Sanji will just go knock. Appease his own sense of responsibility, get yelled off, and come back to his own bed knowing he tried. It’s the least he owes the frustrating marimo, as crewmates; to at least make sure he’s got options.

Despite literal years of Zeff badgering Sanji and trying to get him to give up being the sous-chef at the Baratie and go on his own adventures already, Sanji refuses. He owes Zeff his life, his past and future, everything he can give the old man—he's not leaving. His occasional excursions elsewhere and back are just temporary ('internships,' Zeff calls them), and he always eventually returns home. This time Sanji visits Tottoland, excited to learn from the culinary envy of the world, but he encounters a lot more trouble there than he expects in Charlotte Katakuri.

Every step Sanji took, he wanted to die. Every step he took, gods, he felt alive. It was strange, odd, uncomfortable, glorious, his mate's arm around his shoulders, all burly muscle, tucking Sanji under impressive biceps and up against just-as-impressive obliques. You'd think Zoro was an alpha to look at him on a normal day. Broad, head high as always - could he have walked any other way if he tried? - dripping confidence, exuding well-earned ego. And his lover, Sanji, so much narrower, several inches shorter with their carefully chosen shoes, head a little ducked as he smoked through a slim little black filter. "I think I'm gonna have a fucking heart attack." "Good thing I'm here to give you mouth to mouth, cutie."

None of them called him the "ship's omega." It wasn't... really like that. A lot of ships had omega crewmates whose station was defined by their secondary sex, or at the least who joined up knowing what their job was among a shipful of pirates out to sea for weeks at a time. Zoro was not that. He wasn't a friend with benefits or a glorified servant or even one of the so-called Crewman Os who had their own jobs and stations but lay down and made their bodies available when a crewmate needed it. He was just... Zoro.

Law still remembered his first whiff of the first omega to capture his attention. He was no fool, of course - he was a doctor, and he lived that title - knew that omega meant nothing in the realms of personality and power, no more than woman did. But the combination, so clearly Mugiwara's right hand at his beck and call and just as clearly his own man, was staggering. Confusing. God, it had nearly bowled him over.