Archive of Our Own

Here When You Need Us

The long stretch of highway was tiring enough when Sanji was rested. Tonight, he was exhausted and aching, and the hour-long commute between the Germa offices and home seemed endless.

He’d moved out to the suburbs two years ago in an attempt to make his life feel less crowded – farther away from the Vinsmokes, farther away from everything that had gone wrong. It hadn’t helped much. 

He worked for Germa. He hadn’t exactly had a wealth of other options. When he was younger, his father had forced him into an arranged marriage with Pudding Charlotte. At the time, it hadn’t seemed too terrible. Pudding was nice, beautiful, and Sanji genuinely enjoyed her company. Together, they’d opened a café with their generous wedding dowry from Pudding’s mother.

Then came the arrests. Racketeering. Money laundering. Fraud. A list of charges Sanji had barely understood before he found himself caught in the middle of them. The café he and Pudding owned had been used as a money-laundering front, and no one believed Sanji when he insisted he hadn’t known anything about it.

He went to prison for nearly a decade.

By the time he got out, his prospects were almost nonexistent. A criminal record followed him everywhere. Employers took one look at it and stopped listening to explanations. Germa had been his only real recourse. Reiju had been the one who’d given him the job, overruling their brothers when they objected. “He’ll be less of an embarrassment if we have him under control.”

Sanji had gone back into the family fold as an office drone. It sucked. His whole life sucked.

The only things he had going for him were a reliable car, a decent apartment, and a nice little coffee shop within walking distance of his place that he could visit on the rare weekend when Germa didn’t need him. Most days, he worked long, grueling hours. He left before dawn and came home long after dark.

This particular stretch of highway had become a constant part of his life over the past two years, carrying him back and forth between home and Germa until he could have driven it in his sleep.

Which was becoming a problem.

The highway lights passed in a regular rhythm beyond the windshield. Sanji blinked hard and shifted in his seat. His eyes were getting heavy. He needed to stop. Just for a few minutes. Walk around. Stretch his legs. Get some coffee into him before he tried to make it the rest of the way home.

Usually he could manage the drive, but tonight he’d been stuck at work searching for files one of his brothers wanted before morning. Sanji had spent hours in the filing department hunting through cabinet after cabinet only to discover the damn things had been misfiled. Probably on purpose. He wouldn’t put it past his brothers to do something that petty just to drive him insane.

By the time he finally left the office, it was after two in the morning. He’d have to turn around and go back in a few hours. Going home almost seemed pointless. But he wanted a shower and his bed, even if he only got to collapse into it for a short time. He wanted to wake up and make himself a decent breakfast with the cooking skills he still possessed, even though he only cooked for one these days. Then he’d go back to work and do the whole miserable thing again.

A pale glow appeared ahead.

Sanji narrowed his eyes. A low diner sat near the next exit, its long bank of windows glowing against the dark roadside. He could make out a few trucks in the parking lot and one or two cars. A godsend. He didn’t remember there being a diner out here, but he wasn’t about to argue with caffeine delivered directly into his path.

Sanji hit his turn signal.

He left the highway, followed the frontage road, and pulled into the diner’s gravel lot. A shallow roof extended over the front, with a faded painted sign mounted above it. The building looked older than the frontage road around it, more roadside café than modern truck stop. After parking beneath one of the lamps, he pocketed his keys and dragged his tired bones inside. 

The diner had a timeless quality to it. A long counter ran opposite the entrance, ending at a heavy brass cash register. Round stools stood in a row before it, their dark leather seats worn smooth around the edges. A handful of booths lined two walls beneath tall windows, their upholstery faded but still thickly padded.

Small hexagonal tiles covered the floor, cream bordered in dark geometric lines, their finish dulled by decades of traffic. Brass light fixtures hung above the counter beneath milk-glass shades. The walls were painted a muted green above dark wooden wainscoting, the color aged enough that Sanji couldn’t tell whether it had once been brighter.

Framed black-and-white photographs filled the gaps between a few old landscape prints. Nothing matched the deliberate retro styling of modern diners. The fixtures, furniture, and finishes all appeared to have belonged here from the beginning and simply survived untouched.

He took a stool at the counter, a few seats down from a trucker hunched over a mug. Through the wide pass-through behind the counter, Sanji could see the kitchen and the lone cook working inside. He had a long nose and dark hair tied back beneath a bandana. A broad steel griddle occupied most of the line beside an old six-burner range, while a hulking white refrigerator stood against the rear wall. Its rounded corners and thick chrome handle belonged in a museum, but the motor hummed steadily.

At the far end of the counter sat a young guy in a red shirt, a straw hat hanging against his back. At least a dozen plates were arranged in front of him, most of them half-empty.

Behind the register, a lovely redhead was filing her nails. She stood beneath an old wall clock with a cream face and black numerals, its rounded metal casing yellowed slightly with age. 

A large man with green hair emerged through the swinging kitchen door carrying an empty bus bin. He was all muscle and scars, dressed in a plain white t-shirt and black work trousers. A long scar crossed one closed eye. Three earrings hung from his left ear.

He set down the bin and ambled over. “What d’you want?”

Sanji arched his curled eyebrow. With an attitude like that, they had to be near the end of a shift. He remembered how much he’d hated customers coming into the café a few minutes before closing. “Are you closing already?” he asked. “If so, I won’t stay.”

The man frowned, making the scar over his eye shift. “No. We’re not closing.”

Sanji gave him a faint, relieved smile. “Then I’ll have a coffee.”

“Want food with that?” The man jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. “Warning you, our cook’s shit.”

“I can hear you,” the long-nosed cook muttered from behind the pass-through.

“That’s why I said it.”

Sanji glanced down the counter toward the young man with twelve plates in front of him. “He seems to like the food.”

The scarred man huffed a laugh. “He’d eat a shoe if you put ketchup on it.”

The guy in the straw hat paused mid-bite. “Depends what kind of shoe.”

Sanji looked at him, then back toward the kitchen. “Well, now I’m going to have to try this terrible food for myself.”

“Your taste buds,” the scarred man said. He reached beneath the counter and pulled out a menu, slapping it down in front of Sanji.

The thing had seen better days. It was a single sheet of heavy cream-colored card stock, softened at the corners and darkened along the edges from years of handling. The lettering was old-fashioned and plain, divided into narrow columns by thin black rules. Prices had been crossed out and rewritten enough times that some items carried two or three amounts beside them. 

Sanji scanned the offerings. Breakfast. Burgers. Sandwiches. Soup. Pie. A short list of fried sides. Coffee, tea, and a handful of soft drinks. Simple diner food.

Since it was well past midnight, Sanji decided breakfast made the most sense. People could only ruin eggs so badly. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, bacon, and white toast.”

The scarred man glanced toward the kitchen. “You hear that?”

“Got it,” the cook called back.

Sanji watched the scarred man fill a heavy ceramic mug from the chrome coffee urn behind the counter and set it in front of him. He reached for the sugar canister, added a spoonful, and stirred. The first sip was hot, strong, and considerably better than he’d expected. “Coffee isn’t bad.”

“One of the few things we know how to do,” the scarred man said.

At the far end of the counter, Straw Hat spoke around another mouthful of food. “We know how to be open when somebody needs us.”

The scarred man walked away, pulling a rag from his back pocket. He went to clean a booth that had just been vacated by a tired-looking family. The parents each carried a sleeping child as they approached the register.

The redhead set aside her nail file. The father handed her several bills. Her expression brightened immediately. “Thank you for your business.”

She tucked the money into the old register. The drawer shut with a solid metallic clang. The family headed outside.

Sanji took another drink of coffee and let his gaze wander.

Besides the trucker and Straw Hat, there was only one other customer. A man sat alone in a booth near the windows, wearing a wrinkled dress shirt and loosened tie. He looked about how Sanji felt – exhausted, worn down, and determined to stay awake long enough to reach wherever he was going.

Sanji looked back toward the walls. One of the framed photographs nearest him showed the diner from outside. The road in front of it was still unpaved, and three rounded automobiles sat beside a pair of old delivery trucks. The name painted across the front window was the same one printed on the menu. A smaller sign beneath it advertised coffee for a nickel. 

From the kitchen came the hiss of eggs hitting a hot griddle. Sanji looked over automatically, his hand flexing around his coffee cup. His dream had been to run a restaurant and that had been taken from him along with everything else he’d had – his home, his life savings, his wife. She’d divorced him before the trials even finished and told him it had been the worst three years of her life, pretending to love him when the marriage had only ever been a way for the Charlottes to secure favorable access to Germa’s weapons and and military technology.

Judge had wanted the marriage for his own reasons. The Charlottes controlled a sprawling shipping and distribution network, and tying the families together had given Germa cheaper transport, easier access to new markets, and another source of investment capital. Sanji had been the obvious son to offer up for it.

When the Charlotte organization finally came apart, Germa walked away untouched. Their contracts were legitimate, their payments documented, and none of the money laundering had passed through Vinsmoke accounts. Judge’s lawyers made sure everyone understood that Germa had merely done business with the wrong family.

Sanji’s attempts to find work as a line cook after his release had shown him the reality of being an ex-con. The one interviewer who’d been straight with him explained that because his charges involved money, most businesses wouldn’t want him anywhere near a register. And no bank would give him a loan to open his own place again. 

One of the truckers paid and left. Sanji sipped his coffee and fought his weariness. He should just move back into the city. Find a place near the subway and cut the commute down to something tolerable. His lease was up in January. It hardly mattered where he lived. He didn’t have much of a life outside Germa. An occasional hook-up, maybe, but anything more felt impossible. Sooner or later, he’d have to tell someone he’d spent nearly a decade in prison, and Sanji had learned what usually happened once people heard the words ex-con. 

A plate appeared on the passthrough, and the long-nosed cook called, “Zoro.” 

The server – Zoro – finished putting the dishes into the bin he’d retrieved and left it at the table. He rounded the end of the counter, grabbed the plate, and set it in front of Sanji. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sanji looked at the meal in front of him. Eggs with heavy black lace around them, over hard rather than over easy, swimming in grease. The bacon looked floppy. The toast had char marks on it. 

Sanji glanced up in dismay. “Maybe it tastes better than it looks.”

Zoro snorted and went back to the table he’d been cleaning. 

Sanji cut into the egg with the side of his fork and tried a bite. It tasted like over-saturated griddle. Adding salt and pepper helped a little, but not much. The toast crunched unpleasantly. The bacon didn’t crunch at all. It made the cook inside him weep.

Zoro returned with the bin, which he set near the door to the kitchen. He took one look at Sanji’s face and smirked. “Told you.”

“Better than anything you made before we changed jobs,” the cook said through the open pass. “How many times did you light the kitchen on fire?”

“Pft. It was just those three times.”

“Four,” the redhead spoke up. “And one of them, you nearly burned us down.”

“I wonder what would happen if that happened,” Straw Hat said, six plates now empty. 

“You don’t gotta eat it,” Zoro told Sanji, leaning against the service counter behind him. 

“I never waste food,” Sanji said. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t eaten worse in prison. 

Zoro studied him for a moment, then picked up Sanji's coffee and topped the cup. “Coffee’s on the house.”

“No, it isn’t,” the redhead immediately corrected.

Zoro shot her a glare. “Usopp’s slop deserves free coffee.”

“The coffee is premium compared to Usopp’s slop.”

“Usopp can hear you both,” the cook said. 

“Maybe Nami should cook next,” Straw Hat said. Then he perked. “Or I can do it!”

“NO,” three voices rang out at once.

Zoro turned back to the redhead, Nami. “Luffy’s got a point, though. You should cook next.”

Nami stepped closer to the register. “I’m not letting you bozos near the money.”

“Pft. Not like we need it.”

Sanji watched the back and forth as it continued, somewhat confused. “You all take turns at cooking?” He almost bit his tongue the second he’d asked, as this wasn’t his business. Whoever owned it could run it as they liked.

Usopp replied, though. “Since our cook left, we’ve been doing what we can. Luckily, I have cooked for kings and countries, so I know my way around a kitchen.”

“You’ve cooked for kings?” Straw Hat – Luffy – said with wide-eyed astonishment.

Usopp cleared his throat. “Minor kings. Very minor. In tiny countries. You’ve never heard of them.” 

“Because they don’t exist,” Zoro said. “And even if they did, they wouldn’t let you cook for them.”

Usopp clutched his chest dramatically. “Such harsh words!”

Sanji ate a few more bites of egg, using the toast to sop up as much of the grease as he could. “You need to cut back on the cooking oil you’re using on the griddle. That’ll help.”

Zoro arched his brow. “You a cook?”

Sanji shifted on his stool. “I once was. Now just for myself.”

Luffy stuffed another sausage in his mouth. “You should come cook for us!”

“Luffy,” Nami said with a warning in her tone. “He probably already has a job.”

“I do.” It was a shit job for his even shittier family, but one that kept him from living in his car.

The second trucker headed for the register and pulled out a card, but Nami shook her head. “Cash only.”

“Shit. I don’t have any.”

Nami waved him off. “Pay next time.”

The trucker hesitated, then thanked her and headed for the door.

“Aw,” Luffy said once the trucker left. “But Usopp’s food isn’t that great.”

Usopp sputtered. “You eat, like, fifty plates of it every time we open!” 

“Because I’m hungry.”

Zoro bussed the counter where the trucker had been sitting, wiping it down with his rag. “Ignore them. I do.”

Sanji noticed when he bent forward a hint of a nasty scar beneath the collar of his shirt. Along with the scar over the eye, curiosity had Sanji wondering if they were caused by an accident or a fight. If it was a fight, he wondered if the guy did time. He didn’t see any prison ink, but that didn’t mean anything. Sanji had gotten the mark they’d forced onto him removed as soon as he could afford it. Now there was only a scar on his wrist where the crude smiley face with a slash through it had once marked him as someone’s property. 

The other office drone dragged himself from his booth, which meant Sanji should probably finish up and be getting home, too. He ate the rest of his eggs, made a sandwich out of the bacon and toast, which wasn’t terrible thanks to the sopped grease from the eggs, and polished it off. 

Zoro returned from bussing the booth as Sanji drank his last sip of coffee. “Want another?”

Sanji shook his head. “I need to get going.”

Zoro nodded and began collecting Sanji’s plates. “Heard there’s a gas station about twenty miles up the road from here. In case you need to stop again.”

“Was that a bathroom crack against my cooking?” Usopp said.

Zoro’s lone eye met Sanji’s with a glimmer of mischief. “Maybe.”

Usopp squawked indignately. “My food isn’t that bad!”

Sanji left a big tip, as he knew it was shared around the staff, and this group had made his stopover enjoyable, even if the food wasn’t the best. “Lay off the oil and it should help.”

He took the check Zoro set on the counter, went over to Nami, and paid her with a radiant smile. “Your presence has been a beacon of light to aid my way home.”

“Of course it has,” Nami said. “Will that be cash?”

Sanji paid in cash, which seemed to delight her, and he accepted the small amount of change he got. He glanced over at Zoro, Usopp, and Luffy as he tucked his money away. He gave her a nod of thanks and headed for the door.

“Safe travels,” Luffy spoke up from behind him.

He looked back and Luffy waved with a hot dog in his hand. “We’ll be here if you need us again.”

It was an odd way to say that return business was welcome, but Sanji took it for what it was meant to be. 

The next few weeks passed the same as they always did. He went to work early, stayed late, cooked for himself, read something, and visited the coffee shop by his apartment on the weekend. 

Sanji didn’t think about the diner along the highway again until a yawn cracked his jaw while he was heading home one night, stirring the memory. Then he saw the lights ahead, just off the highway. He wasn’t tired enough to need coffee, but he found himself signaling anyway.

Inside, an arguing couple occupied the booth in the corner, a woman on her phone sat in another, and a trucker had taken a seat at the counter. The same milk-glass lights glowed over the counter, and the old wall clock ticked above Nami’s register.

Sanji took another stool, smirking at the ass-level view he had of Zoro bent over behind the counter. He filled out those trousers nicely. “Didn’t know dinner came with a show.”

Zoro straightened and turned quickly, surprise crossing his face. “You’re back.”

“I am.”

Luffy sat at the curved end of the counter again with a mountain of food in front of him. Nami leaned behind the register. Usopp stood behind the pass-through.

“People don’t come back,” Zoro said.

Sanji arched a brow at him. “The food wasn’t that horrible.”

“Thanks,” Usopp piped up, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

Zoro glanced at Nami, who shrugged. “What d’you want, then?”

“Coffee,” Sanji said. “And I’ll take an order of scrambled eggs and sausage with white toast. See if your chef took my advice about the oil.”

“Prepare to have your taste buds knocked off,” Usopp declared.

“That a boast or a threat?” Zoro asked.

“My money’s on threat,” Nami said.

“You guys are the worst,” Usopp grumbled, and got cooking.

Zoro set a cup of coffee in front of Sanji. “So what really brings you back?”

“Was on my way home, remembered this place, and saw the lights ahead,” Sanji said, adding sugar to his coffee. “Thought I’d stop.”

“That’s a good reason,” Luffy said around a mouthful. “What’s your name?”

“Sanji.”

“I’m Luffy,” Luffy said. “That’s Zoro, Nami, and Usopp.”

Sanji had gathered their names from conversation last time, but he appreciated the introduction. “I know everyone’s positions, but what is it that you do for the diner?”

“Eat,” Zoro, Nami, and Usopp said simultaneously.

“Shishishi.” Luffy laughed. “I’m the captain.”

Sanji surmised that meant manager or owner. Judging by the amount of food he was putting away, Sanji went with the latter. “I’ve run a dining establishment before, and it does feel like you’re the captain.”

“You have a restaurant?” Usopp asked from behind the pass-through. “No wonder you know how to cook.”

“Ah, no.” Sanji tried to keep the pain from showing. “Not anymore.”

Luffy studied Sanji as he ate another forkful of food. “But you want to.”

“I work in an office,” Sanji said shortly, cutting the conversation off before it dug any deeper.

Luffy continued to look at him.

The woman who’d been on her phone got up when headlights flashed across the diner windows. The truck driver pushed his empty cup forward on the counter, and Zoro gave him a refill.

“Zoro,” Usopp called, setting a plate on the pass-through.

Zoro picked up the plate and set it in front of Sanji. “Can’t believe you’re giving this a second try.”

“I like my punishment with a side of toast,” Sanji quipped, trying to get things back to normal.

Zoro’s lips quirked, and he moved off to bus a table.

Sanji looked at his meal. Already, it was an improvement. The eggs weren’t swimming in grease. He tried a bite without seasoning.

“Not half bad,” he told Usopp. “If you want fluffier eggs, add a splash of water or heavy cream. A touch of cornstarch or pancake batter works, too, if you have either prepped.”

Usopp preened. “Hear that? Not half bad!”

“Still makes it half terrible,” Nami said pointedly.

Sanji ate while Nami and Usopp bickered. The sausage was undercooked and the toast still burned, but those were timing problems. Nothing practice couldn’t fix.

Zoro leaned in behind Sanji as he passed, carrying a bin of dirty dishes. “You made his day, cook.”

Sanji glanced at Zoro’s back as he disappeared into the kitchen. 

He wouldn’t admit that the moniker might have made his night.

The next time Sanji stopped at the diner, it was on purpose, and he’d come prepared with a list of tips for Usopp. It took him a little longer to reach the diner’s exit than he remembered. For a while, he thought he’d passed it. Then the lights appeared ahead. He took the exit, and the diner’s faded painted sign came into view as he turned onto the frontage road. 

There were no truckers tonight. The only other patron in the diner was a man in the back booth talking to himself. Sanji couldn’t see an earpiece or a phone, but he didn’t pay it much mind.

Zoro looked up from the magazine he was reading when Sanji walked in, surprise etched across his face. “You’re back again.”

“You’ve grown on me, like that moss on your head,” Sanji said, taking a seat at the counter.

Zoro gave him a flat look. “Funny.”

“I thought so.”

The man in the corner shouted suddenly before lowering his voice again.

Zoro glanced his way, then back at Sanji. “Don’t mind him. He’s not doing anything other than talking.”

“I’m not concerned,” Sanji said. “I always figure someone’s talking to a ghost.”

Zoro stared at him, as if startled by the words. Then a wide grin crossed his face, revealing a dimple. “You’re all right, cook.”

Sanji ignored the low swoop of attraction that smile gave him.

“Coffee?” Zoro asked, already reaching for a cup.

Sanji nodded.

Zoro turned over a cup and poured from the urn. Nami stood in her usual spot behind the register, engrossed in a book. Usopp had his long nose buried in one as well, visible through the pass-through. Even Luffy was reading something.

“Did I interrupt book club?” Sanji asked.

Zoro’s brow furrowed, and Sanji tapped the magazine in front of him.

“Oh.” Zoro looked down at it. “Someone left a bag of books and magazines. Doesn’t happen that often.”

“So you helped yourselves?” Sanji asked, giving him a disapproving look.

Zoro shrugged. “People don’t usually come back. Except for you.”

“Well, I didn’t come empty-handed, if Usopp can tear himself away from his book.” Sanji pulled a handwritten list from the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I wrote down some things he can try to improve his cooking.”

Zoro glanced at the list, looking both pleased and dismayed. “You know he’s going to get insufferable because of this.”

“You could always use it yourself,” Sanji said, his lips twitching.

“Hell, no. I’m lucky I survived as long as I did before–” Zoro stopped for a beat. “Anyway, I’m shit at cooking. I can make rice and fry up a fish. That’s about it.”

It was on the tip of Sanji’s tongue to offer to cook him dinner. He bit it back. He didn’t date, and if he wanted to keep coming to this diner, he couldn’t casually hit on the staff.

“You gonna eat something?” Zoro asked. He tapped the list. “Test Usopp’s skills?”

Sanji glanced through the pass-through at Usopp, who was still engrossed in his book. “Think I might just have a piece of pie.”

Zoro nodded and retrieved a plate. He lifted the glass dome from a raised metal pie stand behind the counter and cut a slice. Cherry juice oozed from the sides beneath a firm crust. He set it in front of Sanji along with a fork. “Usopp’s better at pies, or so I’ve been told.”

“You haven’t tried them?” Sanji picked up the fork and cut into the pie.

Zoro shook his head. “Not big on sweet things.”

Sanji took a bite, and his lips puckered. “It’s not exactly sweet.”

Zoro threw his head back and laughed.

The deep, gravelly sound carried through the diner, and Sanji found himself smiling. The others glanced over. Nami and Usopp exchanged a look before returning to their reading. Luffy beamed at them but said nothing.

“Got a pen?” Sanji asked Zoro.

Zoro searched around and eventually found a pencil.

Sanji unfolded his list and added another line. Cherry pie – check sugar amount. Should be one cup if you’re using tart cherries.

Pudding had been the baker, but Sanji couldn’t spend that many years in a kitchen without learning. The bitter pang that came whenever he thought about her had lessened with time, but it hadn’t disappeared completely.

He held the list out to Zoro, pushing those feelings aside. “Give this to Usopp.”

Zoro took it and looked over the page. “You gonna come back and see if he improved?”

There was something in Zoro’s tone that Sanji couldn’t decipher. His answer was the same either way. “Definitely.”

Sanji couldn’t get back to the diner for a couple of weeks.

Germa was in the middle of a hostile takeover, and it was all hands on deck. He mainlined Red Bull and alternated it with Monster until the deal was done. Then he crashed from the caffeine and spent the next few days recovering.

The diner was strangely difficult to find again.

Sanji had been thinking about other things while he drove until he realized he should have reached it already.

Thankfully, he hadn’t passed it.

The lights appeared near the next exit, a welcome glow along the dark highway. He pulled into the lot beside several trucks and a beat-up pickup.

The truckers sat at the counter with two empty seats between each man. A nervous-looking family of seven crowded into a corner booth, all of them looking ragged around the edges.

Luffy occupied his usual spot with plates of food in front of him. Nami stood behind the register, flipping through a magazine. Usopp was cooking behind the line.

Zoro looked over when Sanji came in, and a broad smile creased his face in a way that caught Sanji’s breath. “You came back.”

“Said I would.” Sanji took a seat at the counter closer to Luffy’s end, passing the old brass register and the glass pie case. “Need to find out if my help helped.”

Usopp spoke up from the kitchen. “Zoro grunted when he tried something from the list, which is high praise from him.”

“It wasn’t that good.” Zoro set a menu on the counter in front of Sanji. “It was just less terrible than normal. Coffee?”

The last question was directed at Sanji, who nodded.

Zoro filled a cup with coffee and set it on the counter. “Know what you want?”

Sanji added sugar and took a sip as he glanced over the menu. “I’ll try the three-meat breakfast platter with pancakes and eggs over easy.”

If he was really going to test Usopp, he might as well order enough variety to see whether the advice had made any difference.

“Usopp?” Zoro called over his shoulder.

“Got it.”

Usopp set another plate on the pass-through. “Here’s one for the family.”

Zoro picked it up and headed toward the booth.

The family fell silent as he approached, their unease obvious. But despite Zoro’s size and scars, he treated them gently. “Here you go,” he said as he set down the plate. “If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

It was an unusual turn of phrase for waitstaff. Sanji found he liked it better than the standard let me know if you need anything else.

The door opened, and another trucker came in, grabbing a seat at the counter. Zoro returned behind the counter, automatically filling a cup of coffee and setting it in front of the man, along with a menu. 

Sanji glanced back at the family. The plate was too small to feed seven adequately, two of them appearing to be young teenage boys. 

Sanji had always been a cook at heart. From a young age, he’d seek refuge in the kitchen from his bullying brothers, cooking for his sick mother. Even though those meals were much worse than Usopp’s, she’d always eaten them with a smile, telling him how delicious they were and how proud she was of him for trying. The first part was a lie. The second he held close to his heart. 

After she’d died, his interest in cooking waned, partly because she wasn’t there to eat his meals and partly because his father thought it was servant’s work. When he was fourteen, bloody and bruised from his brothers, he’d taken off on his bike intending to run away forever. He didn’t remember why he’d ended up in the alley behind the Baratie, only that he had, and Zeff had found him out there, taken him in, patched him up, and fed him the most delicious meal he’d ever had.

It made him want to cook again, and he asked if he could have the recipe. Zeff had given him a long look, then told him to come back after school and he’d teach Sanji. Sanji went back the next day, and the next, and the next, until he turned old enough for Zeff to hire him. 

His father hadn’t cared at the time, only that Sanji didn’t do anything to embarrass him. Sanji had planned to work at the Baratie indefinitely. Judge made him go to college, majoring in business, but that worked for Sanji to learn the management side of restaurant work. Then Judge threw a wrench into everything, yanking him out of school, forcing him into marriage with a threat over the Baratie, but sweetening it with the fact that he could open his own restaurant. With Pudding being a baker and chocolatier, it ended up working out – until it hadn’t. 

One thing Zeff had taught him was that no one should go hungry. He’d feed anyone who came into the alley, looking through the trash, or knocked on the door. He had homeless regulars, a few streetwalkers, and a handful of kids looking for a safe place for a few hours, though they never stayed like Sanji. 

“Zoro,” Usopp called, setting a plate on the pass. 

Zoro picked it up and put it in front of Sanji. “Bone Aper-teet.”

Sanji shook his head at the French butchering, cut into the sausage, and took a bite. It was cooked well, just a little overdone, but a vast improvement. But he had an ulterior motive for his response. 

“Damn it,” he said, loud enough to carry. “I lost the bet. This is actually good.” 

Zoro’s brow furrowed with confusion, until Sanji looked down the line at the truckers. “Order up. Everyone’s meal’s on me.” 

He leaned back to address the family. “All of you, too. Order whatever you want. My last case netted me a hefty bonus.”

The teenagers immediately scrambled for the menus left on the table, though the older family members were more hesitant. A brief, intense conversation was had between a matron and one of the men, and then a nod of thanks was sent Sanji’s way as they picked up a menu, too.

Sanji turned back to his meal, and caught Zoro’s eye. Zoro’s lips were curved softly, gentling his whole face, doing bad things to Sanji. He didn’t say anything, just moved over to the truckers to take their additional orders.

Usopp pointed his spatula at Sanji over the pass and mouthed, “You rock.” Down the counter, Luffy beamed at him. Nami rubbed her fingers together, looking at Sanji with a smirk, but he could see the approval evident in her eyes. 

Sanji felt his face heat, and he turned his focus to the food in front of him. He had a cook-in-training to rate.

Sanji felt relieved when he saw the diner’s exit come up quickly on a trip home several weeks later. Despite being in their late thirties, his brothers had a way of making Sanji feel like he was still a kid. They also punched harder, but only in places no one would notice, and called it “friendly camaraderie.” He just bit his tongue, didn’t complain, and left work moving more carefully. He knew what side his bread was buttered on.

He pulled into the diner lot, which was surprisingly empty. The night sky was overcast, blocking the stars and making the air feel damp and chilly. The warm lights spilling through the diner window drew him in. He wanted to be somewhere with friendly faces who seemed to actually like seeing him. He could count the number of friends he had with no fingers since he went to prison.

Nami came from the hallway that led to the restrooms as Sanji entered. Her eyes narrowed slightly when she saw him cross to the counter. She turned her head and called over her shoulder. “Sanji’s here.”

Luffy’s whoop sounded muffled, and Sanji heard the rapid slap of footsteps on the floor. A second later, Luffy appeared from the hallway, followed by Usopp and Zoro. “Sanji! You’re back.”

“Yeah.” Sanji took a seat carefully, trying not to reveal his bruised ribs. “Could use a cup of coffee and a bite.”

Nami tugged Zoro aside, as Usopp made his way behind the counter. He smiled widely at Sanji. “I’ve been practicing. Soon, you’ll call me the greatest cook who ever lived. The title will join my many accolades – greatest artist, greatest florist, greatest tailor, greatest greatest.” 

This was the first time Sanji had seen Usopp without a wall between them. Usopp wore bell-bottomed overalls and a colorful striped shirt. His black hair fell past his shoulders in a mass of loose curls. His nose seemed longer close up, but his brown eyes held a friendly warmth that Sanji soaked in. 

“Greatest greatest, huh?” Sanji said. 

“Yep. Earned that title by single-handedly saving a small town from a crooked land baron and his hired guns.” Usopp pulled a bright yellow bandana from his pocket and began tying back his hair. “Had me surrounded on all sides, too. Twenty men. Maybe thirty. Bullets everywhere. I took out six before breakfast, stole one of their horses, rode straight through town while it was on fire, then faced the land baron himself at high noon.”

He tightened the knot behind his head. “Beat him in a duel, naturally. One shot. Right through the gun in his hand. Didn’t even scratch him.”

“Wow! Usopp, you’re so cool!” Luffy exclaimed, claiming his stool around the curved end of the counter. 

It sounded like a plot to an episode of TV, but Sanji didn’t point it out. “Yes. Very cool.”

Usopp’s grin was infectious. “That’s why I’m the greatest greatest.”

He put a menu on the counter in front of Sanji, then pushed through the swinging kitchen door. “Just call out what you want me to make.”

Nami and Zoro finished whatever conversation they were having, and Zoro ambled over as Nami took up her spot behind the register. He picked up a cup and poured coffee into it from the urn. “You good, cook?”

“Not a cook,” Sanji said shortly, his bruises reminding him vividly of that.

Zoro set the cup in front of Sanji, leaned down, and rested his forearms against the counter, bringing him closer to Sanji. His features looked more brutish close up, but caring came across clearly. “Not what I asked.”

Sanji’s movements were jerky with self-defense as he reached for the sugar, but the stretch caused his ribs to shift and he had to swallow a hiss. He closed his eyes a second, breathing slowly, then met Zoro’s concerned gaze. “Nothing some aspirin and an ice pack won’t fix.”

Zoro nodded and straightened. “We got both.”

Sanji noticed Nami biting her lower lip as Zoro walked past her, heading toward the hallway. He gave Nami a reassuring half-smile. “Don’t worry, my sweet. Just used a chair when I should’ve used a ladder.”

“Uh-huh,” Nami said, and her expression grew slightly darker. “Walk into any doors, too?”

She knew. Not the details, but she understood this wasn’t some normal mishap simply by observing him come in. He didn’t want to think why she might know that. 

“I’m okay. Really,” he lied reassuringly. He knew she wouldn’t believe it, but he wasn’t about to explain his family history to a diner cashier, even if he saw her regularly. 

She hmph’d but didn’t press. 

Sanji looked down at the menu, breaking eye contact. Luffy was calling out his order to Usopp that seemed to consist of every meal possible. Sanji decided to go with a loaded cheeseburger and fries, test Usopp’s ability to not make ultra-rare or hockey-puck patties. 

He waited for Luffy to finish, and his lips twitched at Usopp’s put-upon expression. He noticed Usopp didn’t jump to start cooking. Finally, Luffy wound down, and Usopp shifted his gaze to Sanji with a face that read save me. “We need a real cook. Sure you’re not interested?”

Sanji shook his head. “The job I have is fine.”

The job he had sucked, and his brothers sucked, but it was stable, paid well enough, and didn’t require him to reveal his status as an ex-con.

Zoro came back after Sanji gave his order to Usopp, carrying a bottle in one hand and an ice bag in the other. It was one of those old-fashioned kinds that had a screw top that got filled with ice. Sanji figured there must be some sort of employee lounge behind the restrooms.

“Took you long enough,” Nami said as Zoro passed her.

“Bathroom moved,” Zoro grumbled, which earned him a snort. 

Zoro set the ice pack and small bottle on the counter in front of Sanji. “Here.”

Sanji picked up the bottle and turned it in his fingers. Bayer Aspirin, the label said, printed in faded red and black on yellowed paper. The bottle itself was brown glass with a white metal screw cap, the sort of packaging he associated with antique medicine cabinets rather than anything currently sold at a drugstore. He gave it another look, then unscrewed the cap, tapped two into his hand, and closed the lid again. “Thanks.”

He washed the pills down with coffee, then picked up the ice pack and rested it against his ribs, beneath his suit coat. The cold felt immediately like a balm. 

Zoro leaned back against the service counter, arms crossed, a frown creasing his brow. “This happen often?”

“No.” Sanji shifted and tried not to wince. “And it’s nothing to concern yourselves with.”

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t be concerned about, cook.”

He was about to repeat himself again – that he wasn’t a cook – but suddenly didn’t have the energy. “Whatever.”

The door to the diner burst open and a woman who appeared to be quite pregnant rushed inside, looking around frantically. Nami, Zoro, and Luffy all pointed toward the restrooms with a chorus of, “That way.” 

The woman nodded and hurried toward the hall. Sanji was bemused. “That happen often?”

“Yeah.” Luffy spoke up, spinning slowly on his stool. “We get a bunch of bathroom emergencies and sleepy people and truckers needing a break.”

Sanji remembered being tired the first time he’d stopped. “You’re open all night?”

“We’re open when we need to be,” Luffy replied.

Sanji took that as a yes. He hadn’t seen hours posted in the window, so it must be a twenty-four-hour diner. He wondered if the day shift was as colorful as this. 

Usopp set a plate on the pass. “Sanji’s order.”

“What about my order?” Luffy said. 

“Actual customers first,” Usopp said, but began moving around the kitchen to start Luffy’s multiple meals.

Zoro picked up the plate and set it in front of Sanji. His expression still held a frown. “If you need anything, we’re here for you,” he said seriously.

Sanji’s chest warmed before he remembered it was just a service saying. 

He wished it were more.

The next time Sanji stopped by the diner was on impulse. He’d been driving home early for once – it was still relatively light out – and was thinking about what to make for dinner. His mind had drifted to Usopp’s burger and fries – overdone, but still decent – and he suddenly decided he wanted to stop. He hadn’t been paying attention and wondered if he’d already passed it when he saw the restaurant coming up. 

With a smile, he pulled off the highway and into the gravel lot. He parked next to two cars near the entrance. A semi-truck sat further back in the lot. Pocketing his keys, he entered the diner to be greeted by the fragrant scent of bacon and onions. 

Nami spotted him first, giving him a cheeky grin. “I’ve been missing your money.”

“My apologies, my beauty, for being so callous as to not keep your coffers filled.”

Nami snorted. “Keep your flattery and order something expensive.”

The trucker sat at the counter, and Sanji took a seat further down. Luffy waved at him with a fried chicken leg. 

“Hey, Sanji,” Usopp greeted from beyond the pass. “Just reach over and grab a menu. You can go behind and grab a coffee, too.”

Sanji’s smile grew at the casual offer that he make himself at home in the diner. He’d become a regular. “Zoro out today?”

He glanced around the diner. There was a lone man with a laptop and an intense stare at nothing, who suddenly started typing fast and then stopped to stare off again. Another booth held a couple who could barely keep their hands off each other, making out hot and heavy. 

“He’s in the apartment, helping someone who needed a place to stay get settled,” Luffy said between bites. 

“There’s an apartment?” Sanji asked, leaning over the counter and spotting the menu within reach. He snagged one and sat back down. 

Luffy nodded. “In back. It’s where we live when no one needs us.”

Sanji thought the statement was odd. “We who?”

“Me, Usopp, Nami, and Zoro.” Luffy tore into the chicken leg again.

“You all live here?” Sanji said incredulously. 

Luffy nodded again.

“And now you’re having an overnight guest?” 

“Yeah. Sometimes the people who come here need more than a meal,” Luffy said.

Sanji liked the sentiment. It reminded him of Zeff feeding anyone who came to his door. Still, the fact that the four employees lived in an apartment behind the diner was baffling. 

“Here, Nami,” Usopp called, setting a full plate on the pass.

Nami came over, picked it up along with a set of wrapped silverware, and headed for the hall that led to the back. The meal was likely intended for the guest.

The couple giggled as they left their booth and made their way with naughty looks toward the restrooms. The loner stared into space intently again. The trucker near Sanji picked up his coffee cup, glanced down at it, and set it aside.

Sanji stood and walked past Luffy around the counter. He picked up the trucker’s empty cup and filled it from the urn. “Need anything else?” he asked the man.

The trucker looked grateful. “Wouldn’t mind a piece of that pie,” he said, picking up his refilled cup.

“Got it.” Sanji found the plates and the serving knife, slid open the glass dome, and sliced into the half-gone pie. Cherry again. He bet it tasted much better. 

“Here you go.” He set the plate down and then went to see if the loner needed anything.

Luffy beamed at Sanji as he passed. Sanji warmed deep in his chest. 

When Sanji got out of his quarterly in-person probation appointment, all he wanted to do was go to the diner. 

Simply because he’d gotten out of prison didn’t mean he was a free man. His sentence included five years of supervised release afterward, and he still had two years to go. The monthly online check-ins were simple – check a few boxes, attest that nothing had changed – but the meetings with his probation officer reminded Sanji that he was seen as a criminal, whether he’d done the crime or not.

His appointment had been in the morning, and he’d called off work for the day. The appointments always left him depressed and not in the mood to put up with his brothers’ antics if they decided to bother him. And they would definitely do so if they knew where he’d gone.

The federal probation office was downtown, and today Sanji was grateful that he had to pass the diner on his way home. He saw the exit what felt like immediately, but he’d probably been speeding to get there quicker. He pulled into the lot around ten. A trucker was coming out of the diner for one of the two semis in the lot. 

Sanji walked through the diner door and felt the tension ease from his shoulders. He didn’t expect to see his somewhat-friends since it was day shift, but he’d still wanted the welcoming atmosphere of the diner.

Therefore, he was very surprised to see Nami at the register, Usopp behind the pass, Luffy at the counter, and Zoro bussing an empty table.

“Sanji!” Luffy bounced off the stool and threw himself into a hug with Sanji. “You’re back!”

The enthusiastic greeting – and the hug – caused a sting to Sanji’s eyes that he quickly blinked away. He patted Luffy’s back. “Thought I’d stop by in the daylight, see if this place looked any better.”

“It doesn’t,” Zoro commented dryly, as he passed with the bin.

Luffy released Sanji and waved his arms in the air. “Usopp! This calls for meat!”

Usopp sighed. “To you, just breathing calls for meat.”

“Shishishi.”

Sanji slid onto a stool at the counter. The trucker down the line was tucked into his meal. By the lack of face-making, it was at least decent. “I’d take a short stack and a very large coffee.”

“Coming right up,” Usopp said, and twirled his spatula, only to hit himself in the face and the spatula clattered to the floor out of sight.

“Better wash that,” Sanji said.

Zoro deposited the bus bin near the kitchen door and went to pour Sanji a coffee. “Don’t have bigger cups,” he said, as he set the coffee on the counter.

“But you have refills, so keep them coming,” Sanji said, dumping sugar into it.

“Bad morning?” Zoro’s gaze swept over Sanji from head to toe. Sanji realized he was looking for injuries. The care made his eyes sting again.

“Just… shitty,” Sanji said, blinking it away again. “Thought I’d swing by. Didn’t expect to find you all on shift.”

Zoro shrugged casually. “We’re always here when we’re needed.”

Sanji was about to question that, but then he remembered the apartment where they all lived. Maybe they were the only employees. The diner did look worn and dated. And only the trucker was here. He’d have to research how often highway diners are frequented. They could just be floating by, if not operating in the red. Sanji knew how tenuous the books could get with the cost of overhead and staff pay. There were many months Sanji thought the café would go into the red, causing him to lose sleep. Of course, a Charlotte money-laundering operation would never go under, but Sanji hadn’t known that.

It would be rude to bring it up, though, so Sanji let it drop. He settled his elbows against the counter, coffee cup cradled between his hands. “You look like you’ve been taking a delivery,” he commented, taking in the dampness at Zoro’s temples, though his white t-shirt didn’t have pit stains. 

Sanji realized that he always saw Zoro in the same-colored shirt and trousers. Luffy, too. Maybe it was some type of uniform, though Nami was in a different dress whenever he came in, and Usopp’s shirt changed beneath his overalls. 

“Hn?” Zoro looked confused for a moment. “Oh. I was working out before a few people came in. Gotta keep fit.”

Sanji stared at the way the t-shirt stretched thin across his chest and tight around his massive biceps. Attraction stirred. “Get any more fit, and you’ll bust out of that shirt.”

Zoro shot him a toothy grin. “Impressed?”

Sanji scoffed, though he felt a bit hot under the collar of his polo shirt. “Please. Everyone knows the more muscle, the less brain.”

“That would explain a lot,” Nami said. Usopp snickered. Even the trucker poorly hid his snort.

Zoro shot her a glower. Luffy spoke up, though, before he could say anything. “Zoro needs to work out so he knows his body still works.” 

Awkwardness settled over the private information being made public. A flush colored Zoro’s cheeks. “Nah, I just like looking good,” he denied. His eye shifted toward Sanji. “Never hurts to get noticed.” 

Sanji caught the implication immediately, though he was still stuck on what Luffy had inadvertently revealed. His eyes traced over the scar bisecting Zoro’s eye, the less prominent ones on his arms. He understood what it meant to carry damage, even if most of his own didn’t show. Today had been a reminder of that – sitting in a plastic office chair while a probation officer asked about his employment status and any changes in his life, clicking his mouse after every answer.

“It’s noticeable,” Sanji answered, unwilling to leave Zoro hanging, though anyone else could take the response as sarcasm.

The way the flush darkened on Zoro’s face and his sudden need to grab the dish bin and disappear into the kitchen made it very worthwhile.

Nami and Usopp exchanged looks, while Luffy spun on his stool so hard he fell off. The trucker kept right on eating.

Sanji sipped his coffee, glad he’d come in.

One thing Sanji liked about the diner was the people who worked there.

One thing he didn’t like was the sausage gravy.

Usopp had improved considerably, but apparently no amount of written instruction could teach the man how to make a roux. 

Though Sanji didn’t order it every time he stopped, he’d given Usopp enough time to get better at the recipe through feedback and additional instruction. He’d finally reached the point where he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Nope, that’s it,” he said, rising from his stool. “I’m coming in there and showing you how it’s done.”

Usopp appeared briefly surprised, then visibly, dramatically relieved. “Oh, thank the goddess.”

Zoro and Nami had been rolling silverware, and they both looked at Sanji before looking at each other. The diner was otherwise empty. The high school chess team on their way home from a tournament had tumbled out ten minutes earlier in much better spirits, their coach looking relieved as he followed them out. 

Sanji pointed at his plate as he passed Luffy. “Finish that.”

“Yes!” Luffy practically sprang at the unfinished meal. 

Sanji pushed through the swinging kitchen door, already rolling his sleeves. He paused briefly at the sight of the kitchen. 

From the counter, he’d only ever seen the griddle and part of the prep area through the pass-through. The room behind it was larger than he’d expected, though every available inch had been put to use. A broad steel griddle and six-burner range ran beneath a heavy vent hood, with a deep fryer tucked beside them. Stainless-steel worktables filled the center of the room, their surfaces nicked and scratched from years of use. Open shelves held stacks of heavy plates, mixing bowls, dented pots, and battered aluminum pans.

Against the back wall stood the hulking white refrigerator he’d glimpsed before, its rounded corners and thick chrome handle decades out of date. Beside it was a smaller freezer and a tall pantry cupboard. A double sink occupied the opposite wall beneath shelves crowded with jars, tins, and boxes whose labels looked nearly as old as the equipment.

Everything was old, but nothing looked neglected. The counters were clean, the knives were stored properly, and the floor had been scrubbed. The kitchen looked like it had simply stopped updating sometime long before Sanji was born.

Sanji went over to the sink and washed his hands before joining Usopp. “Move,” he said. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He started with the biscuits, measuring flour into a bowl and cutting cold shortening into it until the mixture held small, uneven crumbs. He added the milk a little at a time, folding the dough together instead of working it hard.

“You keep messing with it, you get bricks,” he said, dusting the counter with flour.

He turned the dough out, pressed it flat, folded it over itself twice, then cut thick rounds and set them close together in a pan. Once they were in the oven, he moved on to the gravy.

Sanji browned the sausage in a heavy skillet, breaking it apart with the edge of a wooden spoon. He left enough fat behind to work with, sprinkled flour directly over the meat, and stirred until the raw flour smell cooked away. Milk went in gradually, Sanji scraping the bottom of the pan as the gravy thickened.

Usopp hovered beside him, watching closely.

Sanji seasoned it, tasted, added more pepper, then handed Usopp the spoon. “Notice anything?”

Usopp tried it. His eyebrows went up.

“You were dumping everything in at once,” Sanji said. “That’s why you kept getting lumps. And you were cooking the flour too fast.”

The biscuits came out browned across the tops and split easily when Sanji pulled one apart. He set two halves on a plate, spooned sausage gravy over them, and pushed the finished dish toward Usopp. “There. Biscuits and gravy.”

Usopp found a fork, cut into it, and took a bite. He moaned indecently. “This is so good. I feel like I’ve died and gone to Howard Johnson’s.” 

Sanji stared at him. “Is that your former chef’s name?”

Usopp blinked at him. “No. Howard Johnson’s. The restaurant.”

Sanji had no idea where Usopp was talking about, but he took it as a compliment. “Think you can do it right next time?”

Usopp paused in shoveling more biscuits and gravy into his mouth. “I don’t know. Probably be better if you just cooked it all the time. And everything else, too.”

Sanji shot him a flat look. “I’m not becoming your cook.”

Usopp chewed and swallowed another bite. “But this is so good. Better than good. If it were any better, it might rival a happy trip.”

Sanji shook his head. “You’re only saying that because your version was crap.”

“I’m saying it because it’s good.” Usopp kept eating. “I can’t believe this is made with the same ingredients as mine.”

“That’s because you didn’t know how to make it. Now you do.” Sanji rolled back down his sleeves. “I need to get going.”

Usopp paused. “But you haven’t eaten yet.”

Sanji needed to leave before the feeling settled in his chest – the pleasure of cooking for someone other than himself again, of seeing their pleased expression when he knew he couldn’t have this. “Need to get up early,” he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie.

He pushed out of the kitchen, heading for the register to pay. “What do I owe you, sweet Nami?”

Nami looked surprised, as did Zoro, but she moved to the register. “Luffy ate all your food. I’ll charge you for the coffee.”

“How generous of you,” Sanji said, offering her a few bills. “Keep the change.”

Nami’s expression became delighted. “I will.”

Zoro rounded the corner as Sanji headed for the door. “Hey, cook–”

Sanji stopped and rounded on him. “Stop calling me that,” he snapped.

Zoro pulled up short, expression confused, but then he nodded slowly. “All right.”

Sanji pressed his lips together as emotion threatened to choke him. He gave Zoro a short nod, then hurriedly left the diner. 

It wasn’t until he got home that he let the tears flow free.

The air had a nip in it when Sanji returned to the diner. He pulled his suit coat closer to his body as he walked from the lot to the door. 

He hadn’t been back in close to a month. Being reminded how much he missed cooking for other people had left him in a bad place. 

But he’d started to miss his friends more. Or friendly acquaintances. Sanji’s pickings were nonexistent, and he liked the diner staff.

When he stepped through the door, the dimpled smile he got from Zoro across the room knocked him sideways. “You came back.”

“You say that almost every time, like it’s a novelty,” Sanji grumbled, trying to hide his reaction, though his ears felt hot.

Zoro’s lashes swept down and a flush swept upward. “Because I keep hoping you will.” He scowled at nothing in particular, then turned and headed into the kitchen. 

Oh. 

A flutter rose in Sanji’s chest, and instead of tamping it down, he just let himself feel it. Zoro liked him. How long had it been since someone had truly been interested in him? High school? They hadn’t even been on any dates, or hooked up. Zoro simply liked him.

A grin spread across Sanji’s lips as he took a seat on a stool at the counter. Nami and Usopp were both wearing smirks. Luffy was snickering softly. 

Maybe – just maybe – Sanji might do something about this.

Zoro didn’t remain hidden in the kitchen like he had during Sanji’s last visit. Instead, he was mopping the floor and so obvious in his flexing that Sanji snorted. 

“You missed a spot,” he said, like a brat.

Zoro glanced up, then down at the floor with a frown. “No, I didn’t.”

Nami shot Sanji a knowing grin, which he answered equally. “It’s to your left, a little behind you,” he said.

Zoro twisted toward his blind side, searching the floor. 

Sanji couldn’t stop the snigger, and Nami chortled outright. Zoro’s head snapped around, then he glared at Sanji. “Not funny.”

“It was from my point of view,” Sanji said, taking a seat. “Nami’s, too.”

The diner had a smattering of customers. Four truckers, and a man who looked down on his luck dozing in one of the booths. Luffy was in his usual corner, eating up a storm. Usopp worked the pass. He spotted an honest-to-goodness newspaper folded on the service counter. He didn’t know they made those anymore.

Zoro went back to his mopping with less flexing and more irritation. Sanji turned his attention to Usopp. “Country-fried steak and eggs, over easy. I’m grading your gravy on a strict scale.” 

Usopp gulped visibly and hurried to get started.

Nami filled him a cup of coffee, and Sanji motioned at the newspaper with his chin. “Is that a real paper?”

“Yeah. A trucker left it earlier. Can’t wait to read it.”

She said it without sarcasm, which made Sanji pause. “I didn’t think anyone still read them, instead of getting their news online.”

Nami shrugged. “I’ll read anything I can get my hands on.”

Sanji supposed he could understand what she meant, though he usually doomscrolled rather than read. 

She left to attend to the register, and Zoro mopped past behind him. Sanji turned on his stool to watch the way he filled out those black work trousers he always wore. “You need a pair of jeans.” 

Zoro glanced back with a furrow of his brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sanji said with a small smirk.

Zoro stared at him a moment longer, then returned to mopping.

After a long, hard look at himself, Sanji had decided to take a chance. He could keep it casual, see if the spark held. If it didn’t, at least he’d tried. He didn’t need to mention his past. And he’d convinced himself he could keep coming to the diner even if it didn’t work out, because it was casual. 

Zoro finished mopping as Usopp called, “Zoro, Sanji’s order.”

He set the mop and the bucket in the corner by the kitchen, then rounded the counter to take the plate off the pass. He set it in front of Sanji along with silverware. 

Sanji picked up the fork and knife, and cut into the fried steak. “You want to grab coffee sometime?” he asked Zoro casually. Because this was casual. 

Zoro glanced down at Sanji’s cup. “It’s still mostly full.”

Sanji paused and stared at Zoro. “Was that a joke?”

“No.” Zoro’s brow furrowed. “Why would wanting a refill be a joke?”

Nami shook her head with a sigh and Usopp groaned audibly. Even the truckers along the counter raised their heads to stare at Zoro. 

A laugh bubbled up in Sanji. “I was asking if you wanted to have coffee with me, not for a refill.”

Zoro just looked at him for a moment. “Uh, sure. I guess.”

Then he turned, picked up a clean cup, and filled it with coffee from the urn. 

One of the truckers snorted hard, and Nami buried her face in her hands. Usopp made a sound like a dying balloon and disappeared from sight. 

Zoro turned back to Sanji and lifted his cup like a toast, then took a sip. 

Sanji bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. 

“Ne, Zoro,” Luffy spoke up. “You should bring Sanji back to the apartment to have coffee.”

Zoro frowned at Luffy, then glanced at Sanji. 

Sanji saw the moment he realized what was actually going on. Zoro’s eye widened, and then he reddened up to his hairline and down to the collar of his shirt. He rubbed the back of his neck, and coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup in his other hand. “You meant a date.”

“Yeah.”

Zoro cleared his throat, pink-faced, voice small. “Okay.” 

Sanji had to look down at his food to center himself before he could speak again. “I still need to eviscerate Usopp.”

He heard a plaintive whimper from the kitchen.

Zoro nodded. “Yeah. Do that. I need to go clean something.” 

Still bright red, he strode swiftly past Nami, coffee cup splashing everywhere, and disappeared down the hall toward the back.

Casual flew out the window.

One of the older truckers whistled once he was gone. “Didn’t think a boy like that could blush so hard.”

This opened the floodgates to turn the four truckers into a group of gossiping biddies. Sanji ate his meal, pretending he didn’t hear it. His heart was too busy doing funny things in his chest to pay attention anyway.

Luffy was the one to take him back to the apartment, after Sanji only somewhat threatened Usopp with cook-a-cide if he didn’t improve more on the gravy. By then, the truckers had paid and left, and the man in the booth was fully snoring. No one else had come into the diner.

Past the restrooms at the end of the hall was a closed door marked Private. Luffy opened it and stepped through. “Zoro, I brought Sanji,” he called.

Sanji followed him into a narrow apartment that looked every bit as old as the diner. A small living room opened directly off the hall, furnished with a worn sofa, two mismatched armchairs, and a low wooden table scarred by years of use. A braided rug covered part of the hardwood floor. Against one wall sat a wooden record player cabinet, its lid propped open beside a short stack of albums. He didn’t see a television set.

An archway led into a compact kitchen with cream-painted cabinets, a porcelain sink, and another refrigerator with the same rounded corners as the one in the diner. A dish towel hung neatly from the oven handle. The room smelled faintly of cleanser. 

Beyond the living room, a short hallway disappeared deeper into the apartment. Sanji could see three closed bedroom doors and another standing partly open at the end, revealing old white tile and the edge of a bathtub. The place had clearly been built for a family rather than restaurant employees, though the personal belongings accumulated throughout kept it from feeling preserved for display. Shoes had been kicked beneath a chair. A bright jacket hung from a hook near the hall. Books and records occupied shelves that looked much older than either. 

“Zoro!” Luffy called again.

One of the bedroom doors opened. Zoro came out, hair damp, but still dressed in the familiar white tee and black work trousers. The blush came back – or it had never left. He stopped in front of Sanji. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Sanji echoed. 

Luffy grinned at them both. “Have fun having coffee!”

Then he left the apartment for the diner, shutting the door behind him. 

Zoro jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll make the coffee.” 

Sanji followed him and took a seat at the small kitchen table, a square wooden thing pushed beneath the window with four mismatched chairs around it. The varnish had worn pale along the edges, and faint rings from old cups marked the surface. A ceramic sugar bowl sat in the center beside a chipped salt shaker.

Sanji watched as Zoro filled a small saucepan with water and set it on the stove. When it began to steam, he reached into a cupboard, pulled out a squat glass jar, and spooned brown granules into two mugs.

Sanji stared. Instant coffee. Real instant coffee. He had been in prison for a decade, but even he knew that instant coffee was only drunk by the desperate or really old. The diner must be in worse financial shape than he thought, or the pay wasn't enough for a coffee maker. Neither sat well with him.

Zoro poured the hot water over it and stirred each mug with the same spoon before setting one in front of Sanji. He gave Sanji a small smile. 

Sanji forgot all about the instant. He would drink rocks if Zoro put it in front of him.

Zoro sat down in the seat across from him, knee bouncing before he put a hand on it to make it stop. He frowned into his cup and blew out a breath. “I haven’t had... coffee before.” 

Sanji found that hard to believe, but at the same time, maybe not. He remembered what Luffy had said about Zoro and working out so he knew his body still worked. 

“I haven’t had coffee with someone in a long time,” Sanji told him. Not since before he’d gotten married, back in college, when his life had still seemed to be on track.

Zoro tapped a finger against the side of his mug. “Anything I should know?”

“About coffee?”

“About this.”

Sanji shrugged and leaned back in the mismatched kitchen chair. The old wood creaked beneath him. “It’s just a chance to get to know each other better. Find things in common.”

Zoro considered that, staring down at the instant coffee he’d made in the heavy mug. The saucepan clicked softly as the burner beneath it cooled. “Like what?”

“Like...” Sanji glanced around the little kitchen. The cream-painted cabinets and old stove belonged to another era, though the stack of newer magazines on the counter ruined the effect. “How long have you been working at the diner?”

Zoro hesitated. His thumb rubbed once over the handle of his mug. “So long I stopped counting.”

“You like the job, I take it?” Sanji asked, taking a sip of coffee. It was awful. He managed to swallow without shuddering.

Zoro relaxed at the question. “Yeah. Sometimes it gets boring, but being here when someone needs us is important. I don’t take that lightly.”

Maybe Sanji had been out of the food industry too long and servers had become unusually dedicated, people-first employees. Zoro’s tone was blunt but earnest. He meant what he said.

“Can I ask something?” Zoro said.

“That’s why we’re having coffee.”

“Why do you keep coming back?”

Sanji was thrown by the question. Insecurity immediately reared its ugly head. “It’s a diner. I come to eat,” he deflected.

Zoro met his gaze. “No, you don’t.”

Sanji’s shoulders tightened. “Is this your way of saying you don’t want me here?”

Zoro gave him a look that plainly said he was being stupid. “Every time the door opens, I hope it’s you.”

Sanji flushed at the words and immediately felt like an idiot. “Oh, that’s...” He cleared his throat. “I keep coming back because I think of all of you as my friends.”

“You are our friend.”

He said it so easily that Sanji felt even dumber for questioning it. Sanji took another sip of coffee to hide behind and regretted it immediately. “This coffee is horrid. Why do you drink it?”

“It’s what we have.” Zoro shrugged. “Tastes fine to me.”

“Your taste buds must be dead.” Sanji set the mug down on the scarred wooden table. “Next time we get coffee, I’ll show you what it’s supposed to taste like.”

Color appeared on Zoro’s cheeks. “You want to do this again?” 

Sanji was toast. Possibly Usopp’s. “Hopefully many times.”

A tiny smile appeared on Zoro’s lips. “Good.”

Sanji gulped down more terrible coffee to keep himself from doing something stupid. He shuddered, set the cup down again, and changed the subject. “So what do you do in your spare time besides drink bad coffee and work out?”

“Read. Listen to music or the radio. Play cards.” Zoro leaned an elbow on the table. “We used to play on this handheld thing a kid left behind, but it finally died. Too bad. It had a sword game I really liked.”

“About the same for me, though I have a guilty addiction to scrolling through streaming movies and never actually watching anything.”

Zoro looked at him blankly.

Sanji stared back for a beat. “Never mind.”

He was about to drink another sip of coffee and managed to stop himself in time. Instead, he glanced around the dated kitchen and asked the question he was worried about. “Is the diner doing okay? Financially?”

Zoro’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’d have to ask Nami. She’s the money person.”

Sanji nodded, though he probably wouldn’t bring it up to her. “Luffy said you all share this apartment.”

“Yeah.” Zoro leaned back in his chair. “Nami’s got her own room, and I got mine. Luffy and Usopp share, unless we got a guest, then I bunk with them. The old cook used to share with me before he moved on.”

“Must help to save on expenses,” Sanji commented, glancing at the old stove again. “My rent’s ridiculous, but I’m not about to get a roommate.”

“Why not?” 

Sanji cringed. This was why he’d wanted casual. No depth, no potential pain. But Zoro was looking at him with openness and all those stupid blushes made Sanji already want more. Maybe he should just rip the Band-Aid off and cause this to end before he got his heart truly broken. 

He toyed with the mug, eyes down, took a deep breath, and got it over with. “I was in prison for a decade. Takes having roommates to a whole other, unpleasant level.”

Zoro didn’t say anything right away, and Sanji was ready to walk out the door. His mouth kept moving, trying to salvage a friendship, at least. “Wasn’t for anything like murder or drugs or kid stuff. It was financial crimes, which I didn’t even do, my ex-wife did it, but I still went to prison. And now I’m stuck with a shitty job I hate, working for my family who I hate, and living a life that I hate. And this diner has been the only thing that’s made me happy in so long and I don’t want to lose it, even if you don’t want to date me, so if we could still be friends, I’d appreciate it.”

A heavy pause hung in the air as Sanji ran out of steam. He stared at the instant coffee in his mug, waiting for the verdict. 

“You done?” Zoro finally said.

Sanji nodded helplessly.

“All that why you don’t cook anymore?”

Sanji nodded again. “A financial ex-con isn’t someone restaurant owners want around their money, and there’s no way I’d get a loan to reopen my own.”

Zoro leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I won’t say your past doesn’t matter, because it does. Especially to you,” he said. “But you haven’t said anything that’d make me not want to have coffee with you.”

Sanji looked up swiftly, and saw the seriousness in Zoro’s eye. “Really?”

Zoro nodded. “Get now, too, why you needed us.”

The way Zoro said it made him sound desperate for friends. “More like you needed me before Usopp chased away all your customers.”

Zoro leaned back, a thoughtful look on his face. “Maybe that, too.” 

Sanji took a sip of coffee before he thought about it and grimaced. He set the mug on the far side of the table, out of reach. “I need to stop drinking that shit.”

Zoro chuckled. “Bring G. Washington next time, then.”

“G. Washington?” Sanji looked at him sideways. “What’s G. Washington?”

“The coffee. We used to get it all the time, but then the original owner switched to Nescafé.”

Sanji had never heard of that coffee. Probably another instant, judging by Zoro’s taste. “I’m bringing you Lavazza. Then you’re going to learn what coffee is supposed to taste like.”

“The diner uses Maxwell House.”

“That’s not helping your cause.”

Zoro’s eye twinkled. “Sometimes we switch to Chase & Sanborn, though we only have enough for half an urn.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I’m sure it’s just as bad,” Sanji said. “I’m fine with vintage décor. Vintage coffee is where I draw the line.” 

Zoro shrugged. “We got what we got.” 

Sanji shook his head in dismay. “Why do I like this diner again?”

“Because we’re here.”

The straightforward truth of the statement hit Sanji hard. He had to clear his throat. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

One coffee turned into two, then five. Sanji brought a can of Lavazza, and then had to bring a coffee maker the next time because the apartment didn’t have one. 

“Usopp bought one when he first started staying here, but it broke a while ago,” Zoro told Sanji with a shrug. 

Sanji found himself at the diner more and more, at least once, sometimes twice, per week. He’d spend longer than he should and always went to work tired the next day. But he felt like now Nami, Usopp, and Luffy were truly his friends, and Zoro something more. 

Their dates – which were one hundred percent dates, not casual coffees – always took place at the apartment. There wasn’t anything else very close to the diner, and when Sanji suggested a longer night downtown, Zoro shook his head without looking at Sanji. “Can’t really leave. Someone might come in.”

The last was tacked on like an afterthought, and Sanji had a moment of insecurity that Zoro didn’t want to be seen out with him. That his ex-con status was actually a bother. 

But then Nami, who was obviously listening, spoke up. “He looks like a bruiser, but is too shy to go anywhere.” 

Zoro glanced at Nami in relief. Nami nodded back without looking Sanji’s way, either. 

So Sanji shifted gears, taking romance to the diner rather than having it elsewhere. He cooked for Zoro in the small kitchen, bringing his own groceries when he saw what passed for food in the apartment. Some of the cans in the cupboard were brands Sanji had never heard of, their paper labels yellowed and printed in designs that belonged in an antique store. The fridge held glass bottles of milk, eggs in a cardboard carton, butter wrapped in waxed paper, and a few cuts of meat bundled in butcher paper. A handful of fresh vegetables sat in a net bag. The sparsity reminded him that the diner was likely struggling. And if he “forgot” and left additional groceries behind, no one called him on it.

Zoro was the one who kissed him first. Sudden. A peck on the cheek as he collected the dishes off the table. Then he turned tomato red. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

Sanji absolutely intended to make a thing out of it.

Now that Sanji frequented the diner more, he noticed who came through the door – truckers fighting sleep, refugees carrying everything they owned, people who sat hunched or jumped at sudden noises. Homeless people, some too young, some possibly high. Families with dead phones, empty gas tanks, or cars cooling somewhere along the highway. People who needed somewhere warm, somewhere safe, and a plate put in front of them. 

But it wasn’t always that serious. Sometimes it was couples with wandering hands or couples looking for somewhere private enough to stop fighting. Writers arrived with ideas they suddenly needed to get down. Pregnant women hurried in for the bathroom or sat at the counter to sate whatever craving had dragged them off the highway. Sometimes people simply looked tired or lonely and left an hour later in a better mood. 

It lit a yearning in Sanji that ached deep. This diner was Zeff’s back door. Zoro with his strong reassurance, Usopp passing out meals. Luffy’s bright welcome, Nami’s keen eye for someone with a different kind of need. They’d opened their apartment twice to strangers, giving them a bed, a shower, and kindness that Sanji didn’t think existed anymore.

He wanted to be part of this, somehow. More than a friend who came for a meal and good company. 

It had been building in him for weeks, ever since he realized what they were really doing. He thought maybe, financially, he could help, dump what meager savings he’d accumulated over the past three years into the diner. Keep it afloat. 

Then he bit into a piece of burnt toast and knew how he could help best. 

He eyed Usopp beyond the pass, always trying, willing to learn. But he wasn’t a cook at heart.

Sanji was.

“You burned the toast again,” he said with the best glare he could muster. Then he shoved to his feet, gave Luffy the rest of his meal, and stalked through the kitchen door. “Out of the way, you poor excuse for a cook. I’m taking over.”

Usopp’s eyes widened, then he realized what was being offered and hurried to shove the spatula at Sanji. “Yes, do! I’m not worthy of this spatula.”

“Don’t think you’re escaping,” Sanji said, ignoring the spatula to hang up his suit coat, tie on an apron, and roll his sleeves. “I need a prep cook and you’re it.”

“I don’t know what that is, but I am humbly your servant if it means I don’t have to pretend I know what I’m doing anymore.”

Sanji washed his hands. “Start by dicing onions. The truckers tend to lean toward burgers or scrambles.”

“Right! On it!”

Sanji stayed for four hours, cooking for whomever came in. By the time he got home, he practically had to turn around and head to work again. 

But Zoro had given him a look through the pass full of soft pride, and Luffy’s bright, beaming smile at him before he left made the lack of sleep worth it. 

“You can stay here, you know,” Luffy said one Wednesday night. “Zoro can share.”

“I can what?” Zoro looked up from the crossword he was doing in a puzzle book someone had left. Sanji had been watching him all night from behind the pass, the way his brow scrunched as he thought, the bite of his tongue as he carefully printed, the way he leaned against the counter giving Sanji a great view from behind. 

“Sanji goes home every night, even when he’s here all day,” Luffy said, referring to the weekends. “He could just stay.”

“I don’t mind if Sanji stays,” Usopp commented, grating a block of cheese.

“I’m good with it,” Nami said, counting and recounting the cash in the register. “Especially if he sleeps with Zoro.”

“What?!” 

There was a family at one of the tables near the restrooms, and the dad kept getting up to dart down the hall. The two young kids were content with their tablets, and Zoro’d promised to keep an eye on them as needed.

Sanji’s chest tightened with the offer, but reality reared its ugly head. Even though Zoro’s blush looked hot enough to light something on fire and made him want to say yes just to see what would happen. “Can’t. I’m on probation.”

He’d already had to let his probation officer know that he was volunteering evenings and weekends. Nami had given him an old piece of mail lying behind the register with the diner’s address on it, the postmark dated from 1942. Sanji hadn’t noticed it until his probation officer verified the address hadn’t changed since then. 

Sanji had told the others that he was an ex-con, wanting to verify that it was okay with Luffy if he volunteered his time cooking. Luffy had just stared at him blankly and said, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Usopp’s response had been to wax poetic over all the times he got arrested protesting the war, and his tall tales grew more elaborate, involving drugs and a lot of wild hippie bullshit that made Sanji think he’d seen too many Woodstock documentaries.

Nami simply smirked and said, “I didn’t get caught.”

But the ugly reality of what being an ex-con meant had reared its head again. At the blank look Luffy was giving him, Sanji explained. “I can only have one residence. If I start sleeping here, I have to tell my probation officer. They keep tabs on where I live and work until my supervised release is over.” 

“So just tell the probing guy you’re going to stay here,” Luffy said. “Then Zoro can win your clothes in poker since he’s obsessed with them.”

“Luffy!”

“Shishishi.”

Zoro’s face flamed. He pointed at Luffy. “Keep talking and I’m taking your food.” 

Then he stalked over to check on the kids. 

Sanji glanced at Usopp, who winked. “Zoro may have said he likes your suits more than once.”

“You play strip poker?” Sanji said with a blink.

“It’s not as sexy as you think,” Usopp said. “Luffy takes off his clothes before we start, Zoro can’t get more than his socks off before he quits, and Nami never loses. I’m smart enough to wear every single piece of clothing I own before we play and Nami calls it before I’m halfway through.”

Sanji couldn’t help but chuckle. “Should’ve figured.”

“But Luffy’s right. Just tell the probation officer you might stay here,” Usopp said. “Zoro’s room actually has twin beds, and we have double bunks. Nami’s the only one with a queen mattress.”

“That’s a lot of beds for four people.”

Usopp nodded. “I thought so, too. But I was told the original owner who built the apartment had four daughters and two sons. He left all the furniture behind.”

It explained why a majority of the apartment looked like it hadn’t gotten past the 1940s. And the diner probably couldn’t afford upgrades, but if it still worked, why replace it with something new?

“It helps when we have guests who need a place to stay.” Usopp gave Sanji a pointed look. “Or a cook.”

“Let me think about it,” Sanji said, and glanced through the pass when the diner door opened. “We’ve got customers.”

Contrary to what he’d said to Usopp, Sanji hadn’t thought about it. He was an expert at repressing. He drove to Germa, worked all day, drove to the diner once or twice during the week, then went home. On weekends, he stayed later but still went home. It was fine. He bought more Monsters and lived with it.

The weeks continued with his routine. Sanji started keeping an apron and spare shirt in his car, learned which nights tended to get busy, and stayed later whenever the diner filled up. He drove home exhausted each time, slept too little, then did it again a few days later. The offer of a bed remained tucked somewhere in the back of his mind, carefully untouched. 

His quarterly probation meeting came two months later. He called off work and drove to his appointment downtown. The weather was a miserable gray and rain pattered on his umbrella. He signed in, waited to be called, and eventually sat in the hated plastic seat across the desk from his probation officer. 

“Still employed with Germa?”

“Yes.”

“Same position?”

“Unfortunately.”

The officer clicked his mouse. “Any change in hours or responsibilities?”

“No.”

Another click. “Any arrests, citations, or contact with law enforcement since we last met?”

“No.”

“Any contact with anyone you know to be involved in criminal activity?”

“No.”

“Any significant changes in your finances?”

“No.”

“Still volunteering at the diner?”

“Yes. Evenings and weekends.”

The officer clicked again. “And you’re still living at the same address?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else living there now?”

“No.”

Sanji thought of his apartment, the cold, uninviting place he basically stopped at to sleep. No one would want to live there with him.

Then he thought of the apartment behind the diner. His friends. Of the downtime on the weekends when no one was in the diner, listening to old records, sprawled on the floor and sofa, chatting and laughing with them. Zoro sitting across the table from him, talking and eating and shooting him shy, longing glances when he thought Sanji wasn’t looking. 

“Any travel outside the district?” 

“Actually, I have a question,” Sanji said. “The diner where I volunteer has an apartment attached. Since I’m working there several times a week, is it okay if I stay overnight?”

The probation officer clicked several boxes on his screen. “I’ll update your file to a primary and secondary residence. Who else lives at the diner?”

“Four people. Luffy, Zoro, Nami, and Usopp.”

“Last names?”

Sanji hesitated. “I’ll have to get them to you.”

The probation officer nodded. “Are they aware you’re under supervision?”

“Yes.”

“Any of them have criminal records that you know of?”

“Not that I know of.”

“How many nights a week do you expect to stay there?”

“Three or four. Mostly when I’m volunteering late.”

Another click. “Send me their full names when you have them. If the diner becomes your primary residence, let me know before you make the change.” 

“I will.” Sanji couldn’t believe it had been that easy. That it hadn’t been forbidden. So much of his life since he was twenty-four had been dictated by what he was allowed to do, where he was allowed to go, and who got to decide it for him. He'd stopped considering the possibility that sometimes he could simply ask for what he wanted. 

The probation officer clicked a few more times with his mouse. “Now, any travel outside the district?” 

The rest of the appointment passed without anything else worth remembering. Sanji answered the remaining questions, signed where he was told, and left the federal building with the same paperwork he always carried out – except this time, something had changed. He could stay at the diner. Not move in, not give up his apartment, but stay. Sleep there after late nights instead of forcing himself through another hour on the highway.

By the time he reached his car, the rain had eased to a drizzle. Sanji stood beneath his umbrella for a moment, keys in hand, then made his decision. He had the rest of the day off anyway, and there was no reason to go back to his empty apartment.

Sanji drove straight from the federal building to the diner. He wanted to work. Wanted to help. Wanted to let his friends know that he could stay, if the offer was still open. 

The diner’s exit came up quickly, and Sanji signaled to pull off. There weren’t any vehicles in the lot, but when he went inside, he found a sullen teenager tucked into a booth, drinking cola from a glass bottle. 

“Sanji, you’re here,” Luffy said with a wide smile. “That means everyone gets free burgers!”

Sanji caught the way the teenager looked over suddenly, hungrily. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t welch on my bets.”

He pushed through to the kitchen, already removing his coat and hanging it on the hook. Zoro was in the kitchen, cleaning, and Usopp was portioning potatoes for the griddle. He rolled his sleeves and went to the sink to wash his hands. “Surprised you’re in here,” he said to Zoro.

“Kid took one look at me and almost turned around and left,” Zoro said with a shrug. “Made myself scarce.”

“Luffy’s good with teenagers,” Usopp said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up staying the night.”

Sanji tied on an apron and retrieved the hamburger meat packaged in butcher paper from the refrigerator. It was only eleven in the morning, but if the teen had nowhere to go, at least staying here he’d be safe. “Speaking of staying the night, I got permission from my probation officer this morning to do so. Just got to give him your last names.”

“Why does he need that?” Usopp asked, and there was a note in his tone that gave Sanji pause.

Sanji looked at him. “Were those stories of your arrests actually true?”

“No. I actually ran away whenever the police showed up,” Usopp confessed. “I’m too delicate to go to jail. I will only stick it to the Man so far.”

Sanji glanced at Zoro. “Is it a problem for you?”

“No.” But Zoro didn’t look too sure. 

Sanji had a sudden, horrible thought. “You guys aren’t laundering money, are you?”

Zoro stared at him blankly. Usopp chuckled. “Not unless you count Nami leaving bills in the wash.” He went back to chopping his potatoes. “She even irons the bills once they’re dry. Says the crispness makes her happy.”

Sanji tried to find the humor, but couldn’t. He liked to think he wouldn’t get burned again, but this diner ran on goodwill and pocket change. How it kept afloat was beyond him. 

Zoro had told him that Nami was in charge of their finances. He was going to have to ask her. Going to have to hope she didn’t lie to his face then send him back to prison for twice as long because he was a convicted felon. 

Sanji focused on making burgers and fries. He couldn’t do anything about it right now. He had a hungry teenager to feed. 

Luffy hung out with him in the booth all day, making Sanji feed them with Nami providing drinks. Sanji caught the occasional conversation as he cooked for other diners that wandered in throughout the day. Nothing important – mostly about games, music, how far Luffy could stick straws up his nose. But the teen relaxed, and by the time Sanji left that evening, he bet they’d have an overnight guest. 

He hadn’t brought up the last name thing again. He’d do it when there wasn’t anyone in the diner, when maybe he could get a straight answer as to how they stayed open. The weekend had more downtime. He’d do it, then.

He could only hope that he was blowing something simple completely out of proportion.

Sanji couldn’t find the diner.

He’d left his apartment around eight Saturday morning, after fortifying himself with real coffee from the shop nearby. He’d gotten on the highway, dreading the conversation that he knew was ahead of him. He wanted to put it off indefinitely. Didn’t want his joy of being able to cook again crushed. Didn’t want to lose his friends. Really didn’t want to lose what was building with Zoro. 

But he couldn’t – wouldn’t – go there anymore if they were doing anything illegal. And if one of them had their own record, that choice would be taken away from him, anyway. 

He’d actually prefer the latter. He could wait until his supervised release was over to return. It was only another two years. Any of his friends who didn’t have a criminal record could always come and visit him, or they could meet somewhere. Zoro would have to venture out on dates, since he’d indicated it wasn’t an issue for him. Sanji could text or call anytime, though he’d have to get their numbers. Strange that he hadn’t seen any of them on their phones all these months he’d known them.

Sanji continued down the highway, not really wanting to see the diner on the opposite side of the road. Because once he was there, that could be the end of it. 

But somehow, Sanji reached downtown without having seen it. 

Sanji frowned as the highway diverted him onto city streets. He turned around as soon as he could, and got back on the highway going the opposite direction, toward home. He realized he’d never paid attention to the exit number before. He always spotted the diner first and turned off without thinking. 

A light rain started as he drove. He flipped the wipers on low and watched for the diner to appear along the frontage road near one of the exits.

It never did.

Confused, Sanji turned off at the street he’d normally take home. He turned around again and got back on the highway heading downtown. There had been that line of semi-trucks he’d passed at one point, which probably blocked his view at the wrong time. 

The white lines of the three-lane highway passed rhythmically by. Sanji’s tires ate up the miles, passing by suburbs, truck stops, and brief stretches of empty land. The rain continued to pepper down. The radio played a forgotten song. He kept watching the opposite side of the highway when it was safe, thinking he’d spot it this time.

He didn’t.

Reaching downtown again, an hour’s drive from where he’d started, he pulled off in a parking lot and reached for his phone. Though he’d returned the envelope to Nami, he’d memorized the address. His car didn’t have GPS, so he punched it into Maps, set the directions to audible, and got back on the road.

Sanji never saw the diner, even as he was told to exit onto Old Highway 6. He followed the frontage road until his phone said, “Your destination is on the left.”

It wasn’t. There was nothing on his left but empty land and scrub brush, the ground broken by patches of dry grass and pale dirt. A rusted length of fencing leaned along what might once have marked a property line, half swallowed by weeds. Farther down the frontage road, a dilapidated farmhouse sagged behind a stand of wind-bent trees, its outbuildings reduced to gray boards and collapsed roofs. 

Sanji checked the address he’d punched in, then looked at the empty lot again. He must’ve typed it wrong. He cleared the location and searched for the diner by name instead. 

Nothing came up.

He tried again, adding Old Highway 6. 

No results.

Maybe the six was really a nine, and he’d flipped the number. He changed it, and still nothing.

Sanji looked up again, frowning at the empty lot. Could he be missing an additional number? Like Old Highway 16 or 26? 

He tried Old Highway 16, then 26, then every variation he could think of that might have contained a six. Nothing. Finally, annoyed enough to stop pretending this was reasonable, he searched the diner’s name with every nearby town he could remember passing. 

No results.

Sanji blew out a frustrated breath and gave up. Apparently, the diner wanted to be found about as much as he wanted to find it. 

He closed out of Maps, put the car back into gear, and drove home.

Sanji felt somewhat guilty not even trying to go to the diner on Sunday. Instead, he took himself to a matinee, ate too much popcorn and candy, and spent the remainder of the afternoon feeling sick. 

He drove to work on Monday, then drove straight home afterward because he didn’t go to the diner on Monday nights.

Tuesday the guilt grew when he purposely didn’t look to the side of the highway as he went home.

Wednesday and Thursday he turned up his radio loud to drown out the voice in his head calling him a coward.

Friday, he sat in his car in the parking garage after work and stared at the concrete piling through the windshield. He normally went to the diner on Friday nights and stayed extra because he didn’t have to get up in the morning. He’d skipped out four times now. Four times where Usopp was manning the kitchen again. Four times of not being there when someone who might need a warm meal and a friendly smile came through that diner door.

He dropped his head back onto the headrest with a groan. He was disappointed in himself. He wanted to go back, at least one more time, to cook, to help, to know something simple may have made a difference to someone’s night. 

And if it really was the last time, he’d know he hadn’t quit without a good reason. 

Sanji turned on his car, backed out of the space, and drove out of the garage. 

The night stretched around him, broken by the city skyline before it gave way to highway lights. The heater chased away the chill. Fall stretched closer to winter, and soon the streets would be slushy and the sky a permanent overcast. 

Sanji watched the roadside closely, determined not to repeat Saturday. He needed to find the diner, go inside, and cook. 

Relief washed over him when the familiar lights appeared ahead, and he turned off the highway. He parked between an SUV and a hatchback missing its front bumper. Two trucks were parked in the lot.

Sanji pocketed his keys and didn’t hesitate to go inside. The glow of the milk-glass lights greeted him warmly, and the air smelled of fried chicken and coffee. The truckers occupied their usual stretch of counter. A shaken-looking couple sat close together in one booth, while a glassy-eyed man sagged over a cup of coffee in another.

Zoro held the bus bin in his hands and smiled with breathtaking brightness when he spotted Sanji. “You came back.”

Sanji’s heart tripped over itself. He’d given up four days of seeing that smile? What the hell was he thinking?

“Are you going to keep repeating that forever?” he pretended to grouse as he made his way toward the kitchen.

The smile turned into mischief. “Probably.”

Nami was wrestling Luffy out the swinging door when Sanji reached it. “But Nami, I’m hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Nami said. “Usopp will get to you when he gets to you.”

They both spotted Sanji at the same time. Luffy leapt from Nami’s hold to python himself around Sanji. “Sanji! You’re here! Make me food, pleeeeeeeeeease?”

Nami looked very relieved. “Yes, please. He’s been driving us up a wall.”

“I’ve missed Sanji’s food. He’s so much better than Usopp.”

“Yes! Yes, he is!” Usopp’s head poked out the kitchen door. “In fact, he should take over for me right now.”

“All right, all right.” Sanji shook Luffy off, buoyed by the reception. “I’ll get to work.”

Time passed quickly after that. Sanji fixed the mess Usopp was making of the couple’s light meal, and he started a hangover breakfast for the intoxicated man in the booth. One of the truckers, who’d only been having coffee, ordered something once he’d seen Sanji’s food go out.

More truckers came and went, and a man with a grocery cart came inside. A collection of aluminum cans hung from a plastic bag tied to the handle. Zoro showed him to a booth, let him park his cart at the table, and brought him a cup of coffee. “We take trade here,” he said in a low voice. “Five empty cans for a hot meal.”

The man looked surprised, then pleased. 

Sanji didn’t bother to wonder how he got there with the cart. He had another mouth to feed.

Eventually, the diner quieted. The man with the cart waved off an invitation to spend the night, the intoxicated man finally sobered up enough to leave, and the rest of the customers trickled out between them. Sanji wiped down the kitchen and tidied his space, satisfied from feeding everyone who had come through the door. He really didn’t want to give this up. It was time to find out whether he had to. 

He hung up his apron, smoothed his shirt and tie, and left the kitchen. Usopp and Zoro had gone to clean the bathrooms. Nami stood behind the register, counting the bills in the drawer. 

Sanji had never paid much attention before, but with his worries already circling, the absence stood out now. There was no credit card reader. No QR code to scan. Not even one of those old manual card imprinters. He knew for a fact there wasn’t an ATM in the diner, nor one outside or nearby. 

Cash-only businesses were not unheard of, but they were very uncommon, especially for restaurants. He didn’t see a sign warning customers in the window or at the register. Which meant that there was no way they weren’t giving most of the meals away for free.

Sanji felt his hopes sink. Something else was going on here, and it didn’t look good.

“Nami,” he said, in a low voice. “Where is the diner getting its money from?”

Nami didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“There’s no way you’re making enough in cash to keep the doors open,” Sanji said, his chest tight. “Not unless you’re doing something illegal.”

Nami stopped counting and lifted her gaze. She studied him for a moment, then looked across the diner. “Luffy. It’s time to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Luffy said, still working on the last plate of food Sanji had made him. 

“What we are. What the diner is.” 

“Oh. Okay.” Luffy smiled widely at Sanji. “We’re ghosts!”

Sanji stared at Luffy, then turned back to Nami. “It’s been an honor meeting you, my sweet, but I’m going to go. Tell Zoro–” He swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “Tell Zoro I’ll be in touch, one day.”

“He’s not lying,” Nami said. “We’re ghosts. Kinda. And this diner only appears to people in need.”

Sanji didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “Nami–”

She motioned at his pocket. “Take out your phone. Look up the 1969 Vietnam Moratorium in Muncie.” 

Sanji hesitated, just wanting to leave. 

Nami waved her hand again. “Just do it.”

Sanji pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and opened Google search. He typed it in. An AI overview appeared first, followed by Ball State University links. 

“Ball State,” Nami said. “One of their pages has the pictures. Our prior cook found them once and showed us.”

Sanji clicked one of the links. The page opened to a scan of the campus newspaper dated October 1969. The yellowed pages had headings like Grape Boycott Might Hit BSU and ‘Free University’ May Return Next Quarter. But the main article was about the vigil in front of the Administration Building, with a photograph. 

Usopp was on the front left side of the black-and-white photograph, sitting on a blanket, throwing a peace sign, his arm around a girl with long hair and a bright smile. Same long nose, same mess of curls. Even the same overalls. 

Sanji stared in disbelief. His first thought was the picture had to be doctored. An AI fake. But this was a university link to an actual scan of a newspaper. 

“Wild, huh?” Nami said. “Now come around here and check out this picture on the wall behind the register.”

Sanji dragged his eyes away from his phone screen to look past her at the wall. A framed, yellowed newspaper article was on display. He’d thought it was just like all the other antique memorabilia, put up for retro kitsch. 

Phone still in hand, he rounded the counter. Nami stepped out of the way so he could step close to the picture. 

Inside the frame, a yellowed newspaper clipping showed the diner beneath the headline Diner Supper Raises Funds for Red Cross. Beneath it was a small, grainy photograph of people crowded outside the entrance, some holding little flags. 

One of them was Luffy, wearing a straw hat, his face too thin and his body slight, but the beaming smile was still the same. 

The article was dated October 18, 1917.

If Nami hadn't shown him Usopp’s picture first, he definitely would’ve called this a fake. But with that and the way Luffy looked in it, the clipping had to be real. 

The old wall clock ticked above them. In the kitchen, the refrigerator motor kicked on, its low hum suddenly much more noticeable. 

“But… what?” he said faintly.

“It’s just like Luffy said – we’re ghosts.”

Sanji looked at Nami, then reached out and poked her in the shoulder. She rolled her eyes. “Everyone does that. It gets old.” 

She sat on the stool that was kept behind the register, straightening her vintage dress – that might not be vintage to her, Sanji realized. “We’re corporeal," she said. "Or immortal. Or something like that. It wasn’t like there was a manual. We don’t age, don’t really need to sleep. Whatever was wrong with us got fixed enough. Didn’t erase everything, though." 

She flicked her short hairstyle. “But we can change. Hair still grows and can be cut. Weight can be gained and lost. Muscle, too. We can get stronger, get out of shape. Normal things. We just don’t age.”

She shifted on the stool with a sigh. “Guests can come and go. We can’t. Once you become what we are, you’re stuck here unless you leave for good. We have to stay within these walls. Which, after a while, can get really irritating. Running the diner helps. Having these fools around, plus guests and others who’ve stayed for a while, also helps.”

Sanji looked at the picture on the wall again, then at his phone. “So you… and Zoro…”

“Yeah. Couldn’t find any pictures of me on the phone. I came to the diner in 1948 and decided to stay,” Nami said. “Zoro has one of him and Luffy from way back. Like the 1920s. He hides it with his military stuff in a drawer, inside an old sock.”

Sanji would be suspicious of how she knew that if he wasn’t so off-kilter. “I’m dating someone over a century old?”

Nami grinned. “Yep.”

Sanji looked over at Luffy, who smiled at him around a mouthful of food. “And the diner?”

“Doesn’t exist unless someone needs it,” Nami said. She waved a hand toward Luffy. “Luffy said it started disappearing after the original owner left in the early forties. Now it’s loose in space or whatever. I know we only show up somewhere along Highway 6, but I found the place right outside the city. Usopp said he found it in the middle of a cornfield, but he was high at the time, so who knows.”

Luffy snickered into his plate.

“This…” Sanji tugged at his forelocks. “This is a lot to take in.”

“It’s weird,” Nami agreed. “The diner is fixed to the day the owner left. Eight thirty-nine in the morning, exactly. Anything that was here at that point stays here. Food, dishes, furniture, appliances. It resets.”

Sanji stared at her.

“Break a glass, it comes back. Use up the food, it comes back. Anything that belonged to the diner when it changed gets restored.” 

Sanji glanced along the service side of the counter. The old brass register. The worn countertop. The stacks of heavy plates tucked beneath it. Things he’d looked at dozens of times without really seeing.

Sanji wanted a cigarette. He’d given them up during his first year in prison when he started being traded for them.

He rubbed at his forehead. “Did you have to die to become like this?”

Nami shook her head. “No. It’s a choice. Technically, I’m still alive. I can leave as a human and start aging again, get sick, all that. My body would go back to what it was before the diner fixed it.”

Sanji glanced at Luffy’s picture on the wall, the gaunt image, then down at the healthy-looking young man sitting at the counter. 

“Or I can leave the other way. Give up the body, become an actual ghost, and move on to the afterlife. Or whatever comes next.” She made a face. “Luffy explained it using hot dogs, so I’m reinterpreting.” 

That startled a laugh out of Sanji, and once it started, he couldn’t quite stop it. It came out a little too loud and a little too long, but the pressure in his chest finally eased.

“Fuck.” He dragged a hand over his face, his palm catching in his goatee. “I just wanted to know that none of you had records and you weren’t doing anything illegal so I could stay here a few nights.”

“Nope.” Nami smiled. “Just your good old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill ghost diner run by equally old people.”

She reached beneath the register and pulled out an old waitress check. Four names had been written across the back in neat handwriting, first and last. “You need these, right?”

Sanji took the slip. “Yeah. My probation officer has to run a check on anyone I might be living with. Make sure you’re not associated with any gangs, don’t have criminal records, that sort of thing.”

Nami smirked. “Never got caught, remember?”

Sanji looked up. 

“I was in a gang,” she explained. “That’s why I ended up here. But I never got caught.” 

“Good to know.”

From the other end of the counter, Luffy lifted his empty plate. “Hey, Sanji, can you make me some pancakes?”

Sanji looked at him. At the empty plate in front of him. At the other empty plates stacked nearby. At the man who had apparently been eating like this for more than a century despite not needing food at all.

He laughed again, perhaps with a little hysteria this time. “Yes. I can make you some pancakes.”

He tucked the list of names into his pocket, then looked once more at the old photograph hanging on the wall. His gaze dropped to his phone, where Usopp flashed a peace sign from a photograph taken decades before Sanji was born.

He shook his head, pocketed the phone, and headed into the kitchen. He had pancakes to make.

Nami sent Zoro into the kitchen a short while later after he finished cleaning the bathroom. Usopp didn’t follow.

Sanji paused over the griddle. “Do you even need to clean the bathroom if this place resets every day?”

Zoro gave him a sideways look. “People use the bathroom all day. Of course we clean it.”

“Someone taught you good hygiene. I was wondering.” Another thought caught him. “Do you even need to shower, or does that reset, too?”

Zoro rolled his single eye, which looked ridiculous. “I bathe every week. Like a normal person.” 

Sanji paused again and stared at him. “You’re supposed to shower daily.”

“What kind of idiot wastes that much hot water every day?”

Sanji opened his mouth and closed it again, deciding his brain had taken on all it could handle today. 

He finished Luffy’s pancakes, plating them and setting them on the pass. “Luffy.”

Luffy’s hands appeared instantly, almost like he was made of rubber, taking the plate. “Thanks!”

Sanji scraped down the griddle and pushed the residue toward the grease trough. “You know, I thought you were around my age,” he said to Zoro. “Not a hundred years older than me.”

Zoro shrugged. “Not like it matters.”

Sanji looked at him incredulously. “I think being alive for that long would definitely matter.”

“Why?” Zoro asked, folding his arms to lean back against the prep counter. “I’m the same person. Just been around for a while.”

Sanji was about to argue again, bring up all the things Zoro would’ve seen and experienced over the years. Then he remembered what Nami said – they couldn’t leave. Which meant Zoro’s life would’ve mostly been spent between the diner and the apartment and with whatever was between those walls.

“How old were you when you–” Sanji tried to think of a word that fit, “–turned? Changed?”

“Chose to stay,” Zoro supplied. He thought for a moment, rubbing his jawline. “Twenty-nine, maybe. Think I was born in ‘98. Could’ve been a year or two earlier. Told ‘em I was nineteen when I enlisted, whether it was true or not.”

It took a beat for Sanji to realize Zoro meant 1898, not 1998. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“Okay,” Zoro shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. You’re still–” He cut off abruptly and a blush spread over his cheeks. He shifted and flapped his hand. “You know.”

Sanji felt both amused and endeared. “I know you told me you’d never had a coffee date before, but you just said you were twenty-nine. You had to have at least kissed someone by then, right?”

Zoro looked at his boots, ears taking on a rosy glow to match his cheeks. “People aren’t– it’s wrong to be like me. I never– I didn’t think–” He stopped and blew out a breath. “Then you asked me for coffee and I thought maybe it stopped being wrong.”

Sanji set the spatula down, stepped into Zoro’s space, and wrapped his hands around Zoro’s waist. “No, it’s not wrong anymore,” he said. And while it wasn’t the complete truth to some people, it wasn’t a secret Zoro had to carry any longer.

Zoro brought his hands to Sanji’s shoulders, leaning into rest his forehead against Sanji’s. “I’m glad,” he said quietly.

“Me, too,” Sanji agreed, squeezing his waist. “Would’ve hated to have missed out on how many times I can make you turn red. Think I’m up to ninety-seven.”

Zoro bonked his forehead lightly against Sanji’s. “Shut up.”

Sanji grinned. “Nami said you have a picture of yourself way back when with your military stuff. Are you in uniform? I have a thing for men in uniform. Out of it, too.”

“Should’ve known she’d been through my stuff.” Zoro sighed. “It’s not– I’m not in uniform. Sam took it when he needed to use up the rest of his roll of film.” 

“Sam?”

“The owner.”

Sanji nodded slightly, hair rubbing against Zoro’s skin. “Can I still see it?”

Zoro went quiet for a moment, before agreeing. “Yeah. But I don’t look the same. Just so you’re warned.”

“What, your moss hair isn’t natural?” Sanji joked, even though he knew hair came in every color under the sun. His brother had green hair. Luckily nowhere near the same shade as Zoro’s.

“My hair’s always been green,” Zoro said, straightening in Sanji’s hold.

Sanji dropped his hands and took a step back. He drew his apron off over his head. “Let’s go see it, then.”

Zoro nodded, and headed for the swinging kitchen door. Sanji followed. He knew the diner door was rigged to a bell that sounded in the apartment whenever someone came in, if he needed to cook. He needed to be heading home soon, anyway.

Usopp was regaling Nami with a tale when they passed by, and by Nami’s expression it was one she’d heard many times before. Luffy was content with his pancakes. 

Zoro led Sanji down the short hall past the restrooms and opened the door marked Private. Sanji followed him into the apartment, Usopp’s voice dulling behind them as the door swung shut. 

A lamp was on in the living room, casting warm light over the worn sofa and chairs. Someone had left a card game unfinished on the low table, the deck crooked beside a scatter of hands. 

“Wait here,” Zoro said, and continued down the hall to his bedroom.

Sanji took a seat on the couch, checking one of the hands. A straight. Not bad. He set the cards back down and was reaching for the other hand when he heard Zoro’s bootsteps coming back.

Zoro returned carrying a small, battered box in his hands. It was worn in the corners and the lid looked to be barely attached. He sat beside Sanji and set the box on the low table. He lifted the lid. 

Inside were a few yellowed papers folded into quarters, a pair of metal tags on a chain, a round bronze-colored medal on a faded ribbon, and a small silver pin. A couple of dull metal insignia lay beneath them, along with an old photograph curled at the edges. 

Zoro picked up the photograph and tried to smooth the edges before he handed it to Sanji. He didn’t say anything.

Sanji looked down at the picture and went still. It was a black-and-white image of Zoro and Luffy, as Nami had told him, with Luffy looking much as he did now, his arms draped over Zoro’s shoulders from behind and his chin resting on top of Zoro's head, wearing a beaming smile. But Zoro–

Zoro sat in a high-backed wooden wheelchair with large spoked wheels, looking almost swallowed by it. He was painfully thin, his shoulders narrow beneath a loose shirt, his cheeks hollow, his legs little more than angles beneath the fabric of his trousers. The scar over his closed eye was there. Sanji couldn’t see what else the clothes hid, but looking at him now, he understood there had to be more.

And still, there was the faintest smile on Zoro’s mouth, one hand lifted to rest over Luffy’s arm where it crossed his chest.

Sanji looked over at Zoro beside him, questions on his tongue. Zoro spoke before he could ask. 

“It happened during the war,” Zoro said. “Shell landed too close. Took a lot of shrapnel. Woke up in a hospital and couldn’t move my legs.” 

He reached out and took the picture from Sanji, holding it between his hands. “Messed me up in the head, too. Bad dreams. Seeing things that weren’t there. Ended up on the streets. Found this place on the day I planned to end it. Had a gun and everything. Was going to pop myself in the restroom, so at least someone would find my body, maybe give me a proper burial.”

The curled edge of the photograph rasped faintly beneath Zoro’s thumb. Beyond the apartment door, the diner was quiet. 

Sanji felt sick to his stomach. He rested his hand on Zoro’s arm. “Zoro…”

"But Luffy was on me from almost the second I came in," he continued. "Talked nonstop. Kept shoving food in my face. And when I tried to go to the restroom, he came right with me, talking the entire time. Like he somehow knew."

Zoro's lips curved in a faint smile. "Thought he was an annoying asshole. Couldn't let a man die in peace."

He rubbed the curled edge of the photograph. "He talked until I started to fall asleep in my plate. Then he convinced me to stay overnight. Had an extra bed in his room. Told me he wanted to take a spin in my chair and couldn't do that if I was in it."

"Why am I not surprised?" Sanji murmured.

"Anyway, one night became two, then three, then I was living in the apartment with Luffy, Sam, and his two girls who were still at home. Sam's wife and one of his sons died from the flu, and his other son hadn't come back from the war," Zoro said.

"I started helping out in the diner, small stuff I could do in the chair to earn my keep. Still had bad nights and bad days, but I got rid of the gun after a while."

Sanji squeezed his arm lightly. "Glad you did."

"Yeah." Zoro cleared his throat. "Sam's other two daughters got married eventually, and it was just us three running the place. Luffy mentioned the whole ghost thing, how he died thinking he never wanted to leave this place and then came back to life. Only he did it with fried chicken. Strangest conversation of my life." He huffed a soft laugh.

"But Luffy told me I had that choice, too. I could choose to never leave, unless I really wanted to," Zoro went on. "Sam and Luffy were always helping people down on their luck if they came in. Ex-soldiers like me. Or families who'd fallen on hard times. Both of them were big on helping those in need."

"So you decided to stay, to become like Luffy," Sanji surmised.

Zoro nodded. "Not immediately, but yeah."

"Nami said the diner fixed things wrong with you," Sanji said, looking at the photograph again. "That must've helped."

"I didn't know."

Sanji looked at Zoro in surprise, but Zoro's gaze was on the photo. "Was gonna live however long I had like this. I just wanted to help like Luffy helped me," he said.

“First time my toes twitched, it shocked the hell out of me,” Zoro said with a half-smile. "Eventually, everything started working again. Didn't have to be hooked up to a piss bag anymore. Took a bit to get enough strength back in my legs to start walking again, but I did it."

"And then you started really lifting, to make sure your body still worked," Sanji said, quoting Luffy's words. 

Zoro nodded. "Didn't have a weight set, but the furniture worked just fine."

Sanji could picture Zoro bench pressing the sofa they were sitting on and it made him laugh. "Every time I think you can't get any more stupidly precious, you say something like this."

Zoro shot him a scowl, even as his ears pinked. "M'not precious."

"You definitely are." Sanji leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek. "One of the many reasons I like you."

"Tch," Zoro scoffed, but he bumped against Sanji's shoulder affectionately.

He set the photograph back in the box almost reverently before shutting the lid.

Sanji emailed his probation officer the list of names. A week later, he got the all-clear to spend some nights at the diner.

“I think I should bunk with Luffy and Usopp,” Sanji said when Zoro showed him the extra twin bed in his room. “Or I might not be able to keep my hands off you.”

Zoro’s face reddened, but he met Sanji’s eyes. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Sanji very carefully hung his suit bag from the dresser knob.

Then he pounced.

Zoro’s squeak was adorable.

They didn’t actually do anything. Zoro was inexperienced in every way, and Sanji was a romantic at heart. Instead, Sanji threaded his fingers through Zoro’s hair and pressed their lips gently together. “You are very special to me, Zoro Roronoa.”

Zoro’s ears were still red. “I like you, too.”

Sanji fell into a routine after that. He stayed one night during the week, then came back Friday evening and remained through Sunday night, leaving for work Monday morning.

For the first time, he really got to see what life was like for his four friends when the diner didn’t have customers.

Whenever the bell chimed in the apartment, everyone emerged to man the diner. When no one needed them, they did whatever chores had accumulated, keeping the place clean and ready, then retreated to the apartment. They played cards and board games, listened to music, did laundry, or occasionally rearranged the furniture simply to make the rooms feel different for a while.

Zoro liked to nap even though he didn’t need to sleep.

Luffy used any excuse he could find to convince someone to feed him, despite technically knowing how to cook for himself.

Nami liked to paint her nails and sometimes painted Usopp’s, too.

Usopp was thrilled to have a fresh audience for his stories. Nami and Zoro frequently exchanged looks and put-upon sighs that told Sanji they’d heard every one of them many, many times before.

And Sanji got to cook. He loved that more than anything.

He loved seeing the small changes in people after they took the first bite of something good. The slight drop of tense shoulders. The way someone’s face softened over a hot cup of coffee. The relieved silence of a hungry person concentrating entirely on a meal. Everyone who walked through those doors needed something, even if all they needed was coffee, food, and somewhere safe to sit for half an hour. Sanji got to be part of giving them that.

It reminded him of Zeff and the Baratie, of being a kid again before his life had gone sideways. Zeff had never cared who someone was or what they could pay. If they were hungry, he fed them. Now Sanji could do the same.

The knowledge warmed something inside him that had been cold for years.

As the weeks rolled on and fall became winter, Sanji started dipping into his savings to bring things to the apartment and diner. Nothing enormous. Things that would last.

He bought spices in bulk, choosing dried ones that would keep for years if they were stored properly. He nearly cleared out the Friends of the Library sale room of anything published after 1980, bringing back boxes of novels, nonfiction, magazines, and manuals. Usopp immediately claimed the books on repairing electronics and started reading them cover to cover.

For Zoro, Sanji bought an actual weight set and a folding bench. Zoro was so excited about it that Sanji got to enjoy the purchase for weeks afterward.

For the kitchen, Sanji brought a French press and a moka pot. Neither needed electricity, and he bought replacement gaskets and filters for both so they might conceivably survive another century if everyone took care of them. He also bought an obscene amount of coffee. Good coffee. If he was going to spend his weekends in a supernatural diner somewhere along Highway 6, he refused to drink bad coffee.

On a miserably cold day shortly after the turn of the year, Sanji sat in the corner of the break room at Germa, eating lunch and scrolling through apartment listings on his phone. His lease was up at the end of the month. He’d been looking downtown, somewhere closer to work. Somewhere still within his price range. The farther he scrolled, the worse the apartments became.

Tiny kitchens. Questionable neighborhoods. Buildings with carpeting that looked older than Sanji. One listing had photographed the bathroom at such an angle that he suspected the toilet was directly inside the shower.

Sanji stared at the screen. What the hell was he doing? He already had somewhere to live. There was a bed waiting for him at the diner. Four people who wanted him there. A kitchen he loved. He could keep working at Germa and commute from the diner just as easily as he did from his current apartment. When Sanji needed to sleep, Usopp took over the kitchen until morning. 

Why was he looking for a crappier apartment closer to Germa when he already knew where he wanted to be? Better yet, the rent was unbeatable. There wasn’t any.

Sanji lowered his phone. Other people had lived at the diner without becoming what Nami called residents. Their last cook had stayed for four years as a guest. He’d been able to come and go whenever he pleased. Usopp had done the same before eventually deciding to stay permanently. The diner had continued appearing for both of them because they’d needed it.

Sanji needed it, too. Not because he needed somewhere cheap to sleep. He needed to cook. He needed to feed people. He needed those four idiots and the strange little life they’d somehow made inside that impossible building. He had no doubt the diner would keep letting him find it. All he had to do was ask if he could move in.

Sanji hadn’t planned to visit that night. He usually went on Tuesdays and weekends, and he wasn’t due back until Friday. But once the idea lodged in his head, waiting another two days felt ridiculous.

The moment work finally ended, he grabbed his coat, got into his car, and pulled out of Germa’s parking garage. Apparently the diner sensed his impatience, because its exit appeared almost immediately. Sanji laughed when he saw it and took the ramp. 

A school bus sat in the gravel lot. Usually there were semis, sedans, beat-up pickups. Sanji parked, pocketed his keys, and headed inside. 

Noise hit him the second he opened the door. Teenagers packed the diner. They filled the booths, crowded along the counter, and occupied every spare space. There had to be forty or fifty of them, all talking over one another in the type of roar produced by a large group of hungry high schoolers. Judging by the uniforms and duffel bags shoved beneath tables, some kind of basketball team had descended on the place.

Everyone was moving. Nami hurried between tables carrying drinks. Zoro was actually taking orders, pencil in hand and an old waitress pad balanced against his palm. Even Luffy had been pressed into service, ferrying silverware, glasses, and napkins to the tables.

All eyes turned toward him when he entered. 

“Sanji’s here!” Luffy exclaimed, and the sheer joy and relief on his friends’ faces made him laugh.

He pulled off his coat and headed straight for the kitchen. “I’m on it.”

Inside, he grabbed an apron, tied it around his waist, and washed his hands. Usopp was already working the griddle, several tickets lined up in front of him. “How the hell did you end up with a bus?”

“Driver got sick,” Usopp said. “They pulled in maybe ten minutes ago. Guy came through the door and ran straight for the bathroom. Everybody else followed him inside.”

Sanji glanced through the pass. More teenagers were squeezing into a booth that had no business holding that many bodies.

“So now we have a lot of hungry teenage mouths to feed,” Usopp continued. He raised his spatula. “And I am ready, boss. Tell me what to do. Besides be in charge.”

Nami passed the opening carrying an armful of empty glasses. “Maybe we got lucky. They’re teenagers. Maybe they’ll all pay in cash.”

Zoro started bringing orders over, setting slips on the pass. “Hope I got these right.”

Sanji took one and eyed it. The printing was blocky and perfectly neat, if full of misspellings. “I can figure it out.”

Zoro nodded and shot him a quick smile. “Glad you’re here,” he said. Then he went back to taking orders.

Sanji's chest warmed briefly before he got down to work. “Usopp, keep fries going, toast buns, plate sides, and call me when we’re getting low on anything. I’ve got the grill.” 

“Yes, chef! Prepare to witness some seriously groovy kitchen work.” 

Sanji took the grill while Usopp worked beside him, dropping fries, toasting buns, plating sides, and shouting when he needed more of anything. Zoro kept appearing at the pass with fresh tickets, then disappearing again with full plates balanced along his arms. Twice Sanji caught Luffy trying to steal from them before they made it out of the kitchen, and twice Zoro smacked his hand away without even looking. Nami kept the drinks moving while Luffy, apparently reassigned from food theft to refills, carried pitchers of soda and water from table to table.

The orders came faster than the kitchen could turn them out, but no one seemed particularly bothered by the wait. Luffy settled into talking with the players whenever his hands were empty, leaning against booths and asking questions about basketball while they shouted answers over one another. Zoro slipped away once to check on the driver and came back a few minutes later saying he was still miserable but alive. Then another stack of tickets landed beside Sanji, and he turned back to the griddle.

By the time the driver felt good enough to drive and the well-fed teenagers and coaches herded everyone back on the bus, every plate, glass, fork, and knife in the diner had been used. The sudden silence was deafening.

Sanji felt exhausted – the good kind, from doing something productive that he loved. He stretched his back and flexed his fingers. Behind him, Usopp draped over the prep counter like a limp noodle. 

Nami stood behind the register with a radiant grin, counting the large pile of bills. “And you’re a new dress, and you’re a new dress, and you’re nail-polish, and you’re nice shampoo…”

Zoro carried a bin full of dishes to the back, over to the dish station beside the sinks, where he scraped the plates and started loading them into a rack. Through the pass, Sanji saw Luffy eating any and all leftovers. 

“Surprised no one else came in while they were here,” Sanji said, scraping the griddle.

“Diner probably knew we were swamped,” Usopp said. “Though I bet it still would’ve appeared if the need was great. I stopped trying to figure out how this place worked when I ran out of weed.”

“Have you had this happen before?”

“Yeah.” Zoro was the one who spoke up. “There was some sort of civil rights march or something that went bad and we got a bunch of folk all at once. Crowded in so many, we let them into the apartment, too. Before your time, Usopp.”

Usopp peeled himself off the prep counter and went to help Zoro. “It was kismet, Sanji showing up when he did. Not that I couldn’t have handled it myself. My cooking skills are legendary. And I’m fast. They don’t call me Speedy Chef Usopp for nothing.” 

“Switch from Speedy Chef to Speedy Dishwasher,” Zoro told him, taking the emptied bin and heading for the kitchen door.

“I could be here more often,” Sanji said, trying to sound casual, as he set the scraper aside and reached for a clean towel. Zoro paused to look curiously at him. “My lease is up at the end of the month. I’ll need another place, and if, you know, the offer was still on the table for me to stay, I might take you all up on it. If it’s still open. And you don’t need the bed for overnight guests, not cooks. Because I can still find somewhere else–”

Zoro cut him off, raising his voice. “Hey, Luffy! The coo– er, Sanji wants to know if he could move in.”

Luffy’s head suddenly appeared in the pass, as if he’d stretched his neck over from across the diner. “Yes! Now you can make me food all the time, and it’ll make Zoro really happy.”

Sanji’s chest gave an embarrassing little squeeze. He looked toward Zoro, catching the flush that pinked Zoro’s cheeks before he made his escape from the kitchen. 

“I’m still going to work at Germa,” Sanji told Luffy. “And I can’t cook for you all the time.”

“Aw, okay.” Luffy pouted, but immediately got over it when Zoro tried to clear a table that still had leftovers on it. “Hey! I’m not done eating that yet!”

He darted off to rescue his food, leaving Sanji to finish cleaning up with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt.

Sanji informed his probation officer of the impending address change, and the day his lease expired, he packed up his belongings and drove them to the diner.

The apartment had a back door – never used by the residents – which made unloading easier, though he still had to carry everything inside himself. Zoro and the others couldn’t cross the threshold to help.

Usopp had appointed himself unpacking supervisor instead. Mostly by standing around and pointing while Sanji did all the work.

“That goes in the kitchen,” Sanji said when Usopp gestured toward the hall.

“I knew that.”

“You were pointing at the bedroom.”

“I was taking you on the scenic route.”

Sanji rolled his eyes and hauled another box through the door.

He hadn’t accumulated much since prison. Some furniture. Clothes. Kitchen equipment. Books. Electronics. Enough possessions to fill an apartment without ever making it feel particularly lived in.

Now that everything was stacked inside the diner’s apartment, he found himself looking differently at what was already there.

The furniture was old but solid. The appliances were older. The diner kitchen itself was full of equipment that should have been retired decades ago. Sanji had spent enough time cooking on it by now to know everything worked, but he also had enough savings tucked away that replacing some of it wouldn’t hurt too badly. Especially now that he didn’t have to pay rent or electricity.

He glanced toward Nami, who had come back to inspect what he’d brought. “How much would you object if I upgraded a few things around here?”

Nami’s eyebrows went up. “Depends what.”

“The stove in the apartment, for one. Maybe the refrigerator eventually. The diner griddle could stand to enter this century.”

“Absolutely not.”

Sanji blinked. “That was fast.”

“Don’t touch anything that came with the diner.”

Usopp immediately set down the lamp he’d been examining.

Sanji looked between them. “Why?”

Nami smoothed a hand down the front of her dress. “Because anything that was here when the diner changed resets, remember? Food, dishes, furniture, appliances. Use up the food and it comes back. That stove could explode tomorrow and the next morning it’d be sitting there exactly the way it was before.”

Sanji glanced toward the little apartment kitchen. He’d known the diner reset, but he hadn’t really considered what that meant for individual objects.

“Anything we bring in afterward is different,” Nami continued. “That stuff wears out.”

She pinched the fabric of her skirt between two fingers. “I only had the clothes I came in with at first. Usopp didn’t decide to stay permanently right away, so he took some of the cash we’d saved up and bought me a few dresses. Got himself some clothes, too.”

“And a coffee maker,” Usopp added.

Nami looked at him. “Which broke.”

“Eventually.”

“And stayed broken.”

Usopp sighed. “I mourn it daily.”

Her hand lingered on her skirt. “The clothes wore out, too. Rips, stains, seams giving way. I’m down to two of those dresses now, so I take care of them. Our last cook brought me a few other things, but not much.”

Sanji glanced down at the dress. He’d seen Nami in different clothes over the months, but far fewer combinations than most women he knew.

“Meanwhile, Luffy and Zoro’s clothes were already here when the diner changed,” Nami said. “So theirs come back clean and repaired every time the place resets.”

Sanji thought of Zoro’s familiar white t-shirt and black trousers. “Explains why Zoro owns six copies of the same terrible outfit.”

Nami sighed. “It’s completely unfair, because neither of them cares what he’s wearing.”

“So everything brought in after the owner left has a lifespan?” he asked.

“Yeah. We’ve bought things since with help. Books, albums, mostly things to do. We can’t get deliveries, and if something breaks, replacing it isn’t easy.”

Sanji looked toward the diner kitchen through the open apartment door. The old equipment suddenly made considerably more sense.

“Our last cook thought about using some of the money to update the diner’s kitchen,” Nami went on. “He hadn’t decided to stay, so he could come and go whenever he wanted. Once we explained how the reset worked, he told us not to touch anything. The equipment might be ancient, but it works. If we replaced it and the new stuff broke, we’d be stuck.”

“So you leave everything as it is.”

“Pretty much.”

The battered griddle, the hulking refrigerator, the old range and battered pans weren’t still there because no one had bothered replacing them. They were there because they were dependable in a way nothing modern could ever be.

Sanji could see the logic. He also started mentally crossing several expensive purchases off the list he’d already begun making.

“What about things the diner didn’t already have?” he asked. “You must buy those somehow.”

Nami’s expression immediately became mournful.

Sanji knew that look. “Money.”

“We used to get more cash,” she said. “People paid in cash all the time. Up until around the turn of the century, anyway. Now hardly anyone carries it.”

Sanji remembered the trucker trying to hand her a credit card during one of his first visits. He’d assumed the diner was simply behind the times. “So whatever cash you’ve accumulated is all you have.”

“Pretty much. We use it when we really need something.” She sighed. “Which is terrible, because I really liked having piles of cash around.”

That sounded more like the Nami he knew.

“I used to count it every day,” she said forlornly. “But it’s dwindled. We'd use it to by clothes, shampoo, soap that doesn’t smell terrible. Things like that. The apartment had bars of soap when it reset, but that was about it, and I refuse to spend eternity washing my hair with whatever that stuff is.”

“A noble use of limited resources,” Usopp said.

“You use my shampoo.”

“Because I support your priorities.”

Nami narrowed her eyes at him.

Sanji looked around the apartment again. He’d always thought the place was retro. Vintage. Old-fashioned because no one had bothered renovating it. Now he understood that almost everything around him really had been bought in the early forties or earlier and had remained in the same condition ever since.

The implications started piling up.

The refrigerator. Every time he’d opened it, there had been meat wrapped in butcher paper. Cartons of eggs. Glass bottles of milk. He’d never stopped to count them, but now that he thought about it, the quantities rarely seemed to change.

The apartment made more sense, too. The old furniture. The record player. The conspicuous lack of a television.

They could bring one in, but then what? They couldn’t have cable installed, and satellite required a fixed location – difficult when the diner itself moved. Internet service seemed equally questionable. Anything electronic would eventually die and stay dead.

Sanji rubbed at his forehead. “So before I unpack anything else,” he said, “what do you actually want me to bring in?”

Nami brightened immediately.

His couch was vetoed because it would sag. His mattress would wear out, and there were already beds. The cheap side table would eventually fall apart and become one more thing they had to dispose of.

Electronics had a shelf life, but everyone was happy to use them while they could. The small lamps, his stand mixer, Bluetooth speaker, electric kettle, and e-reader all made the cut. His cookware, knives, books, small tool kit, and solid wooden bookcase were welcomed even more enthusiastically.

By the time they finished, the apartment looked subtly wrong in a way Sanji liked. His bookcase stood beside the old record cabinet, and his electric kettle occupied a stretch of counter a few feet from a stove older than everyone he’d ever known. Half-unpacked boxes still narrowed the hallway. 

Sanji started a separate mental list of things worth buying later. Not replacements for anything that already reset, but things the diner didn’t have. Things that would last.

If he was going to spend his money anywhere, it might as well be here.

Sanji’s phone still had internet whenever the diner was within range of a cell tower, but the signal dropped completely when no customers were around. It stopped bothering Sanji relatively quickly, as those times were filled with card games, books, records, Usopp’s stories, Luffy demanding snacks, and Zoro finding increasingly flimsy excuses to sit close to him.

Working at Germa still sucked, and he remained on supervised release, but he was considerably happier once he moved in. Within days, his polished work shoes sat beside Zoro’s boots near the bedroom door, his suits hung among clothes decades older than he was, and the coffee maker he’d brought crowded the little kitchen counter. Cooking brought him joy, helping people even more so, and his friends made the other parts of his life that much more bearable.

He and Zoro inched closer to the inevitable, though Sanji was content with the slow pace. Not that he didn’t want Zoro, but it was nice to have a relationship that meant something beyond the physical. Prison hadn’t been kind to him, and Pudding had made it hard to trust. But Zoro couldn’t lie or hide anything to save his life, and every day that passed found Sanji falling more and more for him.

Until one Friday night, he came into the diner after work, using the main door out of habit and looking forward to losing himself in cooking rather than thinking about the bullshit at Germa all day, only to find Luffy already surrounded by food, Usopp standing puffed up with his arms crossed in front of the kitchen door as if he were a bouncer, and Nami grinning shark-like at him. Zoro was nowhere to be seen.

“Something going on?” Sanji asked, looking between Usopp and Nami.

“Zoro wants you to meet him in the apartment,” Nami said, still grinning. “He needs you for something.”

“Don’t tell me he tried to cook something other than rice,” Sanji said, heading for the hall that led to the apartment. “I told him if he ruined my pans, I’d kick his ass into tomorrow.”

He loosened his tie as he opened the door marked Private. “Zoro, I swear, if you tried cooking for me–”

Sanji pulled up short, stopping mid-sentence.

He wasn’t an idiot. He’d known the second Nami told him Zoro wanted him back here, wearing that grin, that he’d planned some sort of date. Sanji had assumed cooking.

There was no cooking.

Instead, hundreds of paper flowers were scattered across every available surface, with a trail of them leading back toward the bedrooms. It looked like the entire ream of paper Sanji had brought home had been used. Maybe two.

Sanji followed the trail, his heart tripping at the sheer romanticism of it. When he reached the bedroom door, he knocked quietly and called out before opening it. “Zoro…” 

One of Usopp’s bandanas had been draped over the bedroom lamp, softening the light. Zoro sat cross-legged in the middle of his twin bed, naked except for a pile of paper flowers covering his lap. A rosy blush spread from his cheeks all the way down to those flowers.

“Hi,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

Sanji had to blink rapidly as emotion blurred his vision. He pushed the door closed behind him, twisted the lock, and crossed to Zoro in several quick strides. He caught Zoro’s face between his palms and kissed him long and hard.

“Fuck, I love you,” he breathed against Zoro’s lips.

Zoro made a soft sound of happiness, and Sanji was gone.

Time folded into touch and taste and desire. Sanji slowed himself enough to ask every time it mattered. At first Zoro answered with shy nods. Before long, he was looking Sanji in the eye and saying yes. Sanji kissed the flush from his cheeks, the line of his jaw, the broad slope of his shoulders. He followed every scar he could reach, lingering over raised, roughened skin that marked all the places Zoro had survived. He had wondered about those scars for months. Seeing them now did something painful and tender to his chest.

Zoro trembled beneath his hands at first, caught somewhere between nerves and wanting, but gradually the tension left him. His fingers found Sanji’s hair, then his shoulders, then held on wherever they could. Every quiet sound Zoro made seemed to undo Sanji a little more. Sanji had been desired before, been touched before, but this was different. Zoro trusted him enough to be vulnerable, enough to let Sanji see all of him, and Sanji treated that trust like something precious.

They took their time. Sanji learned what made Zoro shiver, what made him laugh breathlessly against Sanji’s mouth, what made his hands tighten. He kissed Zoro until neither of them could remember where one breath ended and the next began, until Zoro stopped looking uncertain and started reaching for him first. Sanji let himself be wanted in return, let Zoro touch him without wondering what would happen once he learned too much, because Zoro already knew the worst parts and was still here.

By the time they finally crossed that last threshold together, the paper flowers had been kicked and crushed across the sheets and floor. Sanji held Zoro close through it, his forehead pressed to Zoro’s, their hands tangled together between them. When it was over, neither moved for a long while.

Afterward, lying sated in each other’s arms, Sanji couldn’t remember ever being this content.

“How did you choose to stay?” Sanji asked Usopp one early Sunday morning as they sipped coffee between customers. The five patrons in the diner all had their food, and Zoro was taking care of them. Luffy sat tucked into breakfast, and Nami hadn’t emerged from the apartment yet.

Nami had decided to stay “because these fools needed all the help they could get.” Zoro, he knew, had stayed because it gave him purpose. Luffy, he’d gathered, had stayed because of the never-ending supply of food. There was probably more to it, but Luffy hadn’t shared.

“I staged the biggest protest anyone had ever seen,” Usopp said. “I was wanted by everybody. The cops, the FBI, probably the CIA. They were doing all those mind-control experiments back then, you know. Psychic tests. I knew too much. I had to come here for safety or I’d never see the light of day again.”

Sanji gave him a flat look.

Usopp laughed lightly. “Actually, I was a coward, as you know. I ran away from every protest the second anyone in authority showed up.” His smile faded into something quieter. “When I was here, I decided I wasn’t going to run away anymore. I was going to stand with my friends and help people.”

It was a simple answer, given in the most matter-of-fact tone Sanji had ever heard from him. It gave Sanji something to think about.

His brothers had done a number on him again in the parking lot the week before, which had prompted this entire train of thought. A deal had fallen through that Sanji hadn’t had any part in, but somehow he’d still ended up their punching bag. He probably always would be.

But that wasn’t a reason to essentially leave the mortal plane. He could bulk up like Zoro, take self-defense classes, learn to kick their asses. Or he could keep searching for another job until someone finally hired him. And as much as he loved the incongruous musclehead who looked like he could twist someone into a pretzel but was too shy to hold Sanji’s hand, that wasn’t a good reason either. Love was about sharing a life with someone, not making them the center of it.

“Are you going to join us?” Usopp asked. “Luffy would love that.”

“Luffy just wants to be fed,” Sanji dismissed. “And I was only curious.”

He pushed aside the woolgathering. It was pointless anyway. He still had another year on supervised release. He wasn’t changing anything or going anywhere anytime soon.

There was always something else at the diner to occupy his mind. Truckers needing a pick-me-up, families needing a restroom, people in trouble needing somewhere safe, a hot meal, or simply a place to wait.

They had overnight guests, too, some for a night or two, others longer. A homeless veteran. A runaway teenager. A tired-looking woman with a little boy trailing behind her.

Whenever someone needed a bedroom, Zoro and Sanji decamped to the room Luffy and Usopp shared, using the extra bunks there. Zoro didn’t care. He’d been shifting around for decades whenever someone needed a bed. Sanji had taken longer to adjust.

He’d gotten used to sleeping beside Zoro. Before the paper roses, their twin beds had remained separate, but afterward they’d pushed them together, even if each still had its own sheets and blankets. Zoro didn’t need to sleep, but he liked to. Sanji had grown accustomed to Zoro breathing beside him, to having their own room and their own privacy. 

Giving that up temporarily was a small inconvenience compared to offering someone a safe bed, warm meals, and genuine care.

One of those guests stayed longer than most. Sanji came out of the bedroom one morning, straightening his tie. He had enough time to make breakfast and drink the necessary amount of coffee before he had to leave for work. He stopped in the hallway when he heard voices from the other room.

“These are from the war,” Zoro was saying quietly. “So are the ones you can’t see. Up here.”

The guest made a small sound of acknowledgment.

“Even if a century passes, it won’t completely go away,” Zoro continued. “But it gets easier.”

Sanji’s chest tightened.

Occasionally, Zoro would startle awake from a nap with a pained exclamation, then go quiet for a long time afterward. Sometimes he touched his legs as if checking they were still there. It didn’t happen often, but often enough that Sanji had noticed over the year he’d been living at the diner.

The guest murmured something Sanji couldn’t make out.

Zoro answered. “I found people who gave a shit whether I died or not. They offered me a place to stay in this very apartment. Which you’re welcome to for as long as you need it.”

The response was indistinct, but Zoro’s laugh was open. “Yeah, you’ll get to eat that good food, too.”

Sanji took that as his cue. He continued down the hall and cleared his throat before appearing in the doorway. “Someone say food? I was about to make breakfast.”

The man stayed for nearly a month. He helped around the diner and had long, quiet talks with Zoro. When he finally moved on, he left looking lighter than when he’d arrived.

Afterward, Sanji kissed Zoro with admiration and pride. “You’re a good man.”

Zoro tried to brush him off, looking away. “Only did what Luffy did for me.”

“Most people wouldn’t have done anything at all.”

His father wouldn’t have. His brothers certainly wouldn’t have. Even Reiju, who was better than them, still tended to look after her own interests first. It reminded Sanji how very different from them he was. He hoped his mother would have been proud.

Especially on days like the one that came later that summer, when Judge called Sanji into his office and said, “Your performance has been abysmal, though I hadn’t expected anything else. I’m cutting your pay.”

“You can’t just–”

“I can do whatever I want,” Judge cut him off. “This is my company, and you are here because I allow you to be here. Do you really think I want a dirty ex-con on my staff?”

Sanji’s fingers curled into fists.

“I know exactly what happened to you in prison,” Judge continued, contempt twisting his mouth. “It disgusts me. But Reiju thought you might still have some value, and keeping you here meant you were less likely to get into trouble again.”

Sanji’s stomach turned. Nothing that had happened in prison had been by choice.

“Do better over the next year,” Judge said, flicking one hand in dismissal, “or I’ll cut your pay again.”

Sanji got up and left, managing not to slam the door behind him. The only reason he didn’t put a fist through Judge’s contemptuous face was that Judge would have him arrested for it. On days like this, Sanji tried to remember that he was his mother’s child, not that shitty excuse for a human being’s.

He worked too late, as usual, then drove home.

Sanji had finally started parking behind the diner, where an old designated space had once been painted beside the apartment entrance. The yellow paint refreshed itself along with everything else, the words NO PARKING still crisp despite their age. 

He let himself in through the apartment’s back door, shedding his suit coat and loosening his tie on the way to the bedroom he shared with Zoro. There were no guests at the moment. Sanji hung up his jacket and tie, then collapsed face-first across the bed and yelled dramatically into his pillow. It didn’t make him feel any better. It did wrinkle his shirt.

Eventually, he dragged himself upright, changed clothes, and went to see what was happening in the diner.

A family of five occupied one of the booths: three bouncing, noisy children, a very pregnant mother, and a father who looked seconds away from crying. Luffy had apparently recognized the danger and taken charge of the children. He was doing his best impression of a walrus by sticking drinking straws up his nose. It wasn’t his best look. The kids were laughing, though, which was what mattered.

Eventually, Luffy lured them from their parents’ booth to another across the diner, close enough to remain in sight while cutting the noise considerably. 

Sanji pushed through the kitchen door and found both Zoro and Usopp inside. Usopp was just starting the family’s meal and looked at Sanji in obvious relief.

“That poor dad,” Usopp said. “And mom. They ordered anything without sugar for the kids and hinted pretty hard that something filling enough to knock them out would be appreciated.”

“I’ve got just the thing.” Sanji took over the griddle and pointed Usopp toward the prep station. “Get me potatoes, onions, eggs, and sausage. Start on toast, too. Lots of it.”

“Yes, chef.”

Sanji glanced toward Zoro, who appeared to be hiding at the dish station while washing the same plate far more thoroughly than necessary. Sanji smirked. “Problem?”

Zoro looked guilty. “Usually I’m the one who takes the kids. They respond pretty well to me.” He scrubbed the plate again. “But I’d been waiting for you to get home.”

“Oh?”

“Wanted a date.”

Sanji laughed, and the ugliness of his day faded around the edges. “Let me take care of these people first, precious. Then we can go in back and have our date.”

Zoro’s ears pinked. “Fine. But don’t take all night.” 

Usopp looked between them. “You know, I used to be quite the ladies’ man myself.”

Sanji groaned.

“A heavy romance,” Usopp continued. “Couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We were making out morning, noon, and night. Really groovy stuff. Sadly, the flame eventually flickered out, and I was left bereft and alone with nothing but my own hand for company.”

“Sucks to be you,” Sanji said with a smirk.

“Doesn’t it?”

Some months later, as the leaves turned, Sanji pulled into his usual spot behind the diner and his headlights caught a bicycle leaning against the lone trash bin. The lid stood open. Someone was bent halfway inside. The figure jerked upright when the headlights swept over him – a teenage boy.

A old security light buzzed over the back door, throwing a pale circle across the gravel. Beyond the diner, traffic hissed steadily along the highway. Even from the car, Sanji could make out the black eye, swollen cheek, and split lip. When the boy hurried toward his bicycle, the stiff way he moved suggested there were more injuries Sanji couldn’t see.

Sanji shut off the engine and climbed out quickly. “Wait. You don’t have to leave.”

The boy froze with one hand on the handlebars.

“There’s better food inside than there is in there,” Sanji said, nodding toward the trash. While the bin reset just like everything else, the trash in it was from the early 1940s, and even that thought made Sanji wince. 

The kid remained wary.

Sanji pocketed his keys and kept his hands visible. “I’m the chef. What I say goes, and I say nobody goes hungry.”

The boy’s gaze flicked toward the diner.

“You worried about paying? Don’t. If you really feel like you have to earn it, you can wash a dish or cut some vegetables afterward.”

Sanji waited. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t give the kid any reason to think he was about to grab him. Looking at him was too much like looking backward through time. Fourteen years old, bruised and furious, a bicycle nearby and a backpack over his shoulders.

Finally, the boy nodded and leaned his bike back against the trash bin.

Sanji led him around to the main entrance. A diner full of people was a much better invitation than some strange man in a suit telling a teenage boy to follow him into a private apartment.

A handful of truckers occupied the counter, and someone was asleep in one of the booths.

Sanji gestured around. “Sit wherever you want. I’ll get started. Anything in particular sound good?”

The boy hesitated for a long moment. “Pizza?”

Sanji nodded. He’d added pizza to the menu himself, putting up a small sign on the counter advertising it, after Usopp finally learned how to make decent dough. They already kept most of the necessary ingredients for other dishes, so there had been no reason not to. “We have cheese, mushrooms, peppers, olives, sausage, bacon, ham. Pick your poison.”

“Just cheese is fine.” The tone told Sanji the boy probably wanted more but didn’t want to ask.

Sanji didn’t press. He knew exactly what that felt like. “Cheese it is. Something to drink?”

“Coke?” It came out as a question.

“Coke it is. The moss ball will bring it over, but don’t worry about him. He’s all muscle and scars, very little brain.”

That earned a small snicker.

Pleased, Sanji headed for the kitchen, calling toward Zoro as he passed, “Coke for our guest.”

Usopp looked up when Sanji entered. “Burger?” he guessed, stepping aside.

Sanji shook his head. “Pizza. You stay on the griddle. I’m making this one myself, then I’m going to sit with him for a bit.”

He pulled a bowl of prepared dough from beneath its damp towel and portioned enough for a large pizza. A dusting of cornmeal kept the crust from sticking as he pressed it out, then he spread over tomato sauce and added mozzarella, Parmesan, and a little provolone.

While it baked, he threw together a salad. The kid would probably look at him in horror, but Sanji was older and knew he needed vegetables.

When the crust was browned and the cheese bubbling, Sanji pulled the pizza from the oven and cut it into wedges. He carried it and the salad into the dining room, setting both on the table. Zoro had already brought two plates and a set of silverware.

“Root beer for me,” Sanji told him as they passed. Zoro nodded and went to pour a glass.

Sanji transferred a slice onto the boy’s plate. “Careful. It’s hot.”

He slid into the booth across from him and pulled the salad closer. The kid gave it exactly the look Sanji had expected.

Zoro returned with Sanji’s drink, smiled faintly, and made himself scarce. Luffy normally handled teenagers, but even without knowing the details, Sanji knew this boy.

So he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t press for conversation. He ate his salad while the teenager ate pizza, glancing up every so often before lowering his gaze again. The backpack remained wedged into the corner beside him. When the kid reached for another slice, he moved carefully. Bruised ribs, probably. Been there. Done that.

Truckers left. Another arrived. At some point, a woman talking a mile a minute into her phone wandered inside, gesturing wildly before collapsing into a booth. Nami went to see what she needed.

Usopp stayed behind the line while Zoro bussed tables. Luffy sat in his usual spot at the counter, eating anything placed in front of him.

Sanji managed one slice of pizza. He knew that was all he was going to get. That was partly why he’d made himself the salad.

When the boy reached his last slice, he finally looked directly at Sanji. “Why are you doing this?”

Sanji shrugged. “Been where you’re sitting before. Some shitty old chef gave me a meal once. Knew what it meant to me.” He didn’t say anything else.

The boy finished chewing, then looked down at the last few bites in his hand. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

“We have a spare room if you need somewhere to sleep tonight,” Sanji said. “There are five of us living in the apartment in back, including our lovely Nami.”

The boy flicked an appreciative glance toward Nami.

Sanji suppressed a grin.

“Yeah,” the kid said eventually. “Maybe.” He hesitated. “Do I get breakfast?”

“You can have as many meals as you want,” Sanji said solemnly. “Chef’s honor.”

The teenager gave him a flat look. “That’s not a thing.”

“How do you know? You a chef?”

“No. But it’s stupid.” The boy immediately cringed, apparently realizing what he’d just said.

Sanji only laughed. “That’s exactly what I said to that shitty old cook who fed me.”

Sanji never got any details out of the teenager. He didn’t try. That night, he left an ice pack and a bottle of aspirin in the spare bedroom and let the kid sleep.

The next morning, Sanji was very late for work. Teenagers, apparently, slept like the dead. When the boy finally emerged, Sanji made breakfast and sat with him at the little kitchen table. 

“You’re welcome to stay, you know,” he said.

The kid hesitated, then shook his head. “Is it all right if I come back, though?”

Sanji smiled. “We’re here when you need us. Just think of that shitty old geezer in a suit who ate salad with his pizza.”

The boy snorted and gathered his backpack. “I gotta get to school.” He reached the back door, paused, then looked over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Sanji watched him wheel his bicycle away. He didn’t know if the kid would ever come back. But he had a feeling he needed to tell Usopp that his job might be in jeopardy.

The last day of Sanji’s supervised release came on a Thursday. He’d expected it to feel different. Five years of reporting changes in his life, answering questions, requesting permission, and keeping track of dates had all been leading to this one. Instead, he went to work like any other Thursday.

Sanji had rented a post office box near Germa after moving into the diner. Trying to explain that his home technically had an address but couldn’t reliably be found at it had seemed like an excellent way to invite questions he didn’t want to answer. Plus, he did need a place to get his bills, though most were paperless and on autopay. 

He checked it during lunch. Inside was an envelope from the federal probation office. 

Sanji stood in front of the little metal boxes for several seconds before opening it. The letter was brief. His term of supervised release had expired. His obligations to the probation office were complete. Enclosed was the court’s order terminating his supervised release, signed by the judge.

That was it.

A decade in prison, then five more years still belonging to the government. And freedom amounted to a few sheets of paper in a white envelope.

Sanji read it twice. Then a third time. He reached automatically for his phone, thinking there had to be someone he needed to notify that he’d received it. There wasn’t. He was done. 

Free.

Emotion bubbled in Sanji so hard it hurt his chest. The scars he bore from his time inside would never fully go away, but he was finally, officially free of the system that had dictated so much of his life for fifteen years. 

“Fuck you, Pudding Charlotte,” he whispered a little raggedly. He’d once revered women, but prison had a way of changing a man. “And fuck you, Judge, for forcing me into that mess.”

He refolded the letter, put it back into the envelope, and tucked it into his suit coat pocket. 

He walked out of the post office, feeling light, feeling like he could finally breathe.

He wanted to celebrate. Go out to a bar and have a drink now that he didn’t have to worry about someone looking at him wrong and deciding they needed to call the police. Not that he’d ever gotten into that type of trouble before his arrest, but he hadn’t wanted to chance it. He hadn’t wanted to chance a lot of things that were technically allowed, but now he could do them without anxiety lingering in the back of his mind. 

But the people he wanted to celebrate with couldn’t go anywhere. They were stuck within the confines of the diner and apartment unless they chose to move on permanently. A different kind of prison, but a voluntary one. Where the desire to help outweighed the thought of confinement. 

Sanji walked back to the office, now contemplative. He’d asked why everyone stayed, understood their reasons, and felt nothing but love and respect for Zoro’s, especially as he hadn’t known the diner would allow him to walk again. 

Sanji didn’t know if he could ever do that after living in a different kind of box. He loved cooking there, helping people, mentoring the teenager – Tajio – who showed up a few times per week. Nothing made him feel better about himself than being in the diner. And the man he loved to a stupid degree, as well as his friends, were all there.

Maybe that was the difference. For the first time in fifteen years, no one else was going to make the decision for him. 

Sanji approached the doors to the Germa building and shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind. The rest of the afternoon stretched ahead of him, and Germa demanded enough attention on its own. 

Freedom turned out to look a lot like Sanji’s life before it. He still got up in the morning and drove to Germa. He still spent his days doing work he hated for people he disliked and came home to the diner afterward. The difference was that no one checked where he slept anymore. No one needed to approve where he went or who he lived with. If he wanted to stop somewhere after work, he stopped. If he wanted to stay home for a week and cook for whoever came through the door, the only person he had to answer to was HR about his vacation time.

Two years passed that way. The diner didn’t change. Tajio did.

Customers came through for an hour and disappeared forever. A small few returned often enough for Sanji to recognize their cars, their orders, sometimes their problems. Overnight guests stayed a few days or a few weeks before moving on. The seasons changed outside the windows, bringing rain, dry summer heat, snow along the frontage road, then spring again.

Tajio kept coming back, just like Sanji predicted.

At first it had been once or twice a week. Then three times. Sometimes he disappeared for a while, and Sanji had to resist the urge to go hunting for him, reminding himself that Tajio knew where they were when he needed them.

By sixteen, he no longer looked like the battered kid Sanji had found digging through the trash. He’d shot up several inches, his shoulders beginning to broaden beneath his t-shirts, and the bike he still rode looked increasingly too small for him.

He was also currently glaring at a geometry textbook as if considering whether setting it on fire would improve his grade.

“You could ask for help,” Sanji pointed out as he browned sausages on the griddle.

“I could also get the AI to do it for me,” Tajio said.

The afternoon had been slow. Rain tapped intermittently against the diner windows, leaving crooked trails down the glass. Only two truckers occupied the counter, both nursing coffee while Zoro worked slowly through a crossword nearby. Nami was reading a book. Luffy had fallen asleep in a booth after lunch, his straw hat tipped over his face. In the apartment, Usopp was trying to repair an old radio using a manual Sanji had bought and occasionally swearing loudly enough to carry through the hall.

Tajio sat at the prep table in the kitchen, schoolwork spread around him between a bowl of onions and a stack of clean dish towels.

Sanji had discovered months ago that homework went considerably faster when Tajio was trapped in the kitchen with someone who gave a shit that he was doing it. “You get the next one wrong, I’m making you peel potatoes.”

“You’ll make me peel potatoes anyway.”

“I’ll give you a dull peeler.”

“You don’t have any dull peelers.”

“I do when Luffy uses one to sharpen a fork.”

Tajio glanced up. “Why was he sharpening a fork?”

“Something about food-to-mouth ratios. Usopp was filling his head with nonsense again.”

“Sounds like him.” Tajio snorted and bent over the page again.

Sanji finished the sausages at the same time the eggs were done and plated the lot. He set the plate on the pass. “Zoro.”

Zoro took the plate and set it in front of one of the truckers. Sanji began scraping down the griddle. “When you’re done with your homework, you still have the application.”

Tajio groaned without lifting his head. “I said I’d do it.”

“You said that last Saturday.”

“I was busy.”

“You spent four hours teaching Luffy how to play some game on your phone.”

“He sucks at it.”

Sanji knew it was an excuse. The application sat beneath Tajio’s textbook, already half completed. It was for a summer college-prep program his guidance counselor had recommended. Tajio had brought the paperwork to the diner stuffed into the bottom of his backpack, apparently hoping it would remain there until the deadline passed. Sanji had other ideas.

“You want to go to college?” Sanji asked.

Tajio shrugged.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“I guess.”

Sanji set down the spatula. “Tajio. Do you actually want to go to college?”

Tajio finally looked at him. The teenager had gotten better about that, too. At fourteen, he’d barely met anyone’s eyes. Now Sanji usually had to stare him down first.

“Yeah,” Tajio admitted. “I think so.”

“Then fill out the application.”

“What if I don’t get in?”

Sanji leaned a hip against the prep counter. “Then you don’t get in.”

Tajio frowned. “That’s your advice?”

“That’s life. Sometimes people tell you no.” Sanji knew that better than most. Jobs. Loans. Apartments. People who saw a conviction before they saw him. He picked his spatula back up. “Doesn’t mean you tell yourself no before they get the chance.”

It was something Sanji should’ve told himself before accepting Reiju’s offer to work at Germa. At least he had the diner now.

Tajio stared at him for a moment. Then he pulled the application out from beneath the geometry book.

Sanji went back to scraping the griddle. Behind him came the scratch of Tajio’s pen against paper. For a while, that was the only sound beyond the rain against the windows, the low hum of the old refrigerator, and the murmur of the truckers at the counter. Ordinary things. He’d spent so many years believing ordinary had been taken away from him that sometimes he still didn’t recognize it when he was standing in the middle of it.

“Sanji.”

He looked over.

Tajio held the application toward him. “There’s a part asking why I want to apply.”

“Then answer it.”

“What do I put?”

“Never can go wrong with the truth.”

Tajio sighed as only a teenager could. “You’re so helpful.”

Sanji wiped his hands and came over. They argued over the answer for twenty minutes.

Tajio eventually wrote it himself.

Tajio got into the summer program. Sanji drove him there on the first morning, then listened to him talk about it over pizza when he came back to the diner that weekend. School became harder. Tajio got taller. The old bicycle finally looked ridiculous beneath him, though he stubbornly refused Sanji’s offers to replace it.

Sanji’s own life stayed in its comfortable routine. He worked at Germa during the week and came home to the diner afterward. He cooked. He slept beside Zoro. He helped whoever came through the door. Time continued to pass without Sanji feeling as though he was waiting for his real life to begin.

Zoro had gotten better at asking for what he wanted, too. Some nights Sanji would finish in the kitchen and find him waiting in the apartment with a record already picked out. Other times Zoro simply caught him on his way past and said, “Come sit with me,” or announced that they were having a date before Sanji could say anything. He still blushed whenever Sanji made a production out of it, but he didn’t back down anymore. Sanji loved that. 

By the time summer began giving way to fall, nearly three years had passed since Judge had last gone out of his way to punish him at work. Sanji had started to think he’d finally lost interest.

Apparently, Judge had only been taking a break.

Late-summer sunlight beat against the tinted windows of the executive office, bleaching the city beyond in harsh afternoon glare. Heat still shimmered above the rooftops, though the sky had begun taking on the washed-out look that came before fall.

Sanji stared incredulously at Judge like he’d sprouted a second head. His salary was being cut again. For incompetence. Which Sanji knew was a sack of horseshit.

“If you want to fire me, just fucking fire me,” Sanji said, annoyed as hell. It wasn’t as if Germa was feeling a financial crunch. The company had just closed on a major deal. This was just Judge being a Grade A Asshole, probably egged on by his brothers. “Because I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of quitting.” 

Sanji was done being the patsy. He wouldn’t give in without a fight. There was nothing Judge could hold over him now. He might even sue for wrongful termination if Judge did get the balls to fire him. He’d be able to get unemployment to tide him over until he found something else, even though losing his health insurance would suck.

Judge’s lips narrowed beneath his spiked mustache. “My benevolence only goes so far.”

“Your benevolence can suck it,” Sanji said, tapping his finger against the arm of the chair. It felt good to finally tell Judge off. “I do my job and I do it well, but you’re too busy holding my brothers’ dicks to see that.”

Judge’s face turned red with anger. “How dare you speak to me that way. I’m still your father.”

“You stopped being my father a long time ago,” Sanji said flatly. “Now you’re just my employer who I happen to share DNA with, and believe me, if I could change that, I would.”

Judge bristled hard enough to make him shake. “Get out of my office.”

“With pleasure,” Sanji said, pushing to his feet. He strode out of the office, not bothering to close the door behind him at all. A petty gesture, but Judge would have to call his secretary to do it or get up off his ass and do it himself.

He returned to work, backing up every document that showed he’d done his job onto a thumb drive just in case. After that came emails, revisions, two meetings that should have been one, and a stack of reports dumped on him late enough in the afternoon to be deliberate. By dinner, most of the floor had emptied out. By ten, the cleaning crew had started making its rounds. Sanji was still at his desk, fixing numbers someone else had entered wrong and answering messages from people who had apparently forgotten normal business hours existed.

The day dragged on until it was pushing midnight before he finally shut down his computer and left for the parking garage. He couldn’t wait to get home, do some cooking, maybe entice Zoro to bed in a way that allowed him to taste the blushes.

He should’ve known that Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji would be standing by his car, waiting for him. He thought about pivoting on his heel and walking away, but what good would that do him? They’d just jump him another day. 

“Can’t you find a better hobby?” Sanji said instead, as he stopped a few feet from them. “We’re all almost forty.” 

Niji sneered. “Father wasn’t too happy with your little display in his office. Wanted us to remind you where you stand.”

“And like good lap dogs, you decided to obey.” 

Ichiji, nominally the most level-headed of his brothers, picked up the tire iron that had been sitting on the trunk of Sanji’s car. “Let’s get this done. I had a date tonight and this piece of shit made me break it.”

Ichiji swung first. Sanji got an arm up, but the tire iron still caught him hard along the forearm. Pain shot to his elbow and numbed his fingers. Niji drove a fist into his ribs before he could recover. Sanji folded enough for Yonji to catch him by the back of the neck and slam him against the trunk of the car. His cheek struck metal. Something split inside his mouth, and blood flooded across his tongue. 

He fought back this time. Not well, not against three of them, but enough to make it harder. He drove an elbow into Yonji’s stomach and caught Niji across the jaw. Ichiji answered by bringing the tire iron down across Sanji’s side. The impact made a wet, ugly sound. Sanji dropped to one knee, unable to pull in a full breath. Another blow caught his shoulder. A kick landed against his stomach and sent him sprawling onto the concrete.

After that, there wasn’t much room for resistance. Sanji curled instinctively around his head while shoes and the tire iron struck his ribs, back, and thighs. One kick caught him low enough in the side that nausea rolled through him. He heard himself make a sound he hated. When he tried to rise, Ichiji planted a foot between his shoulder blades and shoved him flat again. Blood dripped from Sanji’s mouth onto the concrete beneath his face.

“That should do it,” Ichiji said eventually.

The pressure disappeared. Sanji heard the tire iron clatter onto the trunk of his car.

Niji adjusted his jacket. “Think he got the message?”

“If he didn’t, we’ll do it again,” Yonji said.

Ichiji checked his watch. “I can still make last call.”

Their footsteps receded toward the elevators. One of them laughed at something unrelated before the doors opened and shut behind them.

Sanji stayed where he was. For several seconds, all he could hear was the hum of the garage lights and his own shallow breathing. He tried to push himself up and nearly blacked out when something in his side shifted. His left arm wouldn’t take his weight. Blood kept running from his mouth, and when he dragged in a deeper breath, pain knifed beneath his ribs hard enough to make his vision blur. 

A few aspirin and an ice pack weren’t going to cut it. He fumbled for his phone with his good hand and called for emergency services. As he did, he laughed shallowly, painfully, to himself.

At least he still had insurance.

Sanji wasn’t released from the hospital for three days. But once he was, he arranged for a Lyft back to work and went right up to Judge’s office in the same torn, blood-streaked clothing he’d been able to keep. He didn’t wait for the secretary to announce his presence, just opened the door and strode in.

“Just so you know, I’ve told the police who attacked me and they have the tire iron with Ichiji’s prints all over it. You should probably expect arrests,” Sanji said to Judge, standing in front of his desk. “Oh, and I might have tipped off Morgans.” 

Judge puffed in anger. “Why you–”

“Should’ve just fired me. Or left well enough alone,” Sanji cut him off. “How much you want to bet Yonji says something stupid that lands them all behind bars? Then you’d have four children who’d gone to prison. Not a pretty look for Germa or the Vinsmoke name.”

Judge’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

“For you to leave me alone,” Sanji said. “If you’re not going to fire me, stop cutting my pay and put a stop to Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji. Otherwise, pretend I don’t exist. You’re good at that.”

Judge glared at him for a moment. “Fine. But you’d better withdraw the accusation against my sons.”

Sanji shrugged. “Can’t. It’s already out of my hands.” 

He probably could, or inform whoever was handling the case that he wouldn’t testify, but Judge had an army of lawyers, and it was about time Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji be held accountable, even if they only got a slap on the wrist. 

Judge’s jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. He reached for his phone. “Close the door this time on your way out.”

Sanji didn’t, because why the hell should he? 

He went back down the elevator to his floor to work. He wouldn’t give Judge the satisfaction of taking any more sick days over this, even if it felt like he’d been hit by a truck. 

When he got home that night, Zoro was practically on the back doorstep when he’d opened the apartment’s rear door. Warm lamplight spilled past him, carrying the faint smell of coffee and whatever Usopp had cooked earlier. After three days of fluorescent lights and antiseptic, even the old apartment air smelled like home. 

Zoro made a sound of distress in his throat and gathered Sanji carefully into his arms. “I’ve been watching for your car. I saw you pull in. Where have you been? Are you okay? You look like shit.” 

The tension drained from Sanji immediately. He rested his forehead on Zoro’s shoulder as his love swelled. “No one here has a phone.”

He’d wanted to call as soon as he’d been transferred to a room at the hospital. He’d thought about texting Tajio, too, but the last thing the kid needed was to hear that the man who’d spent months telling him things could get better had landed in the hospital because his own family beat the shit out of him. Sanji had reported Tajio’s situation months ago, once he’d finally learned his last name, but Tajio denied the abuse whenever anyone official asked. Sanji hated it, but he knew he would have done exactly the same thing.

What he needed was one of those prepaid phones. Something they could keep at the diner without a monthly bill, so next time he could actually call home. He should’ve thought of it before. Then again, he hadn’t exactly expected to spend three days in the hospital.

Zoro’s hand trembled slightly where it rested against Sanji’s back. “Scared the shit out of me.” 

Sanji had no defense against overly muscled teddy bears. “It shouldn’t happen again.”

Zoro drew back to study Sanji. He carefully brushed Sanji’s hair away from his bruised face, revealing the stitches along his brow. “Sometimes I don’t like that I can’t leave here.”

It was something Zoro had never said before. He’d always seemed content with being at the diner. That his loyalty was to this place and Luffy. 

“Sometimes I don’t like it, either,” Sanji said, and it was the truth. “I’d like to take you out on a date somewhere else, to a movie, or a fancy restaurant, or even just a picnic in the park. But then I remember if it wasn’t for this place, I never would’ve met you at all. Met any of you. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

The diner had given him a chance to cook again. A chance to help others. A chance at having good friends. A chance at real love. He might not need the diner anymore, but he wanted to be there with all his heart. 

Zoro leaned in to rest his forehead lightly against Sanji’s. “I wouldn’t trade it, either.”

Sanji’s heart melted because he was a romantic sap, and he pressed a short kiss to the tip of Zoro’s nose, causing Zoro to wrinkle it adorably when he scowled. “I need a shower and a bed that doesn’t smell like antiseptic. Join me?”

“Okay.”

Zoro went very still when Sanji undressed and revealed the full extent of the damage: bruises mottling his ribs, back, and thighs, the ugly discoloration over the cracked ribs along his side, and abrasions where the concrete had torn at his skin. His jaw tightened, but he kept whatever he was thinking to himself and helped Sanji into the shower, washing him carefully around the worst of it. 

Afterward, Sanji pulled on his oldest boxers and settled carefully into bed. Zoro crawled in next to him, wrapped an arm over Sanji’s hips, and tucked himself close without putting any pressure on Sanji’s ribs. 

The last few days had been shitty and painful, but Sanji still fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

The hospital bills arrived a few weeks later. His health insurance covered most of them, which was about the only time Sanji had felt grateful for anything attached to his job. He paid the remainder and still had more sitting in savings than he'd ever expected to accumulate again. Living at the diner was cheap. No rent. No utilities. The food replenished itself, unless he brought something in. His largest regular expenses now were his car, phone, and whatever modern conveniences he insisted on dragging home.

The legal fallout took longer. Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji had all been arrested, though Judge’s lawyers earned their pay making sure the consequences were considerably lighter than Sanji thought they deserved. In the end, all three took plea deals rather than risk a trial. Ichiji got jail time for using the tire iron, while Niji and Yonji walked away with probation, community service, and orders to stay away from Sanji. Morgans made sure the whole ugly mess was public. Sanji clipped the article, showed it to Zoro, then threw it away. He didn’t need a piece of the Vinsmokes taking up space in his home. 

After that, Germa finally became what Sanji had wanted it to be for years: somewhere he worked and nothing more. The weeks settled back into their usual rhythm after that. Sanji went to work, came home to the diner, cooked, slept beside Zoro, and gradually stopped thinking about his ribs every time he bent or reached for something. Customers came and went. Tajio kept showing up. Life became ordinary again. 

Then the weeks became months. Another school year passed, then another. Tajio kept showing up, taller every time Sanji thought to notice, talking about classes, applications, graduation, and whatever he planned to do once high school finally let him loose. Seasons turned outside the diner windows until summer came around again.

One bright summer Saturday, Tajio showed up at the diner carrying a duffel bag instead of his usual backpack. Sunlight poured through the front windows, laying broad rectangles across the tile floor, and beyond the glass the roadside grass had gone dry and yellow beneath a cloudless sky. Heat shimmered above the pavement outside, though the old air conditioner kept the diner comfortably cool.

Sanji was behind the counter in shirtsleeves, halfway through slicing tomatoes for lunch. He still spent his weekdays at Germa but preferred the weekends when he was just the cook. His paycheck had long since stopped being the difference between surviving and not. Most of it simply accumulated now.

Sanji noticed it the second the kid – no, young man now – came through the door. Tajio had filled out over the years, the last of the gawky teenage angles gone from his shoulders. His expression was caught somewhere between excitement and nerves.

Sanji didn’t stop slicing. “You running away again?”

Tajio rolled his eyes. “Leaving for college.”

Sanji paused. “That happening already?”

He’d helped Tajio fill out applications, written recommendation letters, and scoured for scholarships on his lunch breaks. He knew this day was coming, but it still seemed too soon.

“Yeah. I need to leave for the airport in an hour.”

“Tch. Could’ve reminded us last weekend. We would’ve had a going-away party.”

Tajio leaned against the prep counter. “I didn’t want a party.”

He’d never really wanted much. A place to go, the pride of having a job, and people who truly cared about him. The bruises had stopped as he got older, but Sanji still remembered that fourteen-year-old scrounging in the dumpster, looking scared and defeated.

Now he was off to college and a whole new life full of choices and opportunities.

Sanji was going to miss him.

“Your prep work was still shit, anyway,” Sanji said, returning to the tomatoes.

Tajio snorted. “Keep telling yourself that, old man.”

Sanji set the knife down and made a have at it gesture. “Prove me wrong.”

Tajio grabbed an apron, then washed his hands – Sanji had trained him well – before taking the knife and cutting the tomatoes into neat, even slices. Sanji moved on to the pizza he was making for the trio of touring musicians who’d stopped in to use the restroom and somehow gotten talked into staying for a free bite.

The pizza came out hot and loaded with vegetables. Usopp was sitting with them, talking about music from the sixties and seventies as though he’d personally known half the acts. Zoro kept their drinks filled, while Nami managed to slip a few bills into one of their pockets without them noticing.

Tajio helped in the kitchen until he started glancing at his phone. “I really need to get going.”

“I’ll drive you,” Sanji said, already pulling off his apron. “It’s a long way to ride on a bike.”

“I was just going to get an Uber down the block.”

Tajio knew enough about the diner by now to know why it had to be down the block.

Sanji shook his head. “I’m driving.”

When they went to leave, Luffy, Nami, Zoro, and Usopp were suddenly there. Luffy pulled Tajio into a crushing hug, while Usopp offered several pieces of last-minute college advice that Tajio should definitely never follow. Zoro squeezed his shoulder, and Nami slipped a few bills into his pocket, too.

“Call us sometimes,” Zoro told him. Sanji had finally bought the prepaid phone after his hospital stay. So far, it had mostly been used by the others to call and remind him to bring things home.

Tajio nodded. “I will.”

They went out the back door to where Sanji had parked. Tajio’s bike still leaned against the dumpster where it had all those years ago.

“What do you want to do with the bike?” Sanji asked.

Tajio looked at it for a long moment. “Keep it. Maybe someone else will need it one day.”

Sanji’s chest tightened. He nodded. “We’ll do that.”

He drove Tajio to the airport, paid for parking, and walked him as far as the security checkpoint. Luggage wheels rattled constantly over the tile, and an announcement echoed overhead as travelers fed into the security lines beneath a glowing departures board. Tajio clutched his ticket in one hand, his duffel already checked. He looked toward the line and shifted on his feet. “Guess I should go.”

Sanji pulled him into a brief, tight hug. “You call if you need anything, all right? Even if you think it’s stupid or you don’t want to bother me.”

“I will.”

Sanji released him and pretended not to notice Tajio scrub a fist over one eye. Tajio walked away and stepped into line.

“Hey, Tajio,” Sanji called after him. “Don’t catch a cold.”

Tajio scoffed, but his expression wobbled when he looked back. “Yeah, whatever. Shitty old man. Still can’t believe you eat salad with pizza.”

Sanji laughed, his own voice a little choked. “Just you wait till you’re older.”

Tajio lifted a hand in a dismissive wave and turned away as the line moved forward.

Sanji stayed where he was, hands tucked into his pockets, until Tajio disappeared beyond the security checkpoint.

Then, with a heart both heavy and full of pride, he turned and headed home.

Two more years slipped by before Sanji quite realized where they had gone.

On the morning of his forty-fifth birthday, he eyed his hair in the mirror. It fell past his shoulders in waves he’d inherited from his mother. He was due for a trim, but he’d started to like it at this length. He could tie it back when he cooked, and Zoro liked to wind a strand around his finger when they lay in bed.

He’d shaved and neatened his goatee. There wasn’t anything he could do about the Vinsmoke curl of his eyebrows unless he shaved those, too, and that would look equally ridiculous.

It was hard to believe he was forty-five today. The last few years had gone by in a blink, compared to the dragging days before he’d turned forty. Zoro and the others hadn’t changed. Tajio was in his sophomore year of college now, though he still texted occasionally. Sanji knew his life would carry him elsewhere. Eventually, the diner would become a memory he held dear, the way Zeff and the Baratie remained for Sanji. 

Sanji left the bathroom and crossed the hall to the bedroom. The same twin beds were pushed together, the same blankets and pillows on top. He’d added a decorative throw that would eventually fade, but he intended to enjoy it until it did. A framed photograph of him and Zoro sat on the dresser, Zoro’s arm around Sanji’s waist and his dimples on full display. Sanji had taken it with his phone and had it printed, along with one of all five of them that now sat in the living room.

He dressed in a double-breasted black suit over a blue pin-striped shirt and black vest, adding a matching tie and neat pocket square. He put on his polished black shoes, tucked his windup pocket watch into place, and slipped his wallet into his pocket just in case.

Noise was already spilling from the kitchen when he left the bedroom. He could smell breakfast and, beneath it, the unmistakable scent of burning birthday candles.

“Happy birthday, Sanji!” Luffy shouted the moment Sanji stepped into view.

Nami whistled. Usopp hooted. Zoro simply smiled at him.

Breakfast covered the kitchen table, served family-style with empty plates waiting – though crumbs already dotted the one in front of Luffy. In the middle sat a slightly lopsided birthday cake covered in poorly spread powdered-sugar icing. Twelve thin candles burned across the top. Morning light came through the kitchen window, catching on the chrome handle of the old refrigerator and the electric kettle Sanji had brought years ago. 

Sanji had known they were planning this. He’d mentioned that he was turning forty-five, and that had apparently been enough for everyone to decide he required a birthday breakfast before work.

They didn’t know he’d quit Germa yesterday.

“Make a wish and blow out the candles so we can eat!” Luffy urged.

“All right, hold your horses.”

Sanji poured himself a cup of coffee first, because needs must, and took a sip before setting it on the table. He rested a hand on Zoro’s shoulder and looked around at them – Luffy with his wide smile and ever-present straw hat, Nami wearing a knowing smirk, Usopp already launching into a story about his wildest birthday party, and Zoro, who reached up and squeezed Sanji’s hand. His gaze was warm and full of love.

“I’d like to make my wish,” Sanji said.

Usopp’s story trickled to a stop.

Sanji looked at all four of them. “I wish to remain here, with all of you, if you’ll have me.”

For once, nobody immediately spoke.

Luffy’s smile softened. “You’re choosing to stay?”

Sanji nodded. Something in his chest settled as he did. “Permission to fully join the crew, Captain.”

Luffy threw his head back and laughed. “Yes! Of course!”

Usopp shot to his feet, rounded the table, and practically tackled Sanji in a hug. “Now I never have to be in charge of the kitchen again. Thank you!”

“I knew there was a reason you were hiding money in the closet,” Nami said smugly.

Sanji was reasonably certain she’d already counted it. “I wasn’t going to leave it sitting in the bank, even if it never gets used.”

Usopp released him and retook his seat. “I knew all along today would be the day. I’ve known for weeks – no, months – no, years! Years! My ability to see into the future is why the CIA has been after me.”

“Why didn’t you see yourself burning the bacon?” Nami asked.

“My inner sight needs glasses.”

Sanji felt Zoro’s fingers weave through his. When he looked down, Zoro’s cheeks were pink, but his smile was so broad it nearly matched Luffy’s. “You’re really going to stay?”

Sanji squeezed his hand. “Yeah. I’m really going to stay.”

“Sanji, blow out the candles!” Luffy demanded.

“Yeah, Sanji,” Zoro said, squeezing his hand back. “Blow out the candles.”

Sanji looked at him for another moment. “You can call me ‘Cook.’”

Zoro’s expression went wonderfully soft.

Then Sanji leaned forward and blew out the candles.

End