#{quinn}

“Your spacing’s off,” you say finally, voice calm but carrying easily over the noise. “You’re crowding the protein. Let it breathe. It’s the star of the show, the sauce is the supporting act.”

The woman startles, eyes snapping up to you, then immediately over your shoulder like she’s checking if she’s about to get in trouble.

“What,” he starts, turning sharply, already halfway into irritation, “did I just say about-”

His eyes land on you, a flicker of confusion on his face about the stranger who was relaxing against his station, as if she belonged there. 

“Who are you and why are you standing around like you own the place?” He asks gruffly, his hands leaning against the table now. His arm veins protruded as his body weight rested on the limbs. 

“The person who does own the place gave me a key,” You hold up the silver key between your fingers, “And I’m Y/n Y/l/n, the new sous-chef.” 

“The one from France?” he asks, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel but not breaking eye contact. 

You give a curt nod, a smirk still gracing your lips. It made it very hard for Jack not to stare at your pursed lips as he sized you up.

”Ah, yes,” Ellis chimes in, grinning as she leans against her station, clearly enjoying this far too much. It wasn’t often that many people gave Jack shit.  “The prodigal daughter back from studying abroad in France. Here to give this old guy a run for his money?”

”Old?” His voice echoed in the kitchen, making Ellis put her tattooed arms up. 

“Respectfully.” She whistled, holding her hand out for you to shake. 

Her grip was firm as she gave you her name, “Ellis Parker, Chef de Partie for the French girl.” 

You nearly flushed at her warm gaze, dropping her hand as she grabbed her plate, giving you and your new boss time to talk. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see what Robby thought was worth importing.”

He holds his hand out in front of him, guiding you through the massive kitchen. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “You might like it.”

Something in his gaze darkens at that, interest threading through the challenge, but it’s gone just as fast as it appears. Your stuff is put up in a locker, while you throw an apron over your head. 

The tour is less formal than most restaurants you’ve worked in. That’s the first thing you’ve noticed, just how close-knit everyone seems to be. Which was a stark contrast to most other posh workplaces you’ve spent the last few years in. 

“Head of house, Frank Langdon with his assistant Mel King.” He points through the glass window into the dining room where the tall brunette was wildly explaining something to do with menus to the eager blonde. 

You’re on his heels as he walks, keeping up behind him like you were in a moving current. 

“Dana, house manager. She keeps this place running, don’t ever piss her off.” He grumbles, and you hear the blonde put the phone down to yell loudly at the man. 

“-I heard that!” 

“Anyways,” he continues, his shoulder pushing open another door for you two to glide through. “Santos and Garcia, our resident bartender and sommelier.” 

The younger girl is shoulder to shoulder with the older girl, polishing wine glasses with expert precision. You wave softly to them, trying your best to be polite while Jack is all but dragging you through the restaurant at lightning speed. 

You’re back in the kitchen, a guy is on his knees scrubbing at a spot on the floor while the other is rinsing the sink. 

“Whittaker, our busboy, and Ogilvie his assistant of sorts. I don’t really know what he does, he cleans.” Jack pauses watching the boy squint at him before you’re off in the kitchen again. 

The smell of sugar and vanilla hits your nose as you walk through the pastry kitchen. “Samira Mohan, our Pastry Chef. I don’t care what bullshit you saw in France, she’s better.” He boasts, and you barely catch a glance of the girl as she’s pulling another rack of pastries out of the oven. 

“There are some people I’m missing,” He huffs, “You met Ellis, then we have Shen and Crus our other chefs. We have our prep cooks Princess and Perlah, don’t tell them anything they gossip.” 

He lets out a short laugh as you’re suddenly right back where you started, “McKay and Javardi are our hosts, Joy and Emma are our veteran waitresses. We love them, Emma does our social media. So if she asks you to make a TikTok, you’ll do it because she’s too sweet to say no to.” 

“Understood,” You let out a breath, still trying your best to remember all of the names. 

”You met Robby and Heather, they’re hardly here since their daughter was born so that leaves me.” He smiles, rocking on his feet. “Jack Abbot.” 

“Nice to officially meet you,” You nearly laugh, sticking out your hand to shake his. You nearly shiver at the way his large warm hand encompasses yours. 

He switches in and out of Head Chef mode easily, immediately going into a deep explanation of how they work here. Their processes, what makes it work, and how under no circumstances are you to deviate from the plan. He was a stickler for order, that much was obvious, but you had to be in this line of work. 

“Did you memorize the menu?” 

“Of course.” You nod, thinking back to Robby shoving a binder in your hand upon hiring and telling you to study up. You didn’t think you’d actually be tested until Jack started throwing questions at you. 

“Miso cod,” he says. “What finishes it?”

“White miso glaze, reduced until it clings,” you answer without hesitation. “Caramelized under high heat, served over a bed of jasmine rice with a ginger-scallion emulsion and pickled shiitake for contrast.”

His eyes flick toward you briefly.

“Citrus?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Yuzu zest in the emulsion. Bright, but not overpowering.”

He hums, not quite approval, not quite dismissal.

“Filet.”

“Dry-aged,” you reply. “Pan-seared, basted in brown butter, garlic, and thyme. Rested properly. Served with pommes purée that’s more butter than potato and a red wine bordelaise reduced to almost syrup.”

“Temperature.”

“Mid-rare,” you scoff. “Obviously, anything higher is a crime.”

That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He stops suddenly at the pass, picking up a plate, holding it between you like a test you’re meant to fail. It’s still steaming, but there’s not much cooking happening besides prep. 

A smile quirks up at your lips, thinking of him preparing a dish just to quiz you on. You take the challenge. 

It’s a roasted chicken, split and pressed, the skin blistered and golden, glistening under a brush of jus. It sits over a bed of truffle-laced pommes anna, layered thin and crisp at the edges, soft and buttery at the center. There’s a swipe of charred leek purée, dark and smoky, and a scattering of pearl onions lacquered in something sweet and reduced.

He holds it out slightly toward you, pulling a fork out from his pocket.

“Roast chicken,” he says. “Walk me through it.”

You step in closer without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his as you lean in.

“Air-dried for at least twenty-four hours,” you start, eyes scanning, picking it apart piece by piece. “High heat to render the skin, then finish slower so it stays juicy. Basted in butter, thyme, maybe a little garlic toward the end so it doesn’t burn.”

Your finger hovers just above the pommes anna, not touching, just tracing the shape with the fork. You bring it up to your lips, unaware of Jack’s sudden interest in the counter after your tongue swipes against it.

“Potatoes layered with clarified butter, pressed, cooked low and slow, then crisped. Truffle folded in at the end, not during, or it disappears.”

“Sauce,” he prompts.

“Chicken jus, mounted with butter,” you reply. “Reduced enough to coat the back of a spoon, not so much that it turns sticky.”

He nods once, then tilts the plate slightly.

“What doesn’t belong?”

You hum, twirling the fork around. 

You lean in just a little more, close enough now that if you shifted even an inch you’d touch him, your voice lowering without you meaning to. The fork stabs one of the pearl onions, you shove it into your mouth, and grimace a little. 

“They’re glazed in balsamic,” you say.

“And.”

“It’s too heavy,” you continue, straightening slightly, meeting his eyes again. “You’ve already got richness from the chicken, the butter, the potatoes. The balsamic makes it sweet and acidic in the wrong way. It pulls focus instead of balancing.”

He watches you carefully.

“Sweetness is bad?”

“Not if it’s intentional,” you counter. “But this isn’t. It’s competing, not complementing.”

Then you tilt your head just slightly, a hint of something playful slipping in.

“You’d be better off with something brighter. Maybe a preserved lemon glaze, or even a light cider reduction. Something that cuts through instead of sitting on top.”

He makes a noise of satisfaction, “Most people would’ve said the truffle,” he admits.

“The truffle isn’t overdone, it’s a good addition. If it’s in the budget, I’d put it on the menu, minus the onions.” You smiled crookedly. 

He’s trying to hide how impressed he is, as he shuffles around. “Well, try not to slow us down tonight.” 

“Oh, I don’t like it slow.” You purse your lips, “Don’t worry about me.” 

He has an amused look on his face, “You are gonna give me a run for my money huh?” 

You shrug, “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” 

And you don’t make him wait long.

Service hits like a wave and you step into it without hesitation, sliding onto his line as if you’ve always belonged there, like the rhythm of this kitchen is something your body already understands. This is where you belong, even when the tickets start stacking. Jack glides through the kitchen like he could do it blindfolded.

You match him without thinking, your hands moving before the words even fully land, reaching for pans, adjusting heat, finishing sauces before he even has the chance to bark out orders. 

“Two scallops, one duck, one filet,” he calls.

“Scallops walking,” you answer just as quickly, already flipping them, butter foaming, the edges caramelizing into that perfect golden crust. You tilt the pan, baste once, twice, then pull them at exactly the right second, sliding them onto the plate like it’s elementary. 

Jack tries not to stare, tries to focus on his own job but he finds the way you move mesmerizing. Even when you reach for the wrong item, still gaining your footing here, you’re majestic. 

“Duck?” he presses.

You’re already slicing it, the blade gliding clean through, juices held exactly where they should be. “Rested,” you say, fanning it out, dragging the cherry reduction into a sharper line, tightening the plating just enough to elevate it without losing its soul.

“You’re moving fast,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don’t look up. “I told you, I don’t like it slow.”

There’s something in the way you say it that makes him pause for half a second too long before snapping back into motion.

The longer the service goes, the clearer it becomes. You’re not just keeping up with him, you’re anticipating him. Adjusting before he asks, finishing thoughts he hasn’t spoken yet, stepping into the exact spaces he leaves open without ever colliding. It isn’t chaotic, it isn’t competitive in a loud way. You’re not working against him, you’re not showing out. It’s a dance. 

At one point your hands brush when you both reach for the same pan, and neither of you pulls back immediately. He lingers, and you let your fingers dance over his before pulling the pan out from him. 

When service is over, the place takes a deep breath. Jack pretends he can’t smell the sweat clinging to your neck, and the soft scent of your shampoo when you pass him. 

“Is every night like that?” You ask, your skin still vibrating from the adrenaline rush. successful service. 

“If we’re so lucky,” Shen smiles, patting you on the back, “You were on fire back there.” 

“Thank you.” You smiled, listening to their compliments while your eyes were on Jack. He gave you a simple nod of encouragement, before he leaned back down to scrub at the oven. You took that to heart, ignoring the weird flutter in your chest at his approval. 

You roll your shoulders back, trying to shake the adrenaline loose, but it’s still there, buzzing under your ribs, settling somewhere deeper instead of fading.

“Careful,” Ellis calls from across the line, flicking water from a rag in your direction. “You keep that up, you’re gonna make the rest of us look bad.”

“You already do that on your own,” you shoot back, not missing a beat.

A few laughs ripple through the room.

”Yeah,” She whistles, tossing you a sponge, “You’re right where you belong.” 

You move through cleanup as you worked here for years, not a single night, falling into rhythm beside them, trading small comments, quiet jokes, letting yourself settle into something that feels dangerously close to belonging already. 

Princess is already whispering something to Perlah that makes them both glance at you and grin, Dana’s voice carries faintly from the front, still managing something even this late, and Shen is already halfway to the espresso machine without needing to ask. He brings you a coffee in a shot glass, a wide smile on his face. “To surviving your first shift at The Pitt.”

By the end of your first week, the kitchen stops watching you like you’re a baby deer on new legs, and starts moving with you as if you’ve always been there. By the end of your second, they start trusting you. And by the end of your first month, there isn’t a single person on the line who doesn’t adjust when you step in, who doesn’t listen when you speak, who doesn’t look for you the same way they look for him when something matters.

Service becomes something electric between you and Jack.

You learn his tells, the slight shift in his posture when something is about to go wrong, the way his voice drops when he’s focused, the exact second he expects a plate to land in the pass. And he learns yours too, whether he wants to admit it or not. The way you move faster when you’re challenged, the way you don’t wait to be told, the way you fix things before they ever reach him. 

“Too much salt,” he mutters one night, barely glancing at a pan.

You’re already beside him, tasting, adjusting, adding a splash of stock and a knob of butter, bringing it back into balance like it was never off.

“Better,” you say, sliding it back.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, before you’re already back at your station.

“You don’t miss,” he says.

“Neither do you,” you reply, and he pretends it doesn’t make his knuckles shake. He’s too old for a crush, he tells himself. But it doesn’t stop the way he looks at you with stars in his eyes every night. 

There’s a push and pull to it, something unspoken but constant. You challenge him in small ways, tightening a plate here, swapping an element there, offering suggestions that are just bold enough to make him pause but never reckless enough to break the integrity of what he’s built.

“Lose the microgreens,” you murmur one night, adjusting a dish before it goes out. “They’re filler.”

“They add color.”

“They add nothing,” you counter, meeting his eyes. “If you need color, fix the dish, not the garnish. Microgreens are shipped in by the pound to every wanna be Michelin star restaurant in the US. We don’t need it.”

He wants to argue, you can see it on his face. Then his brows furrow, and he watches the plate so intensely you’d almost believe it was speaking to him.

Then he pulls them off himself.

“Send it,” he says.

You don’t smile, but you feel the way your cheeks burn. 

You find your place in the quieter moments too.

Samira’s kitchen is the first space that feels different. Warmer, softer, but no less precise. The scent of caramelizing sugar wraps around you the second you step inside, vanilla and citrus layered over butter and heat. She hands you a spoon without looking.

“Try that.” She orders. 

You do. A dark chocolate crémeux, smooth and rich, finished with a hint of sea salt that lingers at the back of your tongue.

”Respectfully,” You start, the spoon still in your mouth, “I think I’d do anything you asked me to do if you keep making things like that.” 

She laughs, a loud one that comes from her throat. “Jack was right, I like you.” 

You don’t press on what she means, because the idea of Jack boasting about you makes something coil in your stomach. 

It’s easy to fall into rhythm with the staff. You’d bum a cigarette off of Santos after long nights, the two of you chain-smoking with Dana in the freezing Pittsburgh weather. Samira would sneak you pastries in exchange for tips you had picked up in France. You brought her in some cookbooks from your time there, and she nearly cried. The next day there’s a container waiting for you in the breakroom fridge, your name written across the lid in careful script. Chai tiramisu, layered perfectly, the spice warm and unexpected against the bitterness of espresso. 

Frank and Mel were a joy to be around, you sat with them one day learning the inner workings of the magic they create out front. Your first outing with the crew was one weekend Javardi had convinced all the girls, barring Dana who was always busy, to go out and get drinks one night. Despite the girl's only memo, Shen showed up an hour in and got so drunk that Ellis had to carry him two blocks home. 

Somewhere in all of it, you find your place.

Not just in the kitchen, not just on the line, but here, in the middle of this strange, chaotic, loyal little family that somehow makes space for you without question. 

That’s why, you think, the first time it cracks makes it hurt a little more than if this were any other job posting. 

The kitchen is running hot, faster than usual, the kind of night where everything is just slightly off and everyone feels it. Tickets pile, timing tightens, and Jack is sharper than usual, voice cutting a little cleaner, a little colder.

A braised short rib, rich and heavy, sitting over a parsnip purée with a red wine reduction that leans deep, almost too deep, into itself. It’s Jack Abbot on a plate, almost. 

You taste it as it comes up, quick, instinctive, and your brow pulls just slightly. It’s good, actually, it’s fantastic, but it’s missing something vital to him. 

A splash of sherry vinegar, just enough to lift it. A touch of orange zest, subtle, brightening the edges without changing the core. You swirl, taste again, and it opens up immediately, the richness balanced, the flavor sharper, more alive.

You plate it and send it without thinking. 

Jack catches it at the pass, because of course he does. 

“What is this,” he asks, not loud, but dangerous in how controlled it is. Everyone seems to tense, knowing exactly what the inflection in his voice means. 

You don’t hesitate. “Short rib.”

His eyes flick to yours, then back to the plate. He then narrows his eyes at the sauce you have sitting on your station.

“You changed the sauce.” 

It’s not a question, but you answer anyway. “Yes.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says, voice tightening, the edge finally showing. “You don’t touch my dishes without clearing them first.”

”It needed it,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

“That’s not your call,” he snaps, sharper now. “You think because you worked in France and have all these fancy restaurants under your belt that you get to walk in here and rewrite my menu? You’ve been here a little over a month, don’t think you’re more important than you are because Robby wanted a new shiny chef to look good in the media.”

There it is. 

The version of him everyone else warned you about. The version of him you have yet to see. The one no one had seen since you arrived. Because, Robby thought you’d mellow him out. Inspire him again, lighten the kitchen up. 

For a second, the kitchen holds its breath. Waiting to see if you crumble, or if you start yelling back. 

If anything, something in you sharpens right back, your eyes catching the light in amusement. 

The anger simmering in his chest only burns hotter when he sees your plush lips fighting off a stupid grin. 

“Taste it,” you say simply.

He scoffs. “That’s not the point.”

“Then make it the point,” you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice just enough that it’s not for everyone else anymore. “Because if you’re going to be mad, you should at least be right.” 

His warm eyes are dark, with something you can’t quite place. 

“You come into my kitchen, and say my dish needs fixing?” He scoffs, both of your faces inching towards each other. The chaos of service still bustles around you, but both of you tune it out. Too fixated on each other 

“I mean no offense,” You start, “But that dish was supposed to be you on a plate right? It was wrong, it needed a boost, a light in it if you will.” 

“Don’t try to sound like my therapist,” His voice raises, “The sauce was fine-“ 

“I never said it wasn’t.” You stressed, “I just made it better. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, won’t happen again Chef.”

His jaw tightens at that, like the words themselves are a physical thing he has to chew through. For a second it looks like he’s going to refuse just to prove a point, to keep the argument alive on principle alone.

But he doesn’t, because he’s a chef first. And much to his chagrin and anger, he trusts you.

Jack snatches the spoon from the pot with more force than necessary, then drags it through the sauce you changed. The motion is sharp, almost aggressive, and when he brings it to his mouth, the entire kitchen somehow gets even quieter.

“It’s good,” he says finally, his voice not coming out as flat as he’d like. 

Your lips curve before you can stop them.

“Chef,” you correct softly, just to press him a little more.

His eyes snap to yours immediately, the irritation running back up his broad shoulders. “It’s good, Chef.” 

Jack leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you stops feeling safe. His hand grabs your upper arm, to pull you closer or just as an excuse to touch you. He isn’t sure which one it is. 

“You pull something like that again,” he says quietly, voice rougher now, “and it will be your last day in my kitchen.”

”Yes, Chef.” You whisper to him, a little too close to his ear. Your warm breath on his neck makes him shiver, his fingers dropping the grip he had on you. 

It occurs to you in that moment, that this is foreplay. For both of you. 

Both of your chests are panting, eyes dark with something neither of you dared to name. This is what every challenge in this kitchen has been. You push him, he pushes back, and you enjoy the rush. 

He steps back like your presence burns, turning his attention back to the tickets that were piling up. 

“Back on the line,” he calls, voice louder now, reestablishing control, forcing the kitchen back into motion.

As the rhythm picks back up, Crus passes behind you and bumps your shoulder lightly with his elbow, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“You poked the beast,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he can’t decide if he’s impressed or terrified for you.

You glance at him, calm as ever. “He survived.”

Crus snorts under his breath. “Barely.”

Across the line, Jack doesn’t look back at you again for the rest of the service, but you know he feels it. The coil wound tight between the two of you. What was once just longing stares and brushes of skin, was now a pressure cooker ready to explode all over the kitchen he spent the last few decades building from the ground up.

After that night, nothing really goes back to how it was before.

It doesn’t get worse, not exactly, but it changes shape. The kitchen doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t lose its rhythm, but there’s something threaded through it now that wasn’t there before. A pressure. A quiet awareness that sits under every callout, every pass, every brush of shoulders in tight spaces. People feel it even if they don’t say it out loud, even if they pretend they don’t see it. 

Princess and Perlah catch it immediately, and it spreads all the way to the front of the house.  Frank catches it in the way Jack’s eyes flick toward the kitchen door whenever you’re not on the line. Mel notices it in how quickly the tickets start moving when you’re working beside him, like the pace shifts just slightly to match the two of you instead of the system. Dana, of course, clocks it immediately and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.

Santos says it out back one night, smoke curling between her fingers as she watches you lean against the brick wall after service.

”What’s going on between you and Jack?” She asks. 

“What’s going on with you and Garcia?” You pirate back, dangling the cigarette between your lips. 

She ignores your comment, continuing on. 

“You two are going to burn this place down with the passion between you two,” she says mildly, like she’s commenting on the weather.

You just take a drag of your cigarette and exhale slowly.

“We just both love food, passion makes us run hot, s’all,” you reply.

She hums like he doesn’t believe you.

Inside, Jack doesn’t say anything either, but he starts noticing everything. The way you stand a little closer than necessary when you’re correcting a dish. The way your hand lingers for half a second too long when you pass him a pan. The way you don’t look away first anymore.

Someone texted Robby about it, because of course they did. He gets a call one morning, asking if he’s running off the new chef or if he’s trying to commit an HR violation. Jack hangs up before he gets the chance to start making jokes anymore. 

It’s a random Thursday when you slip through the back door like normal, a little earlier, and a lot more dolled up. Your makeup is done, hair is down, and you have on a sweater as compared to your normal work attire. Samira whistles playfully as she walks into the breakroom, complimenting you as you begin to talk between yourselves. 

Jack hears you but doesn’t look up right away.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low, still facing the stove.

“Emma needs a headshot of me for the website,” you reply, shrugging off your coat and hanging it without slowing down. “She said she likes to take them in front of the sign. I’m also filming a few videos with her.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but his attention stays on the braise for the beef, on the way the liquid moves when he tilts the pot slightly, checking consistency, tasting with a spoon without thinking. He looks up at you, and that’s when everything goes wrong. 

You look beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful, even bare-faced with a dirty bandana tied around your head, but this? This was different, it was seeing you in another light. The Y/n you were outside of these walls, outside of being the best chef he’d ever met. 

Jack shifts slightly closer to the burner, adjusting the heat under the pot mindlessly, and that’s when it happens. He pulls back immediately, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth before he even fully processes it. The side of his hand sizzles against the heat, and everyone’s heads turn. 

“You good, boss?” Crus asks, and you see Shen and Ellis falling into each other hiding their amusement. 

This is the first time in his career he had burned himself, and it suddenly feels like his world is falling apart in front of him. The clicking of your heels against the floor makes his brow furrow as he wraps his hand in a rag. 

“Jack,” you say, already moving.

He likes the way his name sounds coming from your lips. 

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically, but it’s too quick, too tight.

You don’t argue, just step in beside him, gently but firmly taking his wrist and turning it under the cooler sink before he can insist otherwise. The skin is already red, irritated, not serious but enough to sting, but enough to make him finally go quiet and let you work.

“I said I’m fine,” he mutters again, though softer now.

“And I didn’t ask,” you reply, adjusting the water slightly, your touch steady and unhurried as you check the burn properly.

You reach for ointment in the first aid kit without asking, careful as you apply it, your fingers light but precise as you wrap the gauze around his hand. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t interrupt, just stands there letting you take control. Something he normally doesn't let happen. 

“You distracted me,” he says after a beat, quieter now, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t fully like saying out loud.

You glance up at him briefly while tying off the bandage. 

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” you laugh.

That earns a faint exhale from him that almost, almost sounds like a laugh he’s holding back. “Exactly,” he replies.

There’s a pause then, as your head tilts to the side watching him carefully. “Is it the heels? Because I know they’re not kitchen standard, but I have an outfit change before service.” 

“It’s not the heels,” He breathes out, but then his eyes do rake down your body for a fleeting moment before he meets your eyes again, “Maybe it’s the heels.” 

You chuckle again, patting his now bandaged hand softly. “You’re all set to go.” 

“You must have been a doctor in another life,” He smiles, “I feel better already.” 

“Healing hands.” You wiggle your fingers at him playfully, taking a short step back. You go to turn away, but you pause leaning back into his space. “Be careful, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again watching me walk away.” 

With those words you’re off, spinning on your heel and walking into the dining room with an unnecessary added sway in your steps. 

“Jesus,” He grumbles, feeling a flush run up the back of his neck as he indeed did watch you walk away. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were ringing in his head, as he tried his best not to get hard in the middle of prep. 

He’s not subtle at all with the way his eyes keep finding yours that night. At one point there was no shame as he stood in front of the pass window, watching Emma direct you and pose while Joy stood there following Emma’s every polite command. 

“You are not slick brother.” Robby’s voice bellows through the kitchen.

Jack barely reacts, just exhales through his nose like he’s been caught doing something mildly inconvenient rather than completely transparent. He turns his head slightly, watching Robby step into the kitchen like he still owns part of the air in it.

“You’re here,” Jack says flatly. “Almost forgot you worked here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He takes the tease, hugging him gently. “I’m observant,” Robby adds, glancing past him straight to you, then back to Jack with a faint smirk. “And I’ve been hearing things.”

Jack’s jaw tightens just a fraction. “From who?”

“Little birdies,” Robby says casually, leaning against the edge of the pass like he’s got all the time in the world. “Mostly the kind that tells me my head chef’s been acting like he forgot how to breathe around his new sous chef.”

Jack scoffs, immediately turning back to the line like that’s the end of it. “People talk too much.”

“People always talk,” Robby replies, watching him carefully now. “What’s interesting is that I’ve been here two minutes and I already see it.”

Then, lighter, almost teasing, but not quite. “They’re saying she’s changed you.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away, just focuses a little too hard on the clock.

“She hasn’t changed anything,” he says finally.

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe him for a second. “Sure.”

Service pulls them both back in before anything else can be said, and the kitchen does what it always does, it swallows everything that isn’t immediately necessary. Orders fire, pans heat, voices cut across each other in practiced rhythm. You’re back on the line fully now, moving like you’ve always belonged there, correcting, plating, adjusting without hesitation, and Jack tries to stay locked in the way he always does.

But he keeps looking.

He catches himself doing it twice, maybe three times, eyes flicking up without permission, drawn to you like it’s reflex now. You’re leaning over a station explaining something to Ellis, hair slightly loosened from earlier, even as it’s pulled back, your expression focused and animated in a way that makes the whole room feel a fraction warmer. It annoys him more than it should that he notices how easily people orbit you now.

By the time service winds down, the kitchen is in that slow collapse, energy draining out of it in waves. The clatter softens, the urgency fades, and what’s left is exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of getting through it.

Shen is already at the back counter when you finish cleaning your station, pulling shots of espresso with practiced ease, humming under his breath like he’s done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.

“You look like you need this,” he says, sliding a small glass toward you.

Ice cream first, espresso second, the classic affogato, simple and perfect in a way that feels like a reward for surviving the night.

You take it gratefully, leaning against the counter beside him.

“Saved my life,” you murmur after the first bite.

Shen shrugs like it’s nothing. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

Across the room, Jack is wiping down his station, slower now, watching the kitchen settle back into itself. Or at least pretending to. His eyes flick toward you before he can stop them, landing on the two of you draped across the bar as you belong. The way your faded lipstick still clings to your lips that are wrapped around the spoon. 

Shen leaves before you do, bidding you a goodnight. No doubt stealing yet another glass bowl from the restaurant. You tell him not to eat and drive, and he flips you off as the door shuts behind him.

You finish your affogato and set the glass down, turning slightly like you feel Jack watching from behind you. 

“You two are close,” Jack says, voice level, neutral on the surface but just tight enough underneath to give it away.

It’s then you realise that you are the only two left. The lights are dim and the room smells of cleaning supplies and that slight metallic smell of polished stainless steel permeates through the air. 

“He’s a mess,” You comment, placing the bowl into the sink slowly. 

He makes a noise of agreement, tossing his rag around his neck. 

“Not as close as we are, chef,” you say lightly, almost teasing, but steady enough that it lands exactly where you intend it to. “Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite.” 

“Am I?” He asks, running his hand through his tousled salt and pepper curls. 

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, mischief in your eyes as the only thing that separated you two was the kitchen island. You lean your palms against the cold metal, leaning forward. 

“Of course you are.” 

He pretends he can’t see down your thin undershirt now, he finds his fingers itching to touch the exposed skin of your collarbones. 

“You’re my sous chef,” he says after a beat, like he needs to remind himself of something solid.

“Mm,” you murmur, stepping closer to the island, palms pressing lightly against the edge as you lean in more. “And?”

“And,” he repeats, but it comes out quieter than he intended, like the word itself has lost some of its authority.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully now, the teasing still there but softened by something more focused, more aware.

“White pinot goes best with cod,” you say casually, like you’re talking about nothing important at all.

His brow furrows slightly, thrown off for a second. “What?”

You shrug, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze like you didn’t just do that. “I thought we were just naming the obvious.”

His breath shifts slightly, like he’s trying to steady it without making it obvious, and he pushes off the counter, stepping closer without fully thinking about it until suddenly there isn’t really any space left between you and the island doesn’t feel like an obstacle anymore, just something your bodies are pressing against from opposite sides.

“That’s not,” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as if he’s actively trying to regain control of the situation, of himself. “We can’t just-”

“Can’t just what,” you interrupt softly, not moving back, not giving him an inch. “Talk?”

His eyes drop for half a second, as they betray him before he can stop them, and when he realises just how close you both are. Even with the counter digging into both of your hips, it feels like there’s no space between you two at all. 

“You’re pushing it,” he says, but there’s no real force behind it anymore.

“I think you like it when I do,” you reply, and this time your voice drops with it, something slower threading through the words as you shift just slightly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips hovering over his warm skin, “Don’t you?”

He moves, nearly stumbling backwards as he does. Like your touch burned him just as bad as the burner did earlier. 

You follow him like it’s instinct, like the space he creates is just something you’re meant to fill. He doesn’t back up once, he just lets you step across from him 

“Listen, if I’m reading this wrong you can tell me.” You say softly, “I won’t be offended.”

His eyes flick to yours, sharp, guarded, but it’s slipping at the edges now.

“You’re not- fuck,” he replies, but it comes out lower than he intends, less certain than it should be. “That’s not it.”

You hum faintly, stepping just close enough that the air between you changes again, warmer, tighter, charged in a way that makes the quiet hum of the kitchen feel miles away. The towel around his neck catches your attention, and without asking, you reach for it.

He doesn’t stop you,if anything his body shivers anticipating your touch. 

Your fingers curl around the fabric, not pulling hard just enough to feel the tension in him as you draw him a fraction closer, enough that his breath shifts slightly when you do it. You pull his neck down to your height, meeting his eyes. 

“Then what is it?” You ask, that teasing jilt in your tone again. The same one you throw out during service that makes his cock twitch in his pants. 

His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like he’s still trying to decide whether he should stop this or not, and then it settles at your waist, firm but controlled, pulling you just slightly closer until the space is gone between you two entirely. 

“You’re my sous chef,” He repeats, his mouth dry. “You work under me, it’s a- I don’t wanna- take advantage of you-“ 

“Jack,” You coo softly, “I’m a big girl, if anything I wish you’d take advantage of me-“ 

That’s all that it takes for that coil to snap. He leans forward, his hands pulling your hips flesh against his as your lips meet. 

It’s frantic, hot, and wet. Your lips are warm against his, teeth nearly gnashing together at the intensity of it. Before you know it, he’s pressing you against the edge of the counter, cornering you there. His hands on your hips grip tighter, before they lift you as if you weigh nothing. 

You plop down on the metal slab, your lips still chasing each other as his knee knocks your legs open wide for him. You oblige, pliant in his hands as yours are tugging against his curls. He pulls your shirt over your head as if it personally offended him, the fabric falling somewhere near the glasses. 

You nearly whine when his lips part from yours, but it’s soothed over with a moan when he kisses down your jawline to your neck.

”Tell me what you want.”

Your back arches, the ache between your legs growing stronger with each touch. 

“Just, f-fuck-“ You can barely get the words out when his canines bite down into your skin. 

“Do you like that?” He panted against your neck, his lips alternating between sucking and licking at the supple flesh. He moved down to your tits, kissing the exposed skin. 

“I want you to tell me how you want it,” He demanded, “Boss me around just like you do every fucking day in this kitchen. Tell me how to touch you, where you want my lips, how slow, how fast, how you like to be fucked..” 

Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head at his words, your hands gripping his biceps like a lifeline. 

“Get these pants off,” You manage to bark out, lifting your hips to give him space to pull your pants to your ankles. The thin fabric separating you from him was damp, a dark patch that had been there since the start of your verbal foreplay earlier during service. 

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He whispers, his eyes never once leaving yours even as his lips trail down your body. “I’ve thought that from the moment you walked in here, correcting my chefs like you owned the place.” 

“Yeah?” You panted out, watching his fingers slide your underwear to the side. 

“And this….” He breathed out, staring at your wet heat. He used his fingers to spread you open wider for him, a guttural moan leaving his lips. “This is gonna be the best fucking meal I’ve ever had. Isn’t it?” 

You can’t speak, you’re breathing too hard, anticipation making your skin crawl. But you see the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face. 

“You’re so mouthy during service, what’s wrong? Hmm?” 

“Fuck,” You nearly whine, feeling his fingers ghost around everywhere but where you need him the most. “It is gonna be the last meal if you don’t do something-oh.” 

Your head falls back against the wall as soon as his tongue makes contact with your clit. It’s an experimental swipe through your folds, enough to have your fingernails digging into his arms. 

“I was right,” He moans into you, "Delicious." 

Jack Abbot was not lying when he said this would be the best meal he’d ever had, because the way his mouth was moving against you you’d think the man had never eaten in his life. It’s messy, his tongue teasing in and out of your aching hole in between frantic sucks of your clit into his mouth. 

You were moaning his name like a prayer, jutting your hips up into his nose without even meaning to. 

“Fingers,” You gasped out in need. 

“Yeah?” he hummed, slipping an arm between your legs so he could slip a finger inside of your soaking entrance. “You’re so wet, baby. What got you like this?” 

His finger stretches you out with a delicious burn, you’re already aching for more by the time he curls the digit just right. It’s like he can read your mind, slipping another deep inside. They’re so thick it takes you a moment, before you’re clenching around him. 

“You, just you.” Your hands are now gripping the side of the counter, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Been thinking of those fingers of yours, every time you’d- oh my god- stick your fucking finger into a sauce. Sucking on it like you knew I was watching.” 

“Same way you’d suck on those spoons while looking at me,” He whispered, bringing his mouth back down to your throbbing clit. 

The sound was just as disgusting as it was the hottest thing you’ve ever heard in the world. With each loud squelch of his fingers prying you apart, he was moaning desperately into you. His cock was hard and straining against his slacks. 

“S’good,” You praised, shifting your hips a little in his hold, “A little faster, wait- right there- yes, yes,” 

He listened intently, waiting to hear that sharp intake of breath and to feel your legs tremble around his head. He wouldn’t admit how many nights he went home, fisting his cock in the shower imagining just how you’d sound when you came. How you’d taste, how you’d feel wrapped around him. 

You could feel your orgasm approaching, and it almost pissed you off how fast you were coming apart around him. No other man had made you feel this way, but with his tongue lapping against you and his fingers curling deep inside right against your g-spot you were cumming with a loud moan. 

“There it is,” His voice was slurred and muffled against you.

Your shoulders dropped back, back arching and legs trembling as he didn’t change his rhythm once. Your head fell back, mouth parted as his fingers slid through your folds drawing out your orgasm until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

His head was pulled back up by your fingers in his curls, your release was dripping down his chin. His eyes were sparkling as he looked up at you. 

He brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean like he made a mess eating the most expensive chocolate in the world. Not a drop is wasted, and you’re already clenching around nothing. 

“Remember,” You start, still trying to catch your breath, “How you wanted me to tell you how I wanted to be fucked?” 

He nods eagerly, slowly rising back up to your eye level. 

“I told you I don’t like it slow.” 

He smirks, the crinkles by his eyes deepening as you pull him closer towards you by his belt loops. 

“Get this off-“

”Eager?” He teases, his boxers falling to the floor. 

“Fuck.” You almost laugh, watching his heavy cock fall between his legs. He was veiny, and his tip was red and leaking. 

”I don’t have any condoms-“ 

You cut him off, eyes still locked on the massive cock that was twitching with neglect. “I’m clean, and I have an IUD.” 

He’s about to ask you another question before you bring your hand down, wrapping gently around his length. He hisses at the touch, warning you to go slow. 

“Sorry, this is just- god the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.” 

His chest puffs in pride, watching your thumb swipe a bead of his pre-cum around his sensitive tip. He can barely take it, he needs to be inside of you so bad his legs are practically shaking. 

“Think you can take it?” He asks, grabbing your thighs to push them up on the counter, as he settles between them. 

“Yes, chef.” You say jokingly, but you feel the way he tenses you see the way his eyes darken. You tilt your head at him, while he’s lining up at your entrance. 

“You like that don’t you?” 

He’s silent, but huffs as he rubs his tip against your soaked slit. 

“You gonna fuck me?” You ask, “Please Chef-“ 

You’re barely able to finish your teasing when he slips inside of you slowly, a gasp gets lodged in your throat. His palm is heavy on your stomach, thumb rubbing small circles into your clit as he inches in. 

“You’re okay,” He cooed, “Bigggg stretch, almost in baby. You’re doing so fucking good. F-fitting like a glove, so wet for me.” 

You feel so full, almost impossibly full. Each time you think he’s done, he keeps pushing more into your greedy velvety walls. With one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out. His hips meet yours. 

“Fuck.” He moans, leaning his forehead against yours to kiss you gently. “Need. This. Off.”

Your bra is unclasped with one of his hands, and pushed to the side. His head lowers to catch a nipple into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around the bud before pulling off with a pop. 

“You okay, honey?” He asks softly, doing his best to keep you relaxed as your body adjusts to him. 

You nod lazily, the dull ache turning into searing pleasure after a minute of his tongue expertly sucking at every sensitive spot he could reach. 

The first thrust has you nearly crying out in bliss, his tip is nudging so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. He’s slow at first, steady enough to make sure he’s not hurting you and that your cunt is still dripping around him. 

As soon as he feels your hips rocking against his, he braces his hands on your hips. 

“M’member what you said, baby? How you don’t like it slow?” 

Your jaw goes slack, the moment he thrusts harder, pulling his cock all the way out before slamming back in with fever. 

Then, he’s everywhere. His lips mouthing at your neck, his cock rearranging your guts, his thumb flicking your clit. It’s overwhelming, in the best way possible. 

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since you walked in here in those fucking heels,” He admitted in a gasp, already lost in the warm wet of your cunt wrapped around him. “Hell, since the first day I met you.”

It was one thing to have a massive cock, it was a completely other thing to know exactly how to use it. And god, did he know how to use it. 

All control you held onto slipped through your hands, cockdrunk already on him. 

The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through the quiet kitchen, alongside the pathetic moans you couldn’t stop from slipping through your lips. 

“S’ fucking big.” 

“You’re taking it so well,” He praises, “Feels s’good doesn't it baby?”

The moment your nails scratch down his shoulders so hard he winces, he knows he’s angled his hips just right. “There it is,” he says, under his breath. “That’s the spot isn’t it?”

When you don’t answer in coherent words he speaks up again, “Come on, talk to me. Tell me that’s the spot baby.” 

“That’s the spot,” You cry out, “That’s the fucking spot, don’t stop. Keep fucking me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping,” He huffs, pulling the hem of his white t-shirt up his torso. The hem finds itself slotted in between his teeth, keeping it out of the way as he jackhammers into you. 

The sight of his salt and pepper hair, and his abs glistening with sweat is all it takes for the familiar feeling to creep up your spine. And he knows it too. 

“You’re gonna cum for me, chef.” He orders, and you feel your cunt pulse around him. “Gonna cum all over my cock.”

”Y-yes, chef.” You’re gone, eyes closed and hips thrusting upwards as he pushes you down with his palm on your stomach to keep you still.

“That’s it,” He grunted, “Give it to me- fuck use this fucking cock.” 

You came so hard your ears rang, pleasuring licking up your spine even hotter than before. You can feel yourself creaming around him, each thrust only making your high ride out that much longer.

“Shit- you’re squeezing me so fucking tight- I’m barely gonna last.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his hand cupping the back of your neck harshly while the other ran up and down your side, squeezing the flesh harshly. 

“W-wanna feel you cum.” You babbled, head lolling to the side, only being held up by his hand. “Fuck me full of your cum.”

”Yeah?” His brows squinted in concentration, keeping your eyes on you. “Watch me while I cum.” 

Tears are filling your waterline as he fucks into you so hard you’re worried the shelving units are going to fall off the walls. 

Drool is sliding down your chin by the time his hand wraps around your throat, as he groans your name loudly into your neck. 

His hips stutter as he comes, and you can feel him twitch and release inside of you. The ropes of sticky cum are warm, filling up your cervix with each twitch until you’ve milked him dry. 

“Holy fuck,” He pants, pulling your head into his sweaty chest as the two of you come down. 

You were both sticky and out of breath, bodies aching from the intensity of it. But still, your brows were furrowed, lost in thought before you spoke up. 

“Wait,” You pant softly, “Have we ever thought about putting a new pasta dish on the menu?” 

His brows furrowed, sweat still clung to his top lip. “What?” 

“I just started thinking of an herb roasted chicken mafaldine pesto pasta, with like sundried tomatoes and shallots,” You rambled, as if his cock still wasn’t seated deep inside of your cunt. “We could top it with parmesan and some lemon, freshly cracked black pepper.”

”You realize,” He shifted, “I’m literally still inside of you.” 

You rolled your eyes, he wasn’t wrong. His release was still dripping out of you, coating the inside of your thighs. “Yes, you should be proud your dick inspired such a wonderful dish from my brain.” 

It was then he realised he was more far gone than he had ever been before. 

He thinks he’s in love with you. 

All he could do was shake his head. 

That’s how you ended up staying there late into the night, both of you working to make your impromptu post orgasm dish a reality. 

“Hm, I still think it’s missing something.” He mused, looking at the freshly made pasta dough and steaming chicken that was thrown together on the tasting plates, and you nodded letting him hand-feed you yet another bite. 

“I think,” You swallowed, “You should take me home, and we can shower and you can fuck the missing ingredient out of my head. How does that sound?” 

The fork was dropped within seconds, practically grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the door. “But, wait we need to clean up-“

“Fuck them, I’m the boss.” He shrugs, and you find yourself in an endless fit of giggles.