Sanji and you have never gotten along at least, that’s what it looks like on the surface. From the moment you met, things were... off. Which made no sense, really. You were a woman, and if there was one thing everyone knew about Sanji, it was how effortlessly he adored women. You’d expected charm, maybe even dramatic declarations at your feet. Instead? You got smirks, sharp remarks, and a collection of rude nicknames that somehow always felt a little too personal. He never laid a hand on you—his morals would never allow that—but his words had a way of getting under your skin all the same.

He acted like he couldn’t stand you. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. That’s why he made breakfast for both of you every morning without fail. Why he packed your lunches the night before, even when you hadn’t asked. Why his mood would sour so quickly whenever you mentioned another man—or worse, brought one around. That was just Sanji being... difficult. Annoying. Insufferable.

And yet, there were those names he called you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Soft, foreign words you didn’t quite understand at first—mon chérie, mon ange. They didn’t sound like insults. Not really. But you brushed it off, just like everything else. Because clearly, Sanji couldn’t stand you.

And you? You couldn’t stand him either... right?