Chapter Text
Sanji stood in front of his restaurant, pride swelling in his chest. The All Blue Bistro was no longer just a dream, it was a hidden gem tucked away in Tokyo’s bustling streets, where anyone, regardless of their budget, could experience the best food.
Every inch of the place carried a piece of him. The rustic furniture, carefully chosen for its charm. The warm yellow lighting wrapped the space in coziness. The constant aroma of fresh herbs and butter melting in a pan. Years of learning, sweat, and passion were infused into every detail.
After being under Zeff’s wing for so long, he had finally built something of his own, and it felt damn good. But success had its price, reflected in the tiny one-bedroom apartment he rented in Tachikawa.
Not that he cared. The space was modest but functional. A compact kitchen, just enough to throw something together when he wasn’t at the restaurant. A single room where his bed stood, a cramped but clean bathroom, and the view from the balcony? A concrete wall. Not exactly inspiring, but he wasn’t there for the scenery. The restaurant was his priority. Home was just a place to crash after long nights of work.
Nami, the landlady, greeted him with a polished smile, her professional charm effortlessly disarming. It wasn’t every day a woman spoke to him kindly, most were too busy rolling their eyes at his flirting.
He was already planning a special invitation, maybe something with wine and seafood, when she shattered his hopes in seconds. The warmth in her tone vanished as she mentioned rent, making it clear she wouldn’t tolerate delays or excuses. If he tried anything funny, she would personally make his life a living hell. A chill ran down his spine, a mix of fear and admiration. A strong woman—he loved that.
It was while they stood in the building’s lobby that Sanji saw him. A tall man, maybe a few centimeters taller than himself, loose shirt, but not enough to hide the muscle beneath. A scar over his left eye, and in addition to the three gold earrings in his ear, he also had piercings on his eyebrow, lower lip, and nose. But more than anything, it was the striking green hair that caught his attention, glowing under the cold lobby lights.
He carried himself with an air of complete indifference as if everything around him was just a nuisance. As he walked past, Nami called out, her voice sharp with impatience.
“Zoro, the rent.”
This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.
The man stopped, and turned slightly. "Fuck off."
Without sparing her more than a passing glance, he kept walking. The sheer audacity of it made Sanji’s blood boil. He already had no patience for rude people, but a man who dismissed a woman like that? Unacceptable.
“Hey! Get back here!” Sanji stepped forward, pointing an accusatory finger at the guy, who only then seemed to register his presence. “How dare you talk to a lady like that? The least you can do is apologize!”
Zoro stopped, turning just enough to look at him, his expression a mix of annoyance and boredom, as if debating whether responding was even worth the effort. His eye flicked over Sanji, scanning him from head to toe. Then, without a word, he turned his back and walked away.
For a second, Sanji stood frozen, the sheer disrespect rendering him speechless. He blinked, trying to process the fact that he had been completely ignored. His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. It took a deep breath—and a hell of a lot of restraint—not to chase after that bastard and force an apology out of him.
Beside him, Nami sighed, arms crossed. “Don’t waste your time. He’s always like that.”
Sanji let out a dry laugh, still glaring down the hallway where Zoro had disappeared.
“He’d better not cross my path again.”
Sanji learned the hard way that he and Zoro would be running into each other—a lot.
On his first day of work, as he rushed out of his apartment, he swung the door open at the exact moment his neighbor did the same. They collided. The impact wasn’t enough to knock either of them over, but it was strong enough to make Sanji step back, irritation flaring as he shot the man a sharp glare.
Zoro didn’t even acknowledge the impact. He simply adjusted the strap of the massive bag slung over his shoulder and kept walking.
Sanji’s glare followed him. The bag looked heavy, its odd shape hinting at something rigid inside, maybe weapons. Who the hell carried something like that so casually?
The thought only reinforced his initial impression; not only was this guy insufferably rude, but he probably had serious issues. And to top it off, he didn’t even say good morning, just walked past like Sanji didn’t exist.
A complete bastard.
The day was exhausting. Sanji spent hours in his restaurant’s kitchen, making sure every dish came out exactly as he’d envisioned. Every plate had to be perfect.
By the time he finally locked up for the night, his muscles ached, his body screamed for a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. But when he reached his apartment, something unexpected caught his attention, a small pile of mail on the floor.
Sanji frowned. It couldn’t be his; he hadn’t officially changed his address yet, and he wasn’t expecting any deliveries.
Curious, he bent down and picked up the letters. His brow arched in distaste at the name on them.
Roronoa Zoro.
So, the idiot next door was not only rude but also a disorganized mess who couldn’t even collect his own mail properly. Annoyed, Sanji marched to Zoro’s door and knocked hard. He tapped his foot impatiently, hearing slow, heavy footsteps approach from the other side.
Finally, the door swung open.
Zoro stood there, eye half-lidded, hair even messier than before, looking like he had just been dragged out of sleep. The expression on his face was pure, unfiltered annoyance.
The man blinked slowly, still half-asleep, before mumbling in a bored tone, “What the hell do you want?”
Sanji didn’t bother with pleasantries. He shoved the letters against Zoro’s chest. “Your address is wrong, idiot. Your mail was at my door.”
Zoro glanced at the letters, then at Sanji, and shrugged. “The post office screwed up. They put 202 instead of 201. Now my mail keeps getting sent next door,” he said, yawning.
“Then get it fixed!”
“Too much work.” And before Sanji could argue, Zoro simply slammed the door in his face.
For a moment, Sanji just stood there, stunned. He stared at the closed door, anger bubbling inside him, but exhaustion weighed even heavier. With a deep sigh, he decided to save the fight for another day and headed back to his apartment, already mentally listing all the ways he could torture that unbearable neighbor.
The next morning, Sanji woke up with a clear purpose. He wouldn’t let that bastard win, not that there was an actual competition, but in his mind, it was simple: either he took control of the situation, or he’d explode with rage every time he crossed paths with that insufferable man.
So, he did what he did best. He cooked.
In his small apartment kitchen, Sanji moved with practiced precision. The buttery aroma of golden, flaky croissants filled the air, blending with the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee. Scrambled eggs, impossibly creamy, cooked to perfection. Bacon sizzled in the pan, releasing a salty, mouthwatering fragrance. Every detail of the meal was designed to be irresistible.
When everything was ready, Sanji carefully packed the food into tightly sealed glass containers. With the confidence of a man who knew he was going to win this silent little war, he stepped out of his apartment and headed next door.
He raised his hand to knock but hesitated when he caught a muffled sound from the other side. Narrowing his eyes, he focused. A deep bass thumped through the door, layered with distorted guitars and a steady, pounding beat. Rock, something heavy. It figured, a guy like that definitely didn’t seem like the type to listen to anything soft.
Sanji knocked firmly. No response.
He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.
Letting out an impatient sigh, he knocked a third time, more insistently. Finally, he heard heavy footsteps approaching, slow, like the person inside had zero interest in answering.
The door swung open, and Sanji was ready to flash an arrogant smile. But the words died in his throat before he could even form them.
Zoro was shirtless.
The first thing that hit him was the broad, muscular chest, sculpted, firm, the kind of body shaped by years of relentless training. A thin sheen of sweat clung to his skin, catching the dim hallway light and highlighting every defined line of muscle. Broad shoulders. A strong, taut abdomen. Powerfully built arms. Every inch of him radiated raw strength.
And then Sanji noticed what he was holding, a dumbbell. An absurdly large one, something Sanji himself would struggle to lift without effort. Yet Zoro held it so casually, like it weighed nothing.
Sanji blinked.
Seconds stretched unnaturally long as his gaze lingered, too long. He knew he shouldn’t be staring, but damn, it was hard to look away when a bead of sweat trailed lazily from Zoro’s neck, down his collarbone, and disappeared between the ridges of his chest.
“What do you want?” Zoro’s voice cut through the silence.
Sanji blinked again, snapping back to reality.
Right. His mission.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened his posture and pushed aside every thought that wasn’t directly related to why he was here.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.” His voice came out surprisingly steady, though irritation flickered beneath the surface—mostly at himself. He held up the food containers. “So I made breakfast. Consider it a peace offering.”
Zoro narrowed his eye. He didn’t move immediately, just studied Sanji with that sharp, assessing gaze, like he was trying to decipher the real motive behind the gesture.
“And you’re a cook or something?”
“Yeah, I own the All Blue Bistro,” Sanji replied smoothly, keeping his expression relaxed while carefully watching Zoro’s reaction.
Zoro didn’t respond right away. Instead, he set the dumbbell down, took the containers, and popped one open, bringing it close to his nose. The rich, savory aroma filled the air. His face remained impassive, but Sanji caught the subtle shift. The tension in Zoro’s shoulders eased just a fraction, the furrow between his brows smoothed for an instant, and his breath hitched, as if he were taking in the scent a little too deeply.
“What do you want out of this?” Zoro finally asked, meeting Sanji’s gaze with the same wary suspicion.
“Just trying to have a good relationship with my neighbor.”
A lie.
Sanji’s real plan was far more calculated. He was going to be so relentlessly pleasant that, at some point, Zoro would have no choice but to feel bad for being such an asshole.
Zoro didn’t look entirely convinced, but he also didn’t refuse. With one last glance at the food, he stepped back and shut the door without another word. Sanji stood there for a moment, processing the exchange. Then, a slow smirk tugged at his lips.
Over the next few months, a routine fell into place—one that was almost comical.
At least once a week, Sanji showed up at Zoro’s door with some half-baked excuse for bringing him food.
“Leftovers from the restaurant.”
“Made too much and hate wasting good ingredients.”
Zoro would grumble, eye him suspiciously, accept the containers without much of a response, then slam the door shut with unnecessary force. Anyone else would’ve given up, but stubbornness had always been one of Sanji’s strongest traits.
And besides, Zoro never actually refused. That, more than anything, told Sanji the bastard loved the food, whether he admitted it or not. Itonly made the whole thing more fun.
None of it, however, stopped them from fighting.
The arguments ignited over the smallest things, a sideways glance on the stairs, a snarky comment in passing, an unexpected encounter in the shared laundry room. No matter when or where they crossed paths, there was always a spark, an unspoken tension that made trading insults feel almost inevitable.
And then, by the fifth time Sanji received Zoro’s mail by mistake, he decided enough was enough. That night, after returning from the restaurant, he found the familiar white envelope mixed in with his own letters. Weeks of trying to be nice had led nowhere, it was time for a little payback.
He marched to Zoro’s door and knocked hard. Waited. Knocked again, this time with even less patience.
When the door swung open, Zoro already looked angry, as if just existing in front of Sanji was a chore. He was shirtless again, holding a water bottle, sweat still clinging to his skin from what was probably another ridiculous workout.
Sanji refused to get distracted this time. He held up the envelope and waved it in Zoro’s face.
"You know, moss-head, there’s this thing called paying attention. Maybe you should try using some next time you write your own damn address."
Zoro crossed his arms over his chest, unfazed.
"And what does that have to do with me? That’s the post office’s problem. Just hand it over and go on with your life, dumbass cook."
Sanji let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head.
"Oh, sure, because I love being the personal mailman for some clueless brute who doesn’t even know where he lives."
Their raised voices had started attracting attention. Doors creaked open, curious neighbors peeking out, but Sanji didn’t care. In fact, he made a point of getting even louder, waving the envelope like it was hard evidence in a high-profile trial.
"This has happened five times! How many brain cells do you need to lose before you learn how to write your own damn address?!"
Zoro shrugged. "If you have time to act like a stuck-up housewife, you have time to deliver my mail."
Sanji’s jaw nearly dropped. He could feel the heat of indignation rising up his neck, struggling against the urge to put his foot through that smug face.
"Maybe if you didn’t live like a reclusive caveman, people would actually know you exist and stop screwing up your deliveries!"
Zoro chuckled, a low, mocking sound that made Sanji’s fists twitch. He tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze gleaming with amusement.
"Reclusive? Some of us have real jobs that don’t involve playing with food all day."
Sanji’s jaw tightened so hard it nearly ached. The hallway audience had grown, whispers passing between amused onlookers. But at that moment, none of it mattered.
The only thing that existed was Zoro—irritating, insufferable, frustrating Zoro. And the overwhelming urge to wipe that smug expression off his face.
“Better to be a cook than a walking seaweed who can’t even read!” Sanji snapped, shoving the paper against Zoro’s chest. “Here’s your damn mail! Next time it ends up at my door, I’m burning it.”
Zoro let out a long, exasperated sigh and stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his sweatpants.
“You’re unbearable,” he muttered.
“And you’re a wild animal with no manners.”
Zoro rolled his eye, turned on his heel, and slammed the door shut without another word.
For a moment, silence hung in the air. Sanji exhaled sharply, his heart pounding harder than it should, anger buzzing beneath his skin. Ignoring the curious glances from the neighbors, he spun around and marched back to his apartment.
As the door clicked shut behind him, a troubling realization crept in, one he refused to acknowledge, even to himself. A part of him enjoyed these fights far more than he should.
He took a deep breath, pushing aside any inconvenient thoughts. It was just pent-up frustration, he reasoned. Months of being buried in work without a single decent date. No soft words, no warm touch, only the relentless heat of the kitchen. It was nothing but accumulated loneliness. Nothing more.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
Proof of that came later that night at the restaurant. She appeared near the end of his shift, gliding through the dining area in an elegant dress. Her curious gaze swept the room before settling on the open kitchen counter. When she approached, she asked to speak with the chef personally.
Sanji, ever eager to indulge a lady’s request, wasted no time.
“Your food was divine,” she said, her smile soft and warm, making her delicate features glow. “I had to thank you in person.”
“ Belle dame , you’ve just made my night infinitely better,” Sanji replied, taking her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “How else can I serve you beyond the dish I’ve already prepared?”
“My name is Viola. I’m just passing through Tokyo, and I want to make the most of every moment.”
Sanji’s lips curled into a charming smile, his mind already racing with possibilities.
“If you want to experience the best Tokyo has to offer, it would be my pleasure to be your guide.”
Their conversation flowed effortlessly. Viola was witty, elegant, a refreshing distraction. Before he knew it, they were leaving the restaurant together, strolling beneath the city’s dazzling lights. The evening led them to his apartment, where he promised to prepare something special just for her.
Halfway through cooking, he felt warm hands slip around his waist. Before he could react, Viola pressed him against the fridge, her lips crashing into his in a heated, hungry kiss. Whatever he had been doing faded from his mind, overtaken by the warmth of her body against his. The soft pressure of her breasts against his chest sent jolts of electricity through him, and within seconds, he was painfully hard.
He had no idea how long they stayed like that, lost in each other until the acrid scent of burning cloth pierced the air.
“Shit!” Sanji jerked back, realizing too late that a dish towel had caught fire on the stove. The fire alarm shrieked through the apartment as he grabbed a dry towel, smothering the flames before stamping them out on the floor.
Still muttering curses, he froze at the sound of firm knocks on his door.
Fantastic. As if nearly setting the kitchen ablaze wasn’t enough, now he had to face irritated neighbors.
With an exasperated sigh, he yanked the door open, preparing to offer a rushed explanation, but the sight before him short-circuited his brain.
Zoro stood there wearing a tight white tank top that clung to every sculpted muscle of his chest. Over one shoulder, he carried a black firefighter jacket with green stripes. The matching loose pants, held up by suspenders, hung low on his hips. It was an image so unexpected—so infuriatingly attractive—that Sanji could only gape.
His gaze swept over the other man’s body, lingering far longer than he intended. He had always known Zoro was strong, but the uniform made it downright criminal.
Heat flooded Sanji’s veins—thick and treacherous. His cock throbbed against the confines of his pants, a reaction as involuntary as it was infuriating.
Why the hell did he have to look so good in uniform?
“Everything okay there?” Zoro asked, his sharp gaze flicking past Sanji to the kitchen before settling back on him with suspicion. “The alarm went off.”
Sanji opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His mind, still tangled in the damn image of Zoro in that uniform, refused to cooperate. It took him a painfully long second before he could form actual words.
“W-why are you dressed like that?!”
“I’m trying to go to work, but I had to check if everything was alright first since I heard the fire alarm.”
Sanji blinked a few times, the realization sinking in. All this time, he had never known Zoro was a firefighter. It explained why he spent most of the day out and, when he was home, always seemed to be sleeping. It also explained why his physique was so absurd.
He was still staring at Zoro, processing that revelation, when the other man cleared his throat, impatient.
“You want me to come in and check the fire?” Zoro asked, tilting his head slightly. That’s when Sanji realized the fire alarm was still blaring from the smoke.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No. There was no way in hell he was letting the marimo inside his house while he had a woman over. He swallowed dryly and forced a polite smile.
“No, thanks. You can go.”
Without waiting for a response, he shut the door, maybe a little harder than necessary, then leaned against it with a long, heavy sigh. He needed to pull himself together.
When he turned around, he saw Viola opening one of the windows, waving the smoke away with a dry towel. He was just about to apologize for the chaos when she laughed.
“Dating a chef really is hot,” she teased, winking at him.
Sanji relaxed, relief washing over him. She wasn’t the least bit bothered. Smiling, he slipped back into his usual charm, stepping closer and wrapping an arm around her waist.
“Oh, my beautiful lady, I can assure you, I have plenty more heat to offer.”
And, without further interruptions, the night continued. They ended up in bed, their bodies entwined amidst moans and muffled sighs. It would have been an incredible, maybe even unforgettable experience—if Sanji’s mind didn’t keep drifting back, again and again, to that damn image of Zoro in uniform.
No matter how much he tried to focus on Viola, the stunning, incredibly sexy woman with curves any man would delight in exploring. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought about what it would be like to be fucked by someone like him.
And then came the worst part. When he finally reached his climax, heat surging through every nerve in his body, the only thing he saw in his mind was the strong, sweaty chest of his neighbor.
Sanji cursed under his breath, turning onto his side and covering his eyes with one arm, frustrated with himself. He was definitely losing his mind.