He wouldn't leave her bedside.
Not since she'd gotten sick. She looked thin, hallow and pale. It had hardly been more than a few hours. The redness and swelling was gone, finally she hadn't looked right like that. But he wasn't sure if this really was any better. Her brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, the tear tracks long since dried.
He wouldn't leave her bedside.
Her hand trapped in his, pressed tightly against his lips as he sobbed. Sanji sobbed, and sobbed because it was his fault she was like this. His fault her skin was cold, her eyes wouldn't close on their own—his fault that her heart had long since stopped.
Everyone, even the moss brained idiot, had tried telling him it wasn't his fault. Chopper said, through tears, that sometimes people develop allergies to things that they've eaten for years. That he couldn't have known.
That didn't change the fact that he fed her the dish that killed her. That killed his belovedNami-san, that killed their beloved navigator.
Nami was dead.
He killed her.
And nothing anyone said would change that.