Sanji was cooking, as Sanji was wont to do. The day was hot– too much direct sunlight to read on the deck and the humidity was murder– so Nami was at the galley table, chin propped on the heel of her hand, scanning a book that was far too boring and occasionally sighing in annoyance at the weather and the reading material or blowing a strand of tangerine hair out of her eyes. Sometimes Sanji would ask if she needed anything, and sometimes she would dismiss the offer and sometimes she would ask for a drink, and he would get her one.
This arrangement was working out well; Sanji was happy for her company and Nami had a place out of the sun and her own personal waiter close at hand. Eventually, however, the book became too dull to hold Nami's attention, and her eyes began to wander. They scanned the pots hanging from the wall, examined the checked tablecloth and the cracks in the ceiling, searched the stacks of supplies at the back of the room, traced the swirling patterns of the steam rising from the soup Sanji was making. And then there was Sanji himself, who, due to his busy mobility, was automatically more interesting to watch than the floor was.
So she watched. She watched his hands move with expert precision, chopping and pouring and mixing. She watched his legs, long and powerful, carry him back and forth from soup pot to counter. She watched his face, the way his expression shifted from concentration to satisfaction to contentment, the way his lips moved as he read from recipe, trying to decipher a sentence that was smudged with cooking grease. She acknowledged that he was more graceful and poised than he had any right to be. She realized that he really was somewhat charming at times, when he wasn't trying to be. She decided that he was strangely endearing and rather sweet. It occurred to her, for the first time ever because she had never thought to consider it, that he was actually attractive.
Nami was a person of action, a person of decisive maneuvers, a girl who never took no for an answer and someone who enacted cunning plans that always went off without a hitch. Nami was Nami. Nami always got what she wanted.
Nami wanted Sanji.
The book, long forgotten, was flipped shut as if to announce a plot being set into motion; a starting gun. Nami stood, smoothed her hair, straightened her dress, checked her makeup in the reflection of a copper kettle on the wall. She took a moment to compose herself– an unnecessary but traditional preparation. She walked, hips swinging and head held high, coquettish smile firmly in place, to the counter, which she leaned against in a subtly provocative manner.
"Sanji?" she said, voice laced with charm and desire, turning his name into a lust-tinted invocation.
Sanji was a reflexive creature, one who tended to act on impulse, particularly if said impulse involved a pretty girl. Thus, he dropped the soup spoon into the pot and turned on his heel fast enough to create a breeze. "Yes, Nami-san, light of my life, owner of my heart?"
Nami could also act on impulse, but hers were of the carefully premeditated sort. She knew exactly what she was doing, down to the last nuance of movement, when she placed one delicate hand on the back of Sanji's neck and pulled him forward until their lips met. She had plans for this; she took note of things, of the startled noise he made, of the tingle of nicotine on his lips, of the fast and fluttering pace of his heart beneath her palm. She treated the kiss like cartography, graphing his mouth with her own and charting his palate with her tongue, creating a key of sensory input and inking everything away in the vast, expanding map of her memory. Once she felt that this particular diagram was accurately plotted, she pulled back and looked into Sanji's shocked and baffled face.
She collected herself and changed the expression on her face to one of expectation; Sanji opened and closed his mouth a few times, licked his lips, and said "N-Nami-san–"
But Nami was too quick with conclusion; she placed one finger over his lips, causing him to blush anew and adopt a highly flustered appearance. "That," she said in an exact and measured tone, businesslike (because Nami got what she wanted, but if she gave in the process, then someone owed her something more), "will be 500,000 beri."
There was a pause as she withdrew her finger from Sanji's lips to allow him a reply. The silence was followed by a wide and unbridled grin and an ecstatic declaration of "Yes, Nami-san!"
Later, as Nami sipped her drink under the shade of her mikan trees and contemplated a book more entertaining than the last, she decided that she would only charge him half price for the next one.