apple of my eye

He’s slathered in daylight and smoke when he turns to you from your bedroom window. 

Had it been up to you, you would’ve had him three times by now. Yet, rightfully so, he insisted on taking a long shower to cleanse himself of last night’s sin. 

And boy are you grateful for it. 

His hair is still wet from the shower, casting droplets down his chest and soft tummy like falling stars, covered only by a delicate lilac towel loosely wrapped around his waist. He truly is a sight to behold. You insisted on putting his sweats and boxers in the washing machine to deplete last night’s accident, and you’re trying so hard to make him find some way to pass the time. 

Preferably naked. Preferably on top of you. Preferably inside you. 

You’re hiding your nose away from the cold that invades your room through the open window Eddie’s smoking out of. 

You’re staring at him like it’s a secret. Like your skin doesn't want to be licked and rubbed raw for the better part of the day. Like you’re itching for his head to slot himself in between your thighs, and let you stain your sheets with release after release. 

Even the thought of just lazily playing with each other without ever getting to the real thing makes you abuzz with need. Perfect for Eddie’s whole ‘self-torture’ shtick.

The city buzzes alive in the midday rush, the open window letting in smudges of voices, bells, and cars. Eddie finds bliss in how alive he feels in that moment, ashing his cigarette on a pretty ceramic ashtray. 

 “So, chef–” you begin, but a loud hum interrupts you. 

“Nuh-uh. No chef here,” he exhales the smoke of the remaining embers out of the window. “Chef  is reserved for the four walls of the restaurant. At my place, here, anywhere else, it’s Eddie,” he intimates.

It makes him uncomfortable, not separating himself from the steely-resolved chef that mans the kitchen. 

He’s just a man. A very weak-willed man, when you’re around. He hears a distant chuckle. 

“Oookay,” you drag, smile pulling at your cheeks. “So what if, say, I was overcome by a throe of unending lust for you right after service,” you trail off, and Eddie knows exactly what you mean by that. He snickers. 

“‘Ovecome by a throe of unending lust’? Jee-sus, Jane Austen” he mocks. It births a cough from the depths of his throat, and he decides he’s done smoking for now. You laugh in turn, throwing a pillow at him, which he catches with no effort, and it shouldn’t be as hot as it is. 

“Well,” he begins, his tone of voice dropping from his previous amusement as he throws the pillow back onto your bed. “If you were overcome by lust at the thought of me tweezering sprigs of chives, and blotting plates for hours on end, I guess my office can be off limits to chef,” his bottom lip is tucked between his teeth as he stalks towards the bed, and he’s a marvel. 

Soft, relaxed stomach, with a smatter of black, brown, and grey hair painting both his chest and the trail down to his pelvic bone. The tattoos move around and flex with every stalking movement of his arms and shoulders, as he walks to your bed, on the opposite side of where you’re laying. 

The towel is quickly forgotten on the soft carpet of your floor with a light thud, crawling over to sit next to you, covering himself up with your blanket. Now he’s naked and half-hard, pressing against the side of your thigh.

“What about the fridge, chef?” Now you’re teasing. He shakes his head, noticing the way your eyes cannot stop themselves from wandering to whatever might be underneath the blanket.

“That’s kinda hot,” you exhale, half-delighted, and the other half stirring in the better part of you.

“No fridge, you pervert,” he counters, accompanied by a soft laugh. 

“Would we be compromising the integrity of the lettuce, chef?” You bat your eyes up at him, mouth curled in a mocking pout. “Oh, maybe the parsley will start wilting from the trauma,” you laugh, beating your hand on the mattress. 

“‘M serious, kid. No fridge,” but there’s a smile creeping through his lips at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation. 

His hand creeps to the side of your neck– upwards, to crook under your chin to make you look at him– you tremble at the seemingly innocent gesture. “And it’s Eddie. Y’can follow simple rules, yes?” 

His remark is pointed, intimidating. 

It adds straight to the syrupy mess between your thighs. 

You simply nod, then change the subject to the million dollar question that’s been floating in your head since he’s agreed to this ridiculous deal. 

“So, how are we gonna do this?” You quip as you lay your head down on his shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes. “Are we doing some sort of hand signal, maybe a travel pigeon? OH– what about wax-sealed letters?” 

The more you talk and open up to him (in more ways than one), the more he realizes how funny and witty you are. The crystalline sound of your unabashed laugh, the way that your body jolts with each all-consuming cackle. 

The way your mouth curls when you have a joke or a witty remark ready to shoot, like a trigger-happy cowboy. 

The more he notices stuff about you– the involuntary twitch in your pinky, and the curl of your nose, the more he realizes he’s leading towards an impossibly tall ledge he won’t be able to go back from unless he sets some serious boundaries with himself. 

“Very funny. Gimme your phone,” he offers his hand, opening and closing it like toddlers do when they want something. You find it endearing, in a way that warms you like a blanket on a biting snow day. 

You oblige, peeking over his shoulder as he types. Ten simple numbers, but it might as well feel like a marriage proposal with how nervous holding your phone is making him. 

He writes himself down as ‘Edith Murray’, at which you curl your nose. 

“Edith Murray? Are you in the witness protection program, or something?” You giggle. He sends himself a plain ‘chef’ text to his phone, which dings in response.

“It’s better for both of us if nobody ends up knowing about this,” he reaches for your bedside table, where his phone has been charging. 

The admission, as true as it is, can’t help but make something painful and acidic bubble in your chest. A bitterness that crawls up in the back of your throat that makes you need steadying, as you loosely hold on to his shoulder. 

“I can keep a secret, don’t worry,” you exhale, watching him grab his phone and write your number down as ‘Mark (Produce)’. 

“Oh yeah, because finding out that you’ve been fucking the produce guy and asking him to come over is totally acceptable,” you snort. 

“Every chef has had at least one mutually beneficial fling with their produce guy,” he grunts when he stands up, a shadow of his age. You watch him wrap his still-damp towel around his hips, venturing to the dryer, where his clothes have been sitting limp for an hour. 

He’s covered by a now clean pair of boxers when he plops back down next to you. 

“Have you?” you ask, nudging an inked shoulder. 

“Have I what?” 

“Had a fling with your produce guy?”

You see him debate with himself– kind of like teetering on the edge of a confession, except he seems to be… amused about it?

“At the Mairmont in Bushwick. I was maybe… dunno, twenty-five? His name was Garrett something,” he sucks his teeth “I’d give him weed in exchange for first pick on the produce,” he snickers, while you absentmindedly trace figure eights on his shoulder blades. It tickles him, but he doesn’t say anything. He likes it when you touch him so casually, just to keep your hands busy. 

“... Among other things,” it comes out as a mumble, but you hear it loud and clear. “I was tryin’ to get on the head chef’s good side, that guy was an asshole,” he shrugs.

“So you’re not a boring old man after all,” you squeak, your voice full of surprise. 

He feigns shock in your response. 

“‘That what you think of me, kid? Boring?” He cages you in between his arms, while you look up at him, with expectancy in your eyes. 

The same eyes you gave him the first night, with the cigarettes. You know from his gravelly tone of voice where this is going, and you’re not sure if you can refuse it, despite how sensitive the anticipation has made you. 

You feel him lazily press himself against the soft skin of your thigh.

“Need something, chef?” you slur against his lips, which have lowered down to your face. It makes him uncomfortable, how sure of yourself you are. 

The swagger in which each word is weighted in, planned to get a reaction out of him. 

“You never learn, do you?” 

“Teach me, then,” you breathe, and he feigns a dramatic exhale before lunging into another kiss. 

He’s vocal, groaning and exhaling into your mouth, like he’s been stopping himself from doing this for the past two hours through sheer force of will alone.

His hands wander at your waist, where his grip becomes firm, yet soft. He feels the cotton of your shirt and the outline of your body underneath, and there’s nothing he wants more than to see you fully naked, for the first time. 

Revel in each bump, hair, and mole. He wants to smell what makes you so quintessentially intoxicating to his brain. He moans against your teeth at the thought.

The comfortable shirt that’s covering you bunches at your waist with the help of his scarred hands. Up, up, up. 

“Hands up, baby,” he purrs against your lips. 

Following his commands comes so easy to you, like blissfully floating down a river. The offending shirt comes off your chest, while his hands knead and explore the skin like he’s trying to memorize it a second time. 

You keen under his touch, with fingers tightening against his wet scalp, where you can still feel the talcy smell of your shampoo and body wash on him. 

His eyes are dark, hidden by the expanse of his brooding brow bone that casts a shadow over them. 

You play with the hoop earring on his right lobe, and to your surprise, that elicits a guttural sound from him. It makes you smile against his lips, as he slots his leg in between your thighs. 

He feels it. The warmth, the humidity. The heady smell of you that reaches his nostrils, unable to hold himself back from inhaling it as it cowers in between your bodies.

He revels in the wetness that meets the hairy skin of his inked thigh– a shirtless siren holding a cake, a souvenir of his pre-frontal lobe development days– and the airy sigh that escapes your lips. 

Eddie’s lips move from the sore plumpness of your lips to the soft skin of your jaw, in a half-kiss, half-bite frenzy, while he holds your hips down on his leg. 

It doesn’t take him much else for you to start grinding on it, as his lips finally reach your ear. 

“I’ve kept you high and dry for too long, huh?” He gruffs in a breathless whisper, watching you mindlessly nod against his chest, scratching at the skin of his biceps. 

He enjoys the fact that you made it hurt a bit. That the scratches are redder, and might leave a mark for a day or two. It makes his cock jump against the lilac linens of your bed.

“I know, angel, I know what you want,” he comforts while you grind down against his leg, letting whiny little noises escape against his skin. 

Not enough. Too much. 

“‘M just not very convinced you’re ready for me just yet,” he teases, jerking his thigh upwards a little more, and a squeaky Eddie crawls out of your parted lips.

“That’s right, ‘s not chef, now, is it? Eddie’s here, not chef,” his tone is making your head spin. 

“No– no, no, not chef,” you parrot back at him with delirious feverish intent, while he cradles your face in between his rough hands. 

Eddie just can’t quite believe he’s got you like this. After months of torture, of fantasizing about what you’d sound like, what you’d feel like against his body, there you are. 

Moaning into his hands, gasps getting airier and airier as he preps himself to finally reward this waiting game he’s tortured himself with. Half-lidded eyes, glossy and dazed, your mouth open in a devastating half-circle, as his hand nears your lips.

“You close, honey?” He whispers sweetly, tracing the perimeter of your lips with his thumb. 

“Mmmfuck, getting clo -oh- se,” you whine, speeding up the pace of your hips against him, chasing the thundering high blooming in your belly. 

“Don’t be shy, sweets,” he hums, pleased, as strings of Eddie, Eddie, Eddie fill out the dead air of your room. “You can let go,” he hums. 

And there you have it. 

It rips through you like an arrow to the back, arching into his body like he’s your only source of salvation. 

He whispers inaudible sweet nothings in your ear while you ride it out against his leg until it hurts, and you regain your hearing and sight back. 

When you open your eyes, his scruffy face is smiling. 

“Good?” 

“Mhm,” a sweet hum, a moment of reprieve. 

“Can I have you now?” 

“You made me wait long enough,” you chuckle, still a bit spaced out. “Hurry up.” 

“You’re a little too articulate,” he points out, shuffling his leg from between yours. A short gasp rumbles out of you at how sensitive you already feel. 

“What’s that mean?” 

“Means I didn’t do my job well enough,” he chuckles, moving to slot himself on top of you with a kiss to your forehead. 

“You call that not doing your job well?” You laugh, still breathless from your thunderous orgasm. 

He shrugs in fake humility as he taps the top of your mound, still covered in worn cotton. You catch the hint, and shimmy your panties off. 

“Sorry it’s a bit of a uh…” you trail off. Not sad, not apologetic, just pointing out the obvious. The dimness of the lights and the effect of the wine the night before made you forget about the hair crawling their way out of the hems of your panties. “Didn’t really expect to fuck my chef anytime soon,” a short, breathy chuckle that makes your body jolt ever so slightly, jiggling in the process. 

Eddie bites his lip. He wants you to do that while he’s inside. 

“‘M not your chef,” he grabs the back of your thigh to make your knee meet your shoulder. “And I could give two shits about the hair you got down there,” he looks down, biting his lip. 

There’s a heat that crawls up your chest and the tips of your ears at the way he’s staring at the mess you’ve made of yourself between your legs. It’s delighting him, how you won’t look at him for more than a second, always through your lashes, as if you were suddenly feeling put off by his looming presence slotted between your legs. 

You’re finally there, opened up for him, just like last night. Except this time he’s the one who’s shaking. “This okay?” 

“If you don’t fuck me right now I might kick you out without giving you your clothes back.” 

He knows you don’t mean it– the tough girl act. He knows because you’re looking at his hands instead. 

At the way they grip behind your knee, firm and calloused. How the other strokes the divot in your hip with such gentleness it makes you shiver. He doesn’t say anything, though. He lets you have it, just for this time– lets you believe that you’re running the show. 

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls, low and amused, as he pushes the head of his cock into you with a relieved groan. So warm. 

Your eyebrows pinch. The stretch– while not in its fullness– provides a sting that needs a few minutes to get used to. 

“You good?” 

“Yeah, just–” 

“That cheating hockey boyfriend of yours wasn’t as uh–” 

“Well endowed? No, not at all,” you groan out the last few words. 

“Again with those big words,” he chuckles, and the sensation makes you jump. 

“You've never been with a verbose woman before?" There's the chuckle. The one that tightens around him. Fuck. 

“Kid, I don’t even know what the fuck that word means,” he breathes, takes advantage of your lowered guard to stuff himself to the hilt. 

There’s a gasp, and a brief ghost of a sting, before Eddie sees your eyes travel to the back of your head. 

He presses his lips together in a sort of silent celebration before he starts slowly rocking himself back and forth. 

“You’re really pretty,” he hums against your ankle, before pressing a kiss on the smooth skin there. 

“And also not a virgin, you can go faster,” you pointedly comment, clenching around him as if you were trying to prove a point. 

“You’ve got a mouth on you, don’t you?” 

“Gonna do something about it?” 

It’s like breaking a soft silken membrane. The polite little act he put on crumbles fast, as his hips pick up speed without much warning. 

There you are. 

“You like it like that, huh?” He teases, tightening his grip against the back of your knee. “When it hurts a little bit?” He emphasizes his comment with a particularly harsh thrust, letting the head of his cock kiss at the depths of you. 

You tip your head backwards with a low groan. 

“Uh-huh,” you affirm, slacking your jaw lower with every thrust. “It’s goo– so good.” 

It makes him smile, how easy he was able to make you crumble under him. The confirmation that all this time of waiting, pining– for your body, obviously, for the way you’re twitching, writhing and gasping underneath him, nothing else– you wanted him just as much. 

You’re pawing at him with desperate resolve. At his flexed arms that keep your head caged, mouthing at his right wrist for some sort of stimulation. 

Ah. You’re like that, he deviously notices, licking at the milky skin full of pearly and pink scars, letting your brain finally turn off. 

He grabs at the flesh of your other leg, hooking it on his shoulder, allowing him to kiss deeper within you. 

You like it, he knows you do, because a shrill little sound you try to damper with the silk fabric of your pillows doesn’t escape him. 

“Pretty, pretty girl,” he mumbles, stroking your cheek, taking advantage of your open mouth to slip two of his fingers in it. “Verbose my ass,” he smiles to himself. 

The world around you is fuzzed out, blurred, your ears full of cotton. Each thrust– deeper and deeper within you– wrings out a new string of groans and gasps, a symphony to Eddie’s ears as he finally feels you tightening around him. 

“That's all you needed?” He mocks with a lilted tone, taking his fingers out of your mouth. A string of saliva follows the path from your mouth to a pebbled nipple, as he circles his wet fingers around it. 

He knows exactly which buttons to hit to make you sing. He’s sick in the head. 

“Ed-Eddie I–” a quick string of pulses around him that make him emit a low groan right out of his throat. 

Oh, you’re so soft he wants to keep you like this forever. No restaurant in the way, none of that extra shit that does him more harm than good. 

This is what he needs. 

“Yeah, yeah, baby, It’s okay,” he mumbles, feeling beads of sweat pearl at his forehead and back. “Whenever you feel it, ju– fuck, so tight– just do it, ‘kay?” 

He doesn’t quite see you nod, but he likes to think you got the message, because not even fifteen seconds later you’re spasming and writhing around him as he talks you down from the ledge of your own release with his name tumbling out of your lips like an avalanche. 

Violent and intense. 

He ends up coming all over your stomach with an exhausted groan. 

Shallow breaths fill in the room as Eddie tips off to the side and army-crawls his way next to where you’re laying. Limp, breathless— stunning. 

You’re so beautiful like this– eyes closed, shiny from sweat, eyelashes fluttering, lips plump and bitten, as he grabs a tissue to wipe his spend from your skin. 

You’re not speaking, which is starting to make him nervous. Did he take it too far? Did he hurt you in any way or make you feel unsafe to say no? 

From the way you were writhing beneath him it couldn’t have seemed so, but the silence causes an anxious shiver to crawl up his spine nonetheless. 

“You there, kid?” 

You nod with a satisfied hum. 

You weakly reach over him to grab your phone from the nightstand. His mouth curls in amusement when he sees you watching a video of a tiny little felt creature speaking in gibberish. He’s wearing a tiny toque and a rainbow apron, mixing pretend felt dough in a pretend plastic bowl with a whisk. 

“Ever seen this guy?” You croak, turning your phone to him. 

“Can’t say I have,” he shrugs. 

“Aw c’mon chef! It’s you, but in tiny green form,” you laugh, pointing at the gibberish-speaking green creature. 

Eddie’s brooding face curls in displeasure, which makes your smile widen even more. 

“The only thing we got ‘n common is that dumb toque,” he huffs, in a fake offended tone. Then you finally turn off your phone. 

“I think you were upset I was giving more attention to Tiny Chef than to you,” you muse. “Gimme a second and we can go another two rounds,” you exhale. 

“Sounds a lot like a threat,” he chuckles, biting at your shoulder. You squeal in return. 

This whole casual thing was going to be easy.

Eddie’s never been more relaxed in his life. 

His hands are steady as he places spumous clouds of egg whites on top of a small, sweet lavender and lemon tarts, then a sprig of dill on the steamed hollandaise branzino with the crispy skin flakes, then crispy, toasted sourdough pan con tomate with yellow datterini tomatoes. 

He makes more of ‘The Girl’ than he’s ever made in the past month. 

He finds himself perking up at every notification on his phone. 

Times where he would be bent over his leatherbound journal sketching and planning for the upcoming menu change, are replaced by staccatos of checking his phone in between the strokes of his pen against the yellow pages. 

Hoping to see the small banner that conceals your true identity as you pass by the open office door and give him a barely-there glance. 

From: Edith Murray 

You look really pretty today 

Two minutes go by after his phone dings again, and he whips his head up from the intricacies of menu planning. 

From: Mark (Produce) 

Why thank you, Edith. 

Am I coming over later? 

From: Edith Murray

If you don’t fuck up the tables like you did yesterday 

From: Mark (Produce) 

Mean :(

From: Edith Murray

I’ll show you how mean I am later. 

Wait for me after clean-up. 

And when he sees you stare at him, as he hauls huge crates of produce from the fridge, it doesn’t take him long to reach for his back pocket. 

Stop droolin

Table 12 needs you

And he can imagine the wicked smirk that blooms on your lips while reading that. 

Eddie finds that you love giving. 

Giving him little desserts, as he finds breakfast cakes, loaves, store-bought donuts and cake pops appear on his already overcrowded desk. Often accompanied by little encouraging notes in his recipe journal.

Good luck with your menu meeting today ! xx

Stop by the bathroom for a kiss ? 

That shirt you wore yesterday (the black one with the buttons) made you look really hot xx

He saves them all like little secrets in a recipe book in his office. As much as he grumbles about ‘No more sweets, kid. I mean it. Gotta watch my cholesterol,’ he enjoys being taken care of and fed every once in a while. 

Especially when he’s having extra rough days. The ones decorated by intense screaming matches between him and the other chefs, broken plates and cups, and overcooked food.

You love giving him back massages after  double lunch and dinner shifts, you love having him in your mouth in his office. His head tilted back as he pulls at the tie of your uniform to make you take him deeper. He’s groaning into his hand, leaving tooth-shaped marks against the marred skin. 

He gets back to working on the new menu, thinking if he should make a summer edition of ‘The Girl’. 

– grilled pineapple chicken 

– cashews 

– lemon burrata (maybe feta?) 

– lemon balsamic glaze

He finds it ironic, how ‘the girl’ in question becomes a new nightly ritual for him, along with his post-service cigarettes. 

He’s bullying himself into you hard and fast, with a large hand clasped around your mouth to contain the spillage of sin that pours out of you. 

Whispered chains of Yes, good girl and Want me deeper? Yeah, you do deafen your ears, wetting the skin of your neck with his warm breath. Your leg is hooked around his hip, while one hand holds the rickety backdoor closed with steely resolve. 

The other hand switches destinations, quite unsure of where to land itself comfortably, going from his hair, to the crook of his arm, his hand catching mewls and soft, exhausted tears, balancing a cigarette between his lips.

The smoke makes your eyes burn. 

“Mmmfuck Eddie,” you squeak against the tight seal of his fingers. 

He bends your leg as far as you can take it, hitting deeper within the spongy softness of your walls. 

You hear him say you did really well, as you escalated a situation with a rude customer who didn’t get the wine they wanted, and catching him at expo before his dish went out without the crouton on the side. That you’re so good, doing what he asks you to do– whether it’s meeting him in his office thirty minutes before service to get you to ride him in the office chair, or grabbing him more prep from the fridge. 

He still yells at literally everyone else. After all, his temper is part of what makes him so attractive.

“Am I fucking hallucinating or I don’t see that plate of cavatelli I asked for six minutes ago!?” 

“Are you weak bitches making sandwiches in mommy’s kitchen?!” followed by a stately “No, chef!” 

“Are you CHEFS?!” 

“Yes, chef!” 

“The fucking act like it, Christ,” he proceeds to mutter under his breath. 

He’s never lenient about laziness, not when he’s the well-oiled machine he is, and expects everyone to trail behind him as he would. 

“Is this the fucking time to be playing with fucking new recipes, Chef? Follow the menu!” He scolds the new pastry chef, Chef Buckley, who had joined the restaurant only a couple weeks before.

You can see it in the chef’s eyes, how her lower lip trembles once the man turns around to sulk in his office. 

Yet you don’t reprimand him. You don’t counsel him. You know your place in his kitchen. 

The only people he never yells at are chef Wheeler and chef Byers, only because he knows he will get yelled at back. 

He found out the hard way, unfortunately. 

During one of the first soft openings of the restaurant, when everyone was still getting used to the menu and the rhythms of service, Jonathan took too long with the pasta course. The added stress of the grand opening being only a week away cost him a scolding from none other than Nancy, who told him to dare raise his voice to either one of them once again and they would have walked out the door as quickly as they had accepted the offer to work with their longtime colleague. 

After that day, Eddie never dared to lose his temper around them, as he couldn’t afford to lose two of his best and most efficient chefs. 

“86 the wagyu and the pea puree. Substitute it with regular mashed potatoes,” he exhales, watching you pass behind him at expo. 

He extends a hand behind him to expose a neatly folded post-it note for you, which you deftly grab, as he goes back to discussing tonight’s menu. 

Once you’re in the locker room, you open up the note. 

My office. 20 mins 

P.S: I like that hair on you

It’s still pulled away from your face, so he can look at the way your eyes light up at the casual praise he throws your way when you’re able to balance four plates on the expanses of your arms and hands or identify the right wine at first taste. 

However, it’s not in the usual ponytail or the braid, and Eddie likes that. He likes the way it frames your face, the way it invites him to stare at the glossy shine on your lips when you sneak into his office after he’s done with dinner prep.

His tongue is already parting at your glittery mouth. It’s not blackberry flavored, this time. He swipes his tongue to taste the brown hue on your lips. Caramel. 

He burrows his nose in the space behind your earlobe, and inhales. Vanilla. 

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he moans against your skin. 

“Ed-die, my makeup,” you protest at the way he rubs his cheek against yours, how he licks and kisses at your jaw. 

“‘S okay, lemme muss you up just a bit,” he coos, pressing a hand on top of your head to lower you down to eye-level with his zipper. 

“Okay, but quick,” you mutter, “thirty minutes ‘til service, and you can’t send me out looking like this.” 

“Like what? Pretty and beautiful?” The compliments make your lower lip catch on your teeth, as you look up at him. 

“You know what I mean, old man,” you roll your eyes and lower his zipper. 

“Oh, so now I’m old,” he chuckles, placing his hand atop your head, gently patting at the hair there. 

“Just a bit,” you scrunch your nose at him. He knows you’re joking.

“I think you’re talking a bit too much for someone who’s on her knees,” but he says it with an infectious smile. It comes so easy when he’s with you, as much as he tries to suppress it. 

As much as he won’t admit to himself that he wants you even when you’re not there. That maybe things were better when he avoided you. When all his hurt was slotted inside himself, rather than on his sleeve, where if you looked hard enough, you’d be able to see it. 

“Yes, chef!” A sharp tug at your hair at the name that makes you laugh, “Ow ow ow, sorry! Eddie!”  

He’s not used to this anymore. 

To the sex, the attention you’re dutifully providing him. The smile that haunts his sleeping and waking moments, and oh, your smell. 

It truly is your smell that haunts him. Sweet, musky, clean– so quintessentially you. 

He’s ashamed to admit he’s spent several minutes in front of your vanity staring at the various bottles of creams and perfumes to try and identify the culprit. What makes you smell so intoxicating he can smell it on his clothes when he’s doing his laundry. 

The way that he presses a shirt you wore, drenched in your perfume against his nose, as his hand desperately wraps around his cock, and tugs, tugs, tugs with your name on his lips. 

It sounds like he’s crying, sometimes. 

As he wipes his stomach he rolls his eyes at himself. How pathetic he is for you. 

He cringes at himself, sometimes, when you give one of the other waiters a flirty glance when you ask him to fold the napkins for you. He hates the way his stomach churns and turns, seeing you look at that scrawny waiter with the same eyes you look at him with. 

Fuck– he can’t. 

It’s Saturday night and he’s drunk with Steve as the latter blabbers on about a certain Julia, with whom things seem to be going in the right direction, then about his father– how he’s been more irritable about the restaurant’s revenues. 

“Yeah– I’ve heard that he wants to close a few restaurants without Michelins,” the blonde man in front of him slurs, on his second old-fashioned of the evening. “You shouldn’t worry, though. The restaurant is fairly new, I doubt my old man would be evil enough to not put that into consideration,” he huffs. 

Eddie’s not listening, though. 

He’s on his fourth drink. A stupid blackberry cocktail, because the word ‘blackberry’ on the menu beckoned him like a siren to his death. Another cringe at himself. 

But he’s unable to stop himself. He can’t stop himself from watching the entrance of the swanky bar Steve had brought him to with the promise of paying for drinks. Even though Eddie knows he would end up insisting on splitting the too-high bill regardless at the end of the night. 

Same old song and dance. 

He half-expects you to walk in. To turn into one of the lively girls at the bar, your arm linked up in Tina’s, like that first night. 

His back hurts, and he regrets even having said yes to Steve. Even though time and their busy schedules won’t allow them to meet any more than twice a month outside of the occasional business-related check-in at the restaurant, he’d still rather be at home.

His phone dings as Steve’s ramble drones into the background, along with the early 2000s music they used to party to when he was in school. 

From: Mark (Produce) 

Doing anything rn?

I’m watching Jersey Shore

Tina’s pestering me to go out, but I’m beat

From: Edith Murray

Out with my buddy Steve.

Bit late to go out, isn’t it? 

Mark (Produce): 

Could tell you the same thing

Isn’t it past your bedtime old man? 

Edith Murray: 

Keep making these old man jokes, please. 

They’re never gonna get old.

“Are you finally getting laid?” Steve’s voice cuts through the background noise enough for Eddie to drop his phone like it bit him. A gulp. “Who’s Mark?” 

Steve’s got a smile on his face that appears to be proud. Eddie feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“Oh– no he’s… he’s no one,” he scolds himself for his carelessness. Fucking stupid. 

“Do I know a Mark? Did I introduce you to a Mark?” He rubs his chin in thought, while Eddie’s hands are trembling and he’s debating a very indignified exit. 

Maybe the old bathroom trick? Fuck– he needs a drink. 

He takes a fat swig of his blackberry cocktail, which makes him feel even worse, if possible. 

“He’s, the–uh, produce guy. You know me, same old shtick to get first pick,” he confesses, embarrassment swelling his voice. He hates that he has to lie about it, about you. “Nothin’ serious, though.” 

“If you’re ignoring me to text this Mark guy then it’s serious enough,” Steve’s hand lands on Eddie’s coat-clad forearm. 

“‘S good you’re getting out there. At some point you’re gonna win a star and you’re not gonna want anyone to share it with?” 

“What– you mean like… like… a partner?” Eddie’s breathing feels ragged. He can’t take a deep breath.

“Why not, Ed? We’re in our forties, and the random hookups aren’t cutting it anymore,” Steve’s words stab him like a lance.“I’ll probably be married by next year, I don’t want this life anymore,” the man protests. He’s right. 

What the fuck was he thinking?

Steve’s words make him sick. He needs to go home before his heart explodes out of his chair. He hadn't had one of these panic attacks in years. 

“Steve, I– I’m gonna… I feel…,” he scrambles out of his leather chair, knocking the blackberry drink in the process. Steve tries to steady him with an arm. 

“You good, man? Want me to call an Uber?” 

Eddie shakes his head, scrambling out of Steve’s hold. He doesn’t want anything from Steve. NO more handouts from him. He shoulder-checks him among heavy, panicked breaths. 

The bubble is about to pop. 

“So– sorry, man… I’ll pay you… back,” he hiccups out, running towards the train station. 

Air. He needs clear air. It’s snowing outside. 

Among the labored breaths and hiccups, he completely misses the text from you that dings in his pocket as he hops on the train. 

Mark (Produce): 

I miss you

I’m coming over

thanks so much for reading !! feedback is always appreciated <3