the galley’s quiet at 2am. The Sunny rocks gently, moonlight spilling through the portholes, and you’re the only one awake. Almost. You tiptoe in, hoping to raid the leftovers without waking anyone, when you hear the click of a lighter. Sanji’s at the stove, cigarette unlit between his lips, hair falling into his eyes as he stirs something in a small pot. He’s still in his dress shirt from dinner, sleeves rolled up, sleeves dusted with flour.