I thought you were just being kind.
Sanji has been in love with you since the day you joined the crew. He just… never thought you could feel the same.
(pining, mutual feelings, confession, Sanji finally letting go)
✧ ･ﾟ: * ⚓ * :･ﾟ ✧ ✧ ･ﾟ: * ⚓ * :･ﾟ ✧ ✧ ･ﾟ: * ⚓ * :･ﾟ
He falls for you quietly.
Which, for Sanji, is almost unheard of.
No dramatic declarations. No hearts in his eyes—at least, not the obvious ones he gives everyone else.
This is different.
It’s in the way he remembers everything.
How you take your tea. How you don’t like things too sweet. How you always linger in the kitchen just a little longer than you need to.
And you flirt.
God, you flirt.
Soft smiles. Teasing comments. Standing just a little too close. Sanji laughs it off every time, because of course you don’t mean it.
Why would you?
He’s used to it.
Used to admiration that never lasts. Used to being brushed off. Used to giving more than he gets back.
So when you lean on the counter and say, “Careful, Sanji… you keep looking at me like that, I might start thinking you like me,”
He just grins, lights a cigarette, and replies, “Like? My dear, I adore you.”
Like it’s a joke. Like it doesn’t mean anything, and it should’ve stayed that way.
Safe. Unspoken. But you’re tired of it. Tired of almosts. Tired of wondering if he feels it too.
Tired of the way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice— soft, aching, like he’s already decided he can’t have you.
So one night, you don’t flirt. You don’t tease. You just walk into the kitchen and close the door behind you.
He notices immediately.
“Everything alright, my love?”
You don’t answer right away. You just look at him. Really look.
“…Why don’t you ever take me seriously?”
That makes him pause. Just for a second, but you see it.
“I always take you seriously,” he says, careful.
You shake your head.
“No. You don’t.”
You step closer. Slow.
“I flirt with you. I stay. I come back. I choose you, over and over again.”
Your voice softens.
“And you keep acting like it’s nothing.”
His expression shifts. Something uncertain. Something… scared.
“…Because it is nothing,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convincing.
Your chest tightens.
“No, it’s not.”
You’re close now. Close enough to see the way his breath falters.
“I like you, Sanji.”
Silence. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
“…Don’t,” he says quietly.
Your heart drops.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them.”
There it is. Not rejection.
Fear.
Your voice softens.
“I do mean it.”
He laughs—soft, disbelieving.
“You flirt with everyone.”
“No, I don’t.”
That stops him, and you reach for him then. Slow. Careful. Giving him time to pull away.
He doesn’t.
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
“You think I’d look at you like this,” you whisper, “if it didn’t mean something?”
His breath catches.
“And you think I’d keep coming back,” you continue, softer now, “if I didn’t want you to notice?”
Sanji’s composure starts to crack. You can see it. Feel it.
“…I noticed,” he admits, barely above a whisper.
Your heart stutters.
“Then why—”
“Because I thought it was temporary.”
That hurts more than you expect.
“I thought,” he continues, voice tight, “you’d get bored. Or realize you could do better.”
Your grip tightens.
“I already chose you. I just need you to believe me.”
That does it. Something in him gives. His hand comes up—hesitates—then settles at your waist like he’s been wanting to do it for months.
“…You’re serious,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
Your thumb brushes against his collar.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Sanji exhales shakily, like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.
“…Then I’m in trouble.”
Your lips curve slightly.
“Why?”
His hand tightens at your waist—just enough to pull you closer.
“Because I don’t know how to do this halfway.”
Heat blooms between you.
“Then don’t,” you whisper.
That’s all it takes.
He closes the distance—not rushed, not careless, but intentional.
His hand slides from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him like he’s finally letting himself feel it.
All of it.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
Your breath catches.
“Then stop holding back.”
A quiet, almost broken sound leaves him.
“I’m trying not to overwhelm you.”
You tilt your head, brushing your lips just barely against his.
“Sanji…”
Your voice drops.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you, all of you.”
That restraint he’s been clinging to?
Gone.
His grip steadies at your back—still careful, still respectful—but no longer distant.
“…Say it again,” he murmurs.
You meet his gaze. Steady. Certain.
“I like you.”
His eyes soften, then darken all at once.
“…You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers.
But this time, he doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t let you go.
Not after that.
Not after finally hearing you say it—knowing it wasn’t just teasing, wasn’t just kindness.
His hand stays at your back—firmer now, like letting go isn’t an option anymore.
“…You meant it,” Sanji says quietly.
You huff a soft laugh.
“I’ve said it twice now.”
“That’s not enough.”
Your breath catches.
There’s something different about him now. Not louder. Not bolder in the way he usually is. But focused. Like all that attention he used to scatter so easily… is now entirely yours.
“Then how many times do you need?” you ask, softer.
His thumb brushes against your side—slow, grounding.
“…Until I believe you won’t take it back.”
That ache in his voice hits deeper than anything else. You lift your hand, resting it lightly against his jaw. He stills instantly.
“I like you,” you say again.
His eyes close briefly, letting it sink in.
“…Again.”
You smile, a little breathless.
“I like you, Sanji.”
That does something to him. You feel it.
His hand tightens at your back, pulling you closer—no space left between you now.
“…You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.
“Why?”
“Because I’m starting to believe you.”
Your lips brush his, barely there. He inhales sharply.
“…You keep doing that,” he warns softly.
“Doing what?”
Your voice is innocent. Your actions are not. He lets out a quiet, strained laugh.
“You know exactly what.”
Maybe you do. But you don’t stop.
Your fingers curl lightly into his shirt again, grounding yourself the same way he is.
“Sanji,” you whisper, “are you going to keep holding back?”
That question lingers.
Then—
“…No,” he admits.
And this time, when he moves, it’s deliberate.
His hand slides higher along your back, steady and warm, guiding you closer like he’s finally allowing himself to want without apology.
“You’re going to have to tell me if I cross a line,” he says quietly.
Your heart softens.
“I will.”
That’s all he needs. His forehead rests briefly against yours, breath warm, uneven. Then you close the distance—and this time, Sanji doesn’t hesitate.
He responds.
Not rushed. Not messy. But no longer restrained.
His grip is firmer now, more certain—like he’s finally letting himself have this moment instead of watching it slip away.
“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice low, “how many times I’ve imagined this.”
Your pulse stutters.
“Yeah?”
His lips brush yours again.
“…And it’s still not as good as the real thing.”
Your breath catches.
Your hand slides slightly against his chest, feeling the steady—not so steady—rhythm underneath.
“You’re not as composed as you pretend to be,” you tease softly.
He huffs a quiet laugh against you.
“You’re the one undoing me.”
“Good.”
His hand presses more firmly at your back, pulling you fully against him—no space left, no room for doubt.
“…Careful,” he murmurs.
“Or what?”
His voice drops, just a little.
“Or I stop being careful.”
Silence.
Not tense. Not uncertain.
Just charged.
You don’t step back.
“…I’m not asking you to be.”
That’s it. Whatever restraint he had left?
Gone.
Not in a way that overwhelms, but in a way that finally matches you.
His hand steadies at your back, holding you there like he’s decided—fully, finally—that you’re not something fleeting.
Not something temporary.
Something his.
“…You’re staying,” he says quietly.
Not a question. Something softer. Hopeful.
You nod.
“I told you.”
And this time, he believes you.
— 🌊 —
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