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    Summary

    The fever had come on like a thief in the night, slipping past Sanji's defenses while he slept. Now, the world swam in a haze of heat and light, each breath tasting of copper and regret. He lay tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second, feverish membrane, and everything hurt with a dull, persistent ache that radiated from the marrow of his bones.

    Well, he had it coming, with how many hours he had put into working himself into the ground because of his little restaurant—his pride and joy, his dream come true against all odds (especially his genitor’s disgust; Zeff, on the other hand, his real father, oh. He had been so proud.) He'd worked so hard, so tirelessly, to achieve this, and now his body was punishing him for it.

    But it was fine. He could handle a little fever.

    What he couldn't handle, however, was Zoro.

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