, bony knuckles still hovering near the glass. A ridiculous afro framed his face, and an even more ridiculous cane rested against his hip.
—You will get in trouble for sleeping here, young one.— Sheriff said, the shadow of a smile drawing in his face.
Zoro rubbed his face, trying to shake off the fog. —Ah, yes… I’m sorry.—
He looked around. Still in the middle of nowhere. The realization hit him like another wave of dizziness.
—Yeah, I…— He swallowed, throat dry. — I ran out of gas last night after… after almost crashing.— he decides to get out of the car, watching the man go back a couple steps too.
—I did not hear any noises last night.—
—I pushed the car here from where I was.— Zoro pointed back down the dark stretch of the route.
The tall man. Sheriff Brook, he would later introduce himself, stared at Zoro, then at the low-slung racing car, then back at Zoro’s broad, sweat-soaked shoulders.
—You’re very strong.— Brook simply said.
—Yeah… thanks.—
An awkward silence stretched between them. Zoro’s stomach chose that moment to growl loud enough for both of them to hear.
Brook’s expression softened. —Come on. Let’s get you and this beast somewhere useful before you pass out on my watch.—
They pushed the car together the last half-mile to the only gas station in town. The sign above the pumps read “Robin’s Fill-Up & Fix,” faded but still legible. A woman with long dark hair and an enigmatic smile was already unlocking the station door even though it was barely dawn.
—G‘Morning Lady!—Brook says with a bright smile to the woman.
After introducing her to Zoro, Robin fueled the car and checked for damage. Ten minutes later, a beat-up old truck pulled up, out stepped a tall man in grease-stained clothes. Robin’s husband, Franky.
He looked at the expensive racing car, the exhausted man leaning against it, and the sheriff who looked far too amused.
— I just got a word with the old man, said you called.— he said without preamble to Brook —Said some idiot pushed his supercar through the desert and nearly fainted in front of the welcome sign.—
Zoro bristled. —I’m not an idiot.—
—Could’ve fooled me, boy—
And they just laughed at him
And remembering that Zoro was starving, the sheriff guided him to where they frequented —The only place still worth a damn is the diner. Try not to die before we get there.— said with a smile while he started to walk away.
A rusty bell rang as he pushed open the diner door. The smell hit him first —meat, eggs, something fried in oil that has seen better days. It was enough to make him eat the entire place.
Behind the counter stood a man in a black suit, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked annoyed before Zoro even spoke.
—Kitchen’s not open yet—the man said flatly, not even glancing up
Zoro took another step forward— and the room spinned a little bit.
That’s when an older man from the back stepped out, eyeing Zoro carefully.
Zeff, who owned the restaurant—The Baratie Diner. After hearing the full story from Brook, he yelled orders
—Oi—he said, voice sharp as a knife —Cook!—
The blonde clocked his tongue. —What now old man—“
—Boy’s half-dead.— the older man cut in. —Put some meat on those bones before he keels over in my kitchen.—
The blonde -Sanji- finally looked up properly. His eyes narrowed as he took in Zoro’s condition. There was a pause then a scoff.
—Tch. Damn idiots who don’t know when to eat…— Sanji grumbled but he cooked anyway. Thick steaks, fresh eggs, rice, and a mountain of sides that Zoro devoured like a man who’d been starving for weeks. Between bites, Zoro explained he was a NASCAR racer, training on backroads and forgotten highways to prepare for the most important race in the upcoming seasons. He’d taken a detour on old Route 66 for “authentic conditions.”
Sanji listened with a skeptical curl of his lip, but his eyes kept drifting to Zoro’s powerful arms and the stubborn set of his jaw.
—You almost died out there for fun?—Sanji asked, sliding another plate in front of him.
—Not for fun. For speed, I needed to break my record—
—Idiot marimo—
They argued the entire meal, it felt weirdly natural.
Zoro was planning on leaving the next morning, but he didn't; His car needed a few parts Robin didn’t have in stock and a desert storm rolled in and washed out part of the road. Zeff offered him a room above the diner “until the parts come in.”
And somehow three days became a week, then two. As days blurred into an easy rhythm after that.
Zoro started helping around town in payment for their hospitality—moving heavy equipment for Robin, sparring with Luffy and Chopper who wanted to ‘stay in shape’, even washing dishes at the Baratie in the afternoons he’d wandered over. Sanji always had a plate waiting for him.
They bickered constantly, Zoro calling the blonde “curly brow” and “love-cook” just to watch his ears turn red, Sanji just called him “Marimo”, and once “directionally challenged idiot” when Zoro got lost trying to find the auto parts store three blocks away.
One night, after the last customer left, Sanji found Zoro sitting in the back, staring up at the endless desert stars with two cold beers at his side.
—You’re really going to race in those big fancy circuits? never thought about quitting?—Sanji asked lighting a cigarette, legs stretched out in front of him
Zoro took a long sip from his bottle. —Quitting racing? No. It’s the only thing that makes sense in my life right now.—
Sanji hummed. —Must be nice. Knowing exactly what you want—
—What about you? You’re stuck here cooking for them and lost racers?—
A smile appeared on Sanji’s lips after hearing that, but that gesture didn’t reach his eyes. —This place is home. Zeff raised me after my mom…— he paused, not wanting to remember that painful memory. —Anyway. I like feeding them, they’re good people. They make life feel a little less shitty you know?— He said in a whisper, putting his gaze in the night sky. —But sometimes I wonder what It’d be like to see more than just the old buildings and the same stretch of highway—
Zoro glanced at him. The blonde looked softer in the fading light of the moon, cigarette smoke curling lazily above his head. Something in Zoro’s chest tightened, something warm.
—You could come watch me race sometime—he said before he could stop himself —If you want, I’ll get you paddock passes—
Sandi’s head snapped toward him. —Really?—
—Yeah. Why not? You make decent food. Least I can do is return the favor with decent seats.—
The blonde laughed. The sound was light and surprising. —Careful marimo. Keep talking like that and I might think you like having me around.—
—Shut up—
He did not deny it.
He kept his gaze in Sanji, admiring those beautiful blue eyes looking back at him.
Zoro saw the stars reflecting in those deep pools.
And with no regrets, they got closer, little by little. Their lips meeting in a soft touch sending an electrifying feeling through their bodies.
…
A couple more weeks passed. Zoro’s car was fixed -Robin and Franky worked miracles- but he kept finding more reasons to stay. A new set of tires to test the old back roads, a loose bolt that needed checking. And Sanji had started making bentos for him to take on long drives.
Zeff noticed, of course. One afternoon while Zoro was helping him move crates behind the diner, the old man cornered him.
—You planning on making an honest man out of my boy or just passing through like every other hotshot with a fast car?—Zoro nearly dropped the crate. —What?—
Zeff jabbed a finger into his chest. —Don’t play dumb. I see how you look at him and how he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching— a soft frown forming in his face. —Sanji’s got a big heart and a stubborn streak wider than yours. If you’re gonna break it, do it clean and leave now. If not… well. You’ve got potential, kiddo. I could teach you a few things about keeping a car —and a relationship— from falling apart on the track.—
Zoro swallowed, the words sinking deep in his mind. —I’m not good at… this stuff… People.—
—Neither was I at your age.— Zeff said gruffly. —But I learned. For him.— He jerked his thumb toward the kitchen where Sanji was humming while chopping vegetables. —Worth it.—
That night after closing, Zoro found Sanji alone in the kitchen wiping down counters. The radio played some old rock songs. Without thinking, Zoro stepped behind him, hands resting lightly on Sanji’s hip.
Feeling him froze for half a second before realizing it was Zoro, he leaned back into the touch. —Finally figured out where the kitchen is, marimo?—
—Shut up.— He mutters, pressing a clumsy kiss to the side of Sanji’s neck. —I’m staying. For a while, if that’s… okay—
Sanji turned in his arms, blue eyes wide and hopeful. —Yeah. That’s okay. More than okay.—He whispered softly, throwing his arms around Zoro’s neck. Their lips touching. They both felt the faint sweetness of the dessert Sanji had been testing earlier. It was a messy kiss, a little desperate but perfect.
Days passed in a blur of stolen moments and growing routine.
Zoro training on the old desert roads with Zeff barking critiques like the grizzled mentor he’d become. —Shift earlier, you idiot! You’re not trying to qualify for the apocalypse!—
Sanji would pack lunches for their sessions— onigiris, grilled fish, whatever Zoro could eat one-handed while driving. In the evenings they’d sit on a table at the Baratie, eating dinner together. Or sometimes outside staring at the stars.
One particular afternoon, after a long practice run, Zoro came back to the diner sweaty and covered in dust. Sanji took one look at him and laughed.
—You look like you rolled in the desert, marimo—
—Feel like it too.—Zoro grumbled but he let Sanji drag him to the small apartment above the diner for a shower.
They end up in bed instead, slow and lazy in the afternoon heat, hands mapping new territory. Sanji’s fingers traced the scars on Zoro’s chest with something like reverence.
—You’re an idiot for almost crashing that day.—Sanji whispered against his skin.
—Yeah.—he agreed, pulling him closer. —But I found you.—
The blonde’s laugh was soft, breathless.
Their life settled into something they never knew they needed.
Zoro still raced— flying out for weekends , coming back bruised and buzzing with adrenaline. Sanji would wait up with food and quiet worry, then fuss over every new scrape. Zeff would grumble about “damn fool kids” but always had advice when Zoro needed it.
Then came the morning Sanji woke up pale and bolted for the bathroom.
Zoro found him hunched over the toilet, retching
—Shit. Sanji?—
—I’m fine— Sanji gasped, waving him off weakly. —Just… Bad shrimp or something.—
But it wasn’t bad shrimp. It happened again the next day, and the day after.
Robin was the one who finally guided them to the clinic owned by Chopper’s parents, Hiriluk and Kureha; when Sanji’s “bad shrimp” refused to go away and he started craving the weirdest combinations at 3 a.m.
Kureha’s words still echoed in their heads hours later.
—Congratulations. You’re expecting—
Sanji had gone very still in the chair and Zoro’s brain had short-circuited completely.
Late at night they both laid in their bed, Zoro had pulled him closer, hand splaying protectively over Sanji’s still-flat stomach. —You okay with this?—
Sanji had been quiet for a long moment, then smiled—small, shaky, but real. —Yes. A little terrified. But.. with you here? I think I am.—
…
In this quiet desert town where everyone knew everyone, the news spread fast—but no one batted an eye. Small towns had their own kind of acceptance when two good men clearly loved each other.
Zoro’s reaction was immediate and fierce. He hovered around Sanji like a protective shadow. —You’re not lifting anything heavier than a spoon— he growled.
Sanji swatted him with a dish towel. —I’m pregnant, not made of glass, you shitty moss-head—
But he let Zoro dote anyway. Secretly, he loved it.
As Sanji’s belly grew round and heavy with their child, Zoro’s racing improved in ways no one expected. Zeff said fatherhood had given him a new kind of focus—every lap he ran was now for the family waiting at the finish line.
On quiet nights, Zoro would rest his calloused hand on Sanji’s swollen stomach, feeling the strong kicks of their baby. Sanji would thread his fingers through Zoro’s green hair and murmur, —Never thought I’d be cooking for three—
Zoro would smirk against his skin. —Best detour I ever took.—
…
Today was the biggest race off the season: The Daytona 500.
Two hundred laps of brutal, sliding chaos where one wrong move meant eating pavement and regret.
Zoro sat in the cockpit of his modified super sport, his green hair was plastered to his forehead under the helmet, heart pounding with something fiercer than usual adrenaline. Not just for the thought of winning but for the two lives waiting in the packed grandstands.
Sanji was seven months pregnant, his belly round and heavy under one of the shirts that Zoro bought for him. He sat in the family section with Zeff on one side and Robin and Nami at the other, one hand resting protectively on his stomach while the other waved a small flag with Zoro’s number.
His face was flushed from the heat, his blonde hair was tied in the back and his visible eyebrow furrowed in that familiar mix of worry and pride.
Zoro had almost refused to race. —You’re too far along,— he growled that morning in the hotel room that was provided to them. —What if something happens and I’m not there?— said while he was kneeling in front of Sanji pressing his forehead to his belly where the baby kicked.
Sanji had flicked his head hard. —If you don’t get out there and win this shitty race, I’m naming the baby after that stupid moss on your head, now go. I’ll be fine, the old man and the ladies will be babysitting me.—
Still, Zoro made them promise they’ll keep an eye on him.
The green flag dropped.
The first laps were pure war. Cars slid and bumped, dust choking the air. Zoro drove like a demon—sharp and relentless, every turn a calculated risk he’d practiced a thousand times under Zeff’s barking orders. —You race for more than yourself now, boy!— the old man had shouted during their last practice session. —That cook and that kid in his belly are counting on you to come home in one piece and with a trophy!—
Zoro’s car -number 03 painted in faded white on the side- carved through the pack. He took the lead on lap 110 after a perfect slingshot pass on the outside and the crowd roared in excitement.
In the stands, Sanji pushed himself up a little straighter, his blue eyes locked on the green blur tearing around the oval, one of his hands rubbing slow circles over his swollen middle as the baby gave an especially strong kick, as if she could feel her father’s speed.
Lap 155. A lapped car tried to take Zoro’s place but he held it, shoulder to shoulder the tires screaming. The contact was hard—metal on metal—but he didn’t yield. Zeff was proud, the other driver spun out in a cloud of dust.
Final lap.
—Can you believe what we are about to see!— the announcer screamed through the speakers —This will be epic!—
Zoro crossed the finish line first, the checkered flag waving wildly as his name was announced on the big screens —Roronoa Zoro takes the win!— and the crowd erupted.
Zoro didn’t do victory laps, he didn’t do burnouts or donuts for the cameras. The second his car rolled to a stop in victory lane, he killed the engine, ripped off his helmet, and vaulted over the wall like the car was on fire.
Sweat-soaked, covered in sweat and breathing hard, he pushed through the celebrating crew straight toward the grandstands. People parted for him. Sanji was already standing at the railing with both hands on the heavy curve of his belly. His cheeks were pink with a bright smile on his face.
Zoro didn’t slow down. He jumped the barrier and pulled Sanji into his arms—careful, always so careful now with how precious his cook had become.
Their kiss was fierce and public, the kind that made the nearby crowd whoop and whistle. Zoro tasted the sweetness of the lemonade Sanji had been sipping all afternoon. Sanji’s free hand fisted in Zoro’s racing suit, holding on tight as their daughter gave a strong flutter between them, right against Zoro’s stomach.
When they broke apart, Zoro rested his forehead against Sanji’s, voice rough with exhaustion and triumph.
— I won.—
Sanji laughed, a little breathless, thumb brushing a streak of dirt from Zoro’s cheek. —Of course you did, you stubborn marimo. Couldn’t let our girl see her dad come in second, could you?—
Zoro’s grin was sharp and proud. He dropped to one knee right there on the grandstand steps, something he’d never done in his life and pressed both palms gently to the large swell. The baby kicked hard against his hands as if celebrating too.
Flashes sparkled around them, the cameras pointing at them, questions erupted waiting for the answer that'll make the cover in the magazines.
Sanji’s face went scarlet, he felt overwhelmed, he has never been the center of attention before—Zoro, you shitty—”
But he couldn’t finish. Zoro stood wrapping one strong arm around Sanji’s waist and lifted the heavy winner’s trophy with the other, holding it up so the gleaming silver caught the sun. Then he turned and kissed Sanji again, slower this time, right in front of everyone.
In the background, Zeff was grumbling something about “damn show-offs” while wiping his eyes while Robin and Nami were snapping photos with a big smile.
Later, when the trophies and interviews were done, Zoro would drive them to a nice restaurant for dinner in celebration, one hand on the wheel and the other resting on Sanji’s belly the whole way. Sanji would complain about how hungry he was but he was smiling the entire time, their daughter kicking happily between them.
Because that race wasn’t just a win.
It was a promise.
Zoro had found his way home on a stranded stretch of a forgotten route, and every lap he ran now was to make sure he always came back to the man—and the family—waiting at the finish line.
…
And every year on their anniversary, Zoro would drive Sanji out to that same road where he’d almost crashed, where he’d pushed his car through the desert and where he’d found the rest of his life.
As both laid on the hood of the car Sanji would lean over to kiss the scar on Zoro’s forehead whispering:
—Best almost-crash of your life, marimo—
Zoro would grin, sharp and proud.
—Damn right, cook.—