Sanji's skin was finally starting to cool, his vocal chords easing to their normal stretch, his heart had dropped to a more reasonable rate, and Zoro was holding his hand.
It wasn't the sort of girly hand holding that was only acceptable if at least one of the participants had breasts. If it had been, Sanji would have had to kick the girly bastard in the head, hard, in order to knock the pansiness straight out of him.
Zoro was holding Sanji's right hand between both of his; the palm open and up. Every few minutes, a thick callused thumb traced the raise of white tissue in the center. It was one of Sanji's oldest scars. He had gotten it slicing vegetables in the Baratie's kitchen when Zeff had first started to train him to become a real chef. The Shitty Old Man had seen the blood and immediately kicked him between the shoulders for his carelessness, and threatened him with worse if Sanji bled into the soup.
"This is my favorite one."
Zoro's voice startled the cook from his thoughts. Sanji smirked, but didn't pull his hand free.
"You're a perverted bastard. Getting off on scars."
Zoro looked at him for a moment, green eyes darkened with odd intent, and pulled the hand up to his mouth to trace the line with a long swipe of his tongue. Parts of Sanji that were previously done for the night, reconsidered.
"It's the most you." The swordsman spoke low against Sanji's palm, dropping his gaze. "It's the way inside."
The cook had no idea what he meant, but his body understood the dark tones in Zoro's voice, the hot breath against his hand, and he hooked a leg beneath the other man's to bring them closer.
