Chapter Text
Six months later, Sanji learned two things.
First: medical checkups were brutally expensive, especially when the doctor frowned too long at the scan and scheduled another visit.
Second: raising a child alone required swallowing things far more bitter than pride.
That was how he ended up standing outside the National Kendo Association’s training facility, appointment slip clenched in his hand, heart beating a little too fast for someone who told himself—daily—that he was fine.
He looked at the name in the offer letter.
Roronoa Zoro — National Championship Representative.
Sanji almost turned around. But then he thought of the envelope tucked into his bag: bills, receipts, estimates for the months ahead. Thought of the small, quiet life growing inside him, unaware of pride or grudges or unfinished sentences. So he inhaled, straightened his coat to better hide the curve of his stomach, and walked in.
The training hall was louder than he remembered—shouts echoing off the high ceilings—but Zoro stood at the center, posture loose and lethal, hair damp with sweat, presence unmistakable even before he turned.
When he did, it was slow, distracted, until his eye landed on Sanji. The change was immediate and unguarded. Shock flickered across his face, as if the past had physically stepped out of memory and into the room. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that look—disbelief sharpened by something dangerously close to recognition.
“…You,” Zoro said at last. Not a greeting. Not a question. Just a statement, flat and heavy.
Sanji stopped a few steps inside, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. Up close, Zoro looked exactly like he shouldn’t—stronger, sharper, entirely untouched by time or consequence. Sanji hated that. Hated how easily his chest ached in response. “I was assigned.”
Zoro’s gaze dragged over him in a slow, assessing sweep, lingering for a fraction of a second too long at his middle. Whatever he saw there didn’t soften him. If anything, his mouth curled faintly, unimpressed. “Figures,” he muttered. “They’re running out of options if they’re bringing in ghosts.”
Sanji flinched internally but didn’t let it show. He lifted the appointment slip between two fingers. “If this is a problem, I can ask for reassignment.”
Zoro barked out a short laugh. “You think I care?” He turned fully toward him now, arms crossing over his chest. “You’re here to do a job. I’m here to win nationals. That’s it.” His eye flicked down again, sharper this time, colder. “Whatever’s going on with you? Not my business.”
The omega swallowed, the bitterness rising fast and familiar. He told himself—again—that this was fine. That this was exactly what he’d expected. That indifference hurt less than questions would have. “Good,” he said quietly. “I don’t need anything else from you.”
Zoro stepped closer, close enough that Sanji could feel the heat radiating off him, the faint bite of his pheromones that made his omega instincts stir in unwanted, traitorous ways. Zoro didn’t notice—or didn’t care. “Then we’re clear,” he said. “No history. No bullshit.”
Sanji met his gaze, blue to black, and nodded once. “Clear.”
A young receptionist with a neat blazer and an overly bright smile was assigned to guide Sanji through the building, her heels clicking lightly against the polished floors as she led him down the corridor. “We’re really honored to have you here,” she said, glancing back at him with open curiosity that she tried to keep professional.
She first showed him his office—a modest but well-equipped space with a desk, a small planning board already filled with scribbled macros and calorie targets, and a window overlooking the indoor training arena. “You’ll coordinate meal plans from here,” she explained.
From there, she led him into the main kitchen. The head chef, a broad-shouldered man in his forties with sharp eyes and flour dusted along his apron, was introduced next. “This is Chef Tanaka. He oversees daily preparation.” the head chef blinked once before recognition dawned across his face.
“Baratie Sanji?” he asked, tone shifting from polite to impressed. It didn’t take long for the rest of the kitchen staff to catch on. Sanji had been quietly but unmistakably famous across Japan before his pregnancy forced him to step back—the golden prodigy of Baratie, the chef critics called both genius and tyrant in equal measure. Word traveled quickly, and within minutes assistants were crowding closer, asking shy but eager questions about his knife techniques, flavor layering, sauce reductions.
One even blurted out, “Is it true you built the Baratie tasting menu from scratch at twenty-two?” Sanji gave a small, restrained smile, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “It’s in the past,” he said gently. “And I’m not going anywhere. You’ll get tired of me soon enough.” The laughter that followed eased the initial tension, and the warmth in the room felt genuine rather than forced.
The receptionist eventually stepped back in, gently steering him away before the assistants could fully trap him. “The manager is waiting,” she said apologetically. Sanji nodded and followed her upstairs to a quieter wing of the building where the administrative offices were located.
The manager—a neatly dressed man with thin-rimmed glasses stood as Sanji entered. After brief formalities, he gestured for him to sit. “I’ll be direct,” the manager began, folding his hands on the desk. “The previous diet planner and the head chef had no coordination. Their communication was… lacking.” He chose the word carefully. “As a result, Roronoa Zoro’s nutritional intake has been inconsistent. Some days he’s over-fueled, some days under. His recovery has been affected.” Sanji listened without interruption.
The manager continued, sliding a folder across the desk. “There is another thing. Some days, Zoro trains from home instead of here. On those days, there is no assigned cook. If that happens, you would need to prepare the meals yourself. You would be compensated separately for the additional labor, of course.”
Sanji glanced briefly at the file before nodding again. “Understood,” he said simply. There was no visible hesitation in his voice, no flicker of personal history surfacing. Professional. Detached. The manager seemed relieved by the lack of complication. “Good, Zoro performs best when everything around him is precise.”
Sanji stood, smoothing a hand over his coat. “Then that’s what he’ll get,” he replied calmly.
He walked to his office and shut the door behind him with more care than force, as if even a sound too loud might shatter the thin composure he was holding together. He set his bag down, eased himself into the chair, and let out a slow breath before pulling Zoro’s file toward him. Years of data stared back: calorie counts, protein ratios, recovery schedules, everything optimized for a body that demanded punishment and rewarded discipline.
Sanji read it all carefully, pen tapping once against his lip, then began adjusting. Small changes. Less strain on the joints. Better balance for endurance rather than brute output. He crossed out aggressive supplements, rewrote portions, recalculated timing.
Once he was done, he copied the finalized plan and walked it down to the kitchen, handing it to the head chef with professional instructions. Ingredient substitutions, measurements, restrictions. When the chef raised an eyebrow at the lack of spice, Sanji only shook his head. “For now,” he said simply. The chef shrugged and accepted it.
“This food’s bland as hell.”
Zoro stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowl carved deep into his face like it had personally offended him. Sanji didn’t look up right away. He finished writing a note in the margin of the file, capped his pen, and only then lifted his gaze.
“I choose the ingredients,” he said evenly. “Not how they’re cooked.”
Zoro blinked, clearly not expecting that. “You telling me you didn’t tell them to fix it?”
“I told them exactly what to use,” Sanji replied. “If it tastes bad, take it up with the chef.”
Zoro’s frown deepened. He stepped further inside, eye narrowing. “You cut the spices.”
Sanji nodded once, simple and unapologetic. “They interfere with absorption. Especially in your current training phase.”
Zoro stared at him. For a moment, irritation gave way to something quieter, more unsettled. He knew this. Knew how much Sanji loved cooking—how he treated food like language, like care made edible. Zoro had seen him make miracles out of nothing . The idea that Sanji would willingly send out something bland sat wrong with him.
“You could’ve cooked better than this without any spices,” Zoro said slowly.
The words landed heavier than he probably meant them to.
“…Tch,” he muttered finally. “Whatever. Just fix it.”
Sanji nodded, already turning back to his paperwork.
Zoro lingered a second longer, like he wanted to say something else—or didn’t know how not to. Then he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a little more force than necessary.
Sanji stared at the papers in front of him long after the ink blurred. His hand drifted, unconsciously, to his stomach, thumb brushing over fabric in a small, grounding motion. He swallowed, straightened his back, and kept working.
Work ended quietly—paperwork stacked neatly, lights dimmed one by one, the building slowly emptying of voices and footsteps. Sanji gathered his things and left without lingering, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.
The hospital was only a few blocks away, but by the time he arrived, his legs ached and his back throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. He sat on the edge of the examination bed while the doctor studied the scan longer than usual, lips pressed into a thin line, brow furrowed with a concern Sanji had learned to fear.
“This isn’t new,” the doctor said at last, voice careful but firm. “I’ve mentioned it before.”
Sanji nodded. He always did.
“The child needs exposure to the father’s pheromones,” the doctor continued, tapping the chart. “Especially at this stage. It helps stabilize development. Reduces stress markers. Without it—” He paused, choosing his words. “Without it, there are risks.”
Sanji’s hands tightened in his lap. He nodded again, throat too tight to manage a response. He’d heard this. Over and over. Each visit, the same advice, growing more urgent with time. He’d told himself it wasn’t serious yet. That he had time. That he could manage on his own like he always had.
But this time, the doctor’s sigh was heavier. “It’s becoming serious, Sanji. I need you to understand that.”
“I do,” Sanji said softly, though fear crawled up his spine, cold and sharp. He didn’t trust his voice with anything more.
By the time he reached his apartment, night had settled in, quiet and thick. The place was fairly big—too big, some people had said—but Sanji had chosen it deliberately. Space to breathe. Space for a future. The nursery door was open, soft light spilling out, illuminating the small crib, the shelves lined with books and folded blankets. Sanji spent most of his time there when he was home. It made the silence feel less empty.
He eased himself into the rocking chair, body sinking into familiar comfort, and let it sway gently back and forth. One hand rested on his stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as if to reassure both of them. His other hand reached for a book from the nearby shelf, though he didn’t open it.
“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and warm despite the way it trembled at the edges. “Story time.”
The rocking chair creaked softly beneath him, slow and steady, as though it were trying to keep his heartbeat from racing too far ahead. “Once upon a time, I transferred to a new high school. I didn’t know anyone. I was all sharp edges and bad temper and too much pride for a sixteen-year-old.” A faint laugh slipped out of him, fond and distant. “I made friends quicker than I expected. Loud ones. Dramatic ones. They became my world before I realized it.”
He shifted slightly, gaze drifting toward the window though he wasn’t seeing the present. “And then there was this fool,” he added softly. “God, he was insufferable. Got lost in hallways. Slept through classes. Picked fights over nothing. We argued every single day. About food. About training. About who was stronger. About who was right.” His lips curved upward despite himself. “Mostly, it was me who was right.”
His fingers tightened unconsciously. “He was in kendo. Obsessed with it. Practiced until his hands bled, until teachers had to drag him home. I used to stand outside the dojo pretending I wasn’t waiting for him. And he’d walk out sweaty and bruised and glare at me like I was a nuisance.” Sanji’s voice softened further. “But he always slowed down so we could walk home together.”
The chair rocked once, twice.
“We grew up like that,” he continued. “Side by side. He chased championships. I chased flavors. He’d win tournaments and throw his medal at me like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean the world. And I’d drag him into the kitchen to taste something new, demanding he tell me honestly if it was good.” A quiet breath escaped him. “We were there for everything. Entrance exams. Failures. Victories. Every dream felt… shared. Like if one of us made it, we both did.”
Sanji’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep going, his voice growing steadier with purpose. “He became the national kendo champion before graduation. Can you believe that?” There was pride there now, unmistakable and fierce. “My stupid, stubborn fool. He stood on that podium like he was born for it. And I… I opened another branch of Baratie not long after. Reviews came in. Interviews. People calling me a prodigy.” He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
Silence settled for a moment, heavy but not empty.
“I didn’t mean to fall in love,” he admitted quietly. “It wasn’t some dramatic confession under cherry blossoms. It was gradual. It was walking home every day. It was him holding my bag when my hands were full. It was the way he looked at me before a match, like I was the only thing anchoring him.” His voice thinned. “How could I not fall in love?”
His hand pressed protectively over his stomach.
“We promised we wouldn’t hold each other back,” Sanji whispered. “That no matter how far our dreams took us, we’d keep climbing. For ten years, I did” His lashes lowered, shadowing eyes that glistened in the dim light. “But sometimes love… makes you want to stay. To choose something smaller and warmer and safer.”
He inhaled slowly, steadying himself for the next words.
“My love,” he murmured, and this time the endearment was for the life beneath his palm, “your father deserves to keep that title. He worked too hard for it. He carries it like a sword—heavy, but proud. I can’t be the weight that dulls him.” His lips trembled despite the resolve in his tone. “I won’t be the reason he looks back instead of forward.”
The rocking slowed.
“I love him,” Sanji said, voice firm now, almost stubborn in its devotion. “Enough to let him keep chasing the horizon. Enough to step aside if I have to.” He leaned back, closing his eyes, breathing through the ache blooming in his chest. “That’s what loving someone strong means sometimes. You don’t cage them. You don’t clip their wings.”
A pause, long and fragile.
“But don’t misunderstand me,” he added, softer now, a small, broken smile touching his lips. “Just because I stepped away doesn’t mean I stopped loving him. I still do,” he admitted quietly, voice breaking just a little.
“Even if I shouldn’t.”