#chef!joel

Fuckin' useless.

You plan on fuckin' your way to the top there too?

You're useless.

Dawn hadn't quite broken yet.

The rattle of the subway shook you loose from the claws of that familiar memory; the one you had to fight during any moment of stillness.

Ladies swallowed by wool scarves and labourers with chins tucked into the necks of their coats littered the seats of the carriage.

You'd hoped the years would ease the drowning; that distance and time would singe away the nerve endings that pricked up at any hint of a Texan accent.

No such luck. The best you could do was filter out any articles including the words chef and Joel Miller on your social media and news apps.

Your apartment was a cosy one-bed in Williamsburg. Most nights you woke reaching for a phantom warmth that your fingers could never find; nails clawing at your fitted sheet in frustration when all you could grasp was cotton. You were grateful for the omnipresent city traffic that lulled you back to sleep.

The first year was the hardest.

He had become a ghost story, haunting you in each sip of coffee or raised voice in the street. You hated yourself for craving his temper; you would've killed to feel the heat pricking at your skin as he barked orders at you.

You missed the games you had played to stay his little secret. Swallowing his poison, letting it decay your self-worth, just so you could be his.

But it was never enough. You were never enough.

"This is an M-line service. The next station is Broadway-Lafayette."

Rising from your seat, you gently shook your head from side to side.

Enough, you thought, inhaling slowly as the doors parted.

Enough.

Only January in New York could rouse gratitude for the stuffy microclimate of the subway. You'd never get used to that first gust of winter air; the one that reddens the tips of your ears before you even have the chance to acclimatise to street level.

It was different here.

Temperature aside, your days were no longer spent walking on a raised edge, willing yourself to remain balanced. For too long, you'd laid blankets over thorn bushes and convinced yourself it was a good enough place to rest your head.

There was pressure; no kitchen worth its Himalayan salt could function without it. But at every blind corner hands were reaching out to steady you, and you them.

It was nice. You were happy - or content, at the very least.

And even if you weren't happy, you only ever had enough hours in the day to clamour your way through service. You hadn't dealt in anything as trivial as love - if you could even call it that - since you'd turned your back on Texas.

It was a short walk from the subway to the restaurant. The streets were mostly empty this early but rushing had become second nature since moving to the city.

A food critic from the New York Times was due to be dining sometime this week, but last night an "unofficial source" you'd fooled around with in college had texted you a heads-up to be on top form this afternoon.

You'd heeded the warning with a smirk; you were always on top form.

Morning beat on with the usual trepidation of pre-service; menus drafted and re-drafted until you were satisfied; table settings scrutinised under three different levels of lighting; reservations checked, then double-checked, for any notable guests. There was nothing left to perfect by the time you opened your doors for lunch.

Your kitchen was a sanctuary of praise and encouragement; only the best went out to the pass, but you did so without raising your voice at even the most tedious mistakes.

"Sauce has congealed, chef. You need to start again, please." You smiled tightly at your sous-chef who repeated your request with a nod.

Allergy notices and orders merged with the sizzling of fish on the griddle pan in a swift symphony. You bit back a smile at the chaos, content with submerging yourself in the music of the kitchen for the rest of your days.

"Chef, one of the guests would like to speak with you." Tom, your newest front-of-house hire, called from the pass.

"Me? Now?" You replied dumbfounded.

"Yeah, he's just had the prosciutto and spinach scallops. Kind of old, Southern, I think."

A familiar feeling pooled in your gut.

"Thanks, Tom. I'll go see what he wants." Untying your apron, you took a deep breath in.

All eyes were fixed on you. Sabrina, your sous-chef, took your apron from your damp palms and rested a hand between your shoulder blades. Sweat beaded at the base of your neck.

"Give him hell. Who even reads the New York Times, anyway?"

A few low hoots echoed around the kitchen as you pushed your shoulders back and made your way toward the dining room.

Your facade melted as soon as you saw him. It infuriated you that he hadn't changed a bit. Only, grey framed his face more prominently now.

Everything else was perfectly the same.

"Joel." You breathed, hovering over the empty chair opposite him.

His face relaxed - not quite into a smile, it was something you'd never been able to put your finger on.

That's what infuriated you about him the most, you thought, you could never quite get him underneath your thumb. He would never give you the privilege.

"New menu each day, huh? Sounds like something I'd do."

"Is that it?" You choked, fighting to keep your voice low and expression neutral. It was so easy for him to get a rise out of you, he didn't even need to try.

"You think I'd come all this way t'just tell you that?"

Before a retort could form around your tongue, you noticed the band on his left ring finger.

You could've been sick there and then.

His gaze met yours, realisation setting into the creases in his forehead.

"I have a kitchen to run. Congratulations, Joel." You managed to murmur before tripping into the still kitchen, hot tears burning in the corner of your eyes.

"So?" Sabrina pressed, evidently expecting what should've been a run-in with the critic.

"Wasn't him." Was the only explanation you could muster.

You excused yourself, leaving the slow mechanics of service to resume in your absence. Clutching your stomach, you pushed your way out into the bite of the afternoon chill.

Had he come all this way to flash that thing in your face? To show you how much better his life had turned out in your absence? Even after all these years, was he still punishing you for daring to love him?

You laughed aloud at nothing, breath forming in puffs of condensation before your face. Of course you'd loved him; you still did.

Eight years of keeping yourself busy enough to forget the smell of his chest, the pressure of his lips against your temple in the middle of the night.

You had searched for the giddy intoxication of his presence in everything you did; working yourself to the bone in some sick, futile desire to replicate the knots in your stomach only he could tie.

All the while he'd moved on and settled down with someone he didn't have to hide.

You were useless, after all.

For the remainder of the day, you'd done your best to subside the embarrassment burning through your bloodstream.

The New York Times critic had arrived shortly after you'd attempted some form of composure; Sabrina had stalled her by talking about the weather while you perfected your illusion of a sane, tempered woman in the reflection of a saucepan.

Compared to your encounter with Joel, the magazine meeting was a breeze. Joel Miller may have crushed your self-worth, but over your dead body would you let him ruin this too.

Once all surfaces were wiped down and stoves cooled off for the night, you finally pulled on your coat and made for the exit. It took a few polite declines to join the others at a bar nearby to celebrate surviving the review, but you finally managed to wriggle out of the social obligation.

You saw the staff off, encouraging them to have a drink for you, before finally locking up.

"S'dangerous walking home alone this time of night." You froze, your back to him still.

Using all willpower, you kept your movements steady and unfazed as you twisted the key in the lock.

Fuck, you silently cursed yourself. Don't cry. Don't give him the satisfaction.

"I'm not walking. I get the subway."

Joel leaned against the low wall opposite the restaurant, his hands idly resting in the pockets of his thick corduroy jacket.

"Your wife not wondering where you've gotten to?" You'd spoken before you could stop yourself.

He cleared his throat, breaking his gaze on you.

"She's back in Austin. M'here on business, she, uh - she couldn't travel with the little one."

"Jesus." You laughed in despair. There was nothing left inside of you now. All those nights spent trying to remember the feel of his chest beneath your head, he had been making a real life for himself.

"What do you want, Joel? You getting a kick out of seeing me like this?" There was no holding back the tears that flowed freely down your cheeks. He looked like he was debating moving closer to you, brows knitted together, shaking his head softly.

"Hey," he whispered lowly. "Don't waste any tears on me, baby."

You scoffed, crossing your arms across your chest and tipping your chin toward the night sky. Joel pushed himself from the wall, closing the distance between you both.

"I loved you."

"I was never good enough for you, sweetheart." Joel smiled sadly, his hand finding a stray piece of hair to tuck behind your ear.

A sob escaped your body as you let yourself lean into his touch.

"I thought the world of you."

"You had a much bigger world to find. Look at you."

"I wanted to find it with you. Why wasn't I enough?" You hated the words tainting the cold air around you. You'd never been the type to beg a man to love you, but eight years of repressed emotion and unanswered questions had finally broken free from your bones.

"You got it all wrong, baby. I'm an old man. You deserved more than to be reduced to some housewife. Could've never had the career you do now with me holding you back."

"Don't pretend you did this for me, Joel."

Suddenly, your heart broke for the woman he had left back in Austin. His wife, the mother of his child. Is that all he saw in her?

"There was a time that I thought you were wonderful. I would hang off your every word, seek your approval in everything I fucking did. And it broke me. The day you told me I was useless - I hear it in the back of my mind every fucking day."

He was shaking his head, muttering it ain't like that softly under his breath.

"Then you come all the way to New York, to my restaurant in the middle of service, acting like you're the reason I am where I am now?"

"I was in town, thought it was the right thing to do. I wanted to see you. I-"

"It's always what you want, Joel. The doting wife. The accolade. You're pathetic. I hope your wife comes to her senses and leaves you, and for the sake of your kid, I pray they grow up to be nothing like you."

Weeks passed in flashes of numbness since Joel's fleeting visit.

For the first time in years, you slept soundly through the night. When the other chefs invited you for drinks, you accepted.

Soon, you laughed and drank too much wine without the aftermath of soaking your pillow in tears.

In moments of stillness, your voice was the only one you could hear, and it was kind. You treated yourself as you treated those around you, taking the time to care for yourself again.

The New York Times published their article on the first week of February. You arrived at the kitchen just as dawn peaked over the skyline, only to be greeted by the entirety of the kitchen staff.

That morning, expensive French champagne flowed freely and the article, written by Helen Anderson, was framed and hung above the door to the kitchen. The headline read:

A New Precedent Is Set In Greenwich Village.

The day fluttered by in flurries of pride, each other ringing through the kitchen with a joyful urgency. Phones buzzed frantically from pockets, messages of congratulations you would pick up after service.

At around 12pm, the UPS delivery man arrived at the back of the kitchen, holding out a tablet for a signature for a bouquet of flowers resting against the doorway.

"Chef of the hour, these are for you!" Sabrina skipped through the kitchen, blue hydrangeas and gypsophila outstretched toward you.

You cradled the bouquet before setting them down in your cupboard of an office. A small, cream card poked out of the side of the arrangement. Messy handwriting scrawled across both inner sides of the folded card.

Sweetheart,

I'm sorry I never found the words to tell you how I feel. I'm a miserable old man who's smoked too many cigarettes and never known a good thing in front of me.

You never needed me, but I needed you. I'll never forget the first time you walked into my kitchen. I'm a coward, and I should've told you I loved you all those years ago.

I'm sorry for treating you the way I did. I know I'm in no position to ask any favours, but please don't make the mistakes I did. Hell, you're too intelligent to live as foolishly as I did, anyway.

Hope you don't mind, Helen is a friend of mine. Told me a couple of days ago how your place is the best she's eaten in New York since Bourdain. Wanted to make sure these arrived on time; God knows I never could've.

Yours,

Joel

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand, desperately rummaging around in your pocket for your phone.

Amidst the excitement of the morning, you had entirely neglected the copious buzzing of messages and alerts. Unlocking your phone, your eyes glazed over the most recent notification on your home screen:

The soft chime of an alarm slices through my dream like a knife through fondant. One second I’m in some pastel, floating fairy bakery piping pink frosting onto clouds, and the next, I’m being dragged to consciousness by the ache in my neck and the growing realization that my pillow is... breathing.

It shifts subtly under my cheek, warm and firm and definitely not stuffed with feathers.

Still half-asleep, I nestle in, lulled by the steady rise and fall of it. Whoever this breathing body part belongs to smells like cedarwood and whiskey. Cozy, but clad in denim that feels rough against my face.

The alarm chimes again, sharper this time, like it's personally offended by our shared comfort. A large, calloused hand drifts down my back in a line that feels annoyingly perfect. It pauses at my waist, then resumes its quiet path like it's got all the time in the world.

“Carrington,” Joel’s voice breaks the silence. It’s deep and rough-edged, like it snagged on gravel on its way out. My name curls in his drawl like it was never meant to be said any other way.

I groan and swat the air with the energy of a soggy paper towel. “Five more minutes,” I mumble, my face still smushed against what I now fully recognize is his thigh.

“Care,” he says, softer this time. His hand traces upward, drawing slow, deliberate circles between my shoulder blades. Each motion is unhurried, like he's painting a memory onto my skin. It’s the kind of touch that feels like it should cost something.

I don’t move. I should, but I don’t. The heat from his palm is maddening, and my body, traitorous thing that it is, sinks into it.

Still, I manage a growl. “I’m gonna murder you,” I grumble, the threat smothered by sleep and sounding more like a purr than anything dangerous.

Joel chuckles and his leg shakes beneath me with it. “That’s fair,” he says, clearly not worried. “Just tell me if ya gotta work today.”

I roll my eyes, or try to. They’re barely open, and everything in my body feels like lead. “It’s technically my day off, but I have to be ready by five-thirty. Betty always forgets her keys,” I tell him.

He stretches just enough to glance toward the kitchen. “Don't go freakin' out.”

“Why would I freak ou—”

He interrupts my question, saying, “It’s five-twenty.”

I bolt upright like I’ve been electrocuted. My eyes fly to the glowing numbers on the stove. Five. Twenty. A.M. The clock blinks back at me like it enjoys my suffering.

“Crap,” I hiss. I scramble for my phone, which is as dead as my will to live.

Joel’s hand wraps around the top of my thigh and gives two gentle squeezes. He brings his pointer finger to his lips as he tilts his head toward the far end of the couch. I follow his gaze to see the girls are both out cold. It’s the kind of deep, tangled slumber that only happens after sugar crashes and safe company.

I attempt to rise to my feet but my legs wobble, sore from yesterday’s six-inch heels and the war my body always wages against mornings. Joel’s hands slide to my waist, steady and instinctive, fingers spreading just enough to catch more than gravity. His touch lingers. Not in a possessive way, just long enough to make the moment stretch and settle into my skin like heat from a sunbeam.

I grab his hand and pull him up from the couch. He groans under his breath but rises anyway, letting me guide him without question. I don’t let go until we’re down the hall and stepping into my bedroom, the only place that promises privacy right now.

I shut the door behind us with a soft click, releasing my hold on him in the process. I beeline for the nightstand and plug my phone in with the kind of urgency usually reserved for medical equipment. When I turn around, Joel’s already taking a slow lap around my room like he’s reading it.

His fingers brush the edge of my desk. His gaze scans the pale pink throw folded at the end of the bed, the chaotic stack of books on my dresser, the tiny heart-shaped jewelry dish next to an unread paperback with a man in a suit and a heroine mid-swoon.

His eyes pause there, just for a beat too long. The corner of his mouth doesn’t quite curl, but something shifts. I can almost hear the word princess forming in his head, even if he doesn’t say it.

I cross to the dresser and start pulling open drawers, the wood creaking louder than it should in the quiet. I fish out jeans and a music tee, pressing the bundle to my chest like a shield.

When I’m facing Joel again, he’s rolling his shoulder deliberately. The fabric of his shirt strains across his chest and bicep as he works through something clearly still lodged in the muscle.

My eyes betray me. They track the movement of his back and the quiet strength in the way he moves. My brain, uninvited, drops a fantasy reel into my lap—full color, high definition, absolutely unhelpful. I wonder if he would move as slowly and as carefully if he were inside me.

And then reality lands, sharp and sudden.

“I didn’t feel you move all night.” I blink, guilt prickling at the edges of my voice. “You... slept sitting up on my couch?”

He rakes a hand through his hair with his back still facing me. “Yeah,” he says, voice low, like it’s not worth much. “Ya looked too peaceful t’move.” Then after a beat, he tacks on, “All y’all, I mean.”

My chest tightens. The first part catches in my ribs before the second can cushion it. My gaze drops to the floor, then slowly trails back to where he’s still standing.

And that’s when the second blow lands. I slept on him in full Barbie glam for six straight hours.

“Oh god.” The whisper escapes before I can stop it. I nearly drop the thong tangled in my hand like it personally betrayed me.

Joel turns immediately, eyebrows knitting, already reading the panic in my face. “What’s wrong?” he asks, scanning me for damage, voice already keyed up to put out a fire.

I don’t answer. I drop my clothes onto the bed and swipe both hands under my eyes. I can feel the glitter and I brace for the fallout. I’m probably wearing half a Sephora display right now.

“Carrington,” he says gently. The way he rasps the nickname pulls my eyes to his. “Ya doin’ alright?”

No, I’m not alright. I probably look awful.

“I’m fine,” I say, even though I sound about as convincing as a broken Keurig. There’s no way I’ll be ready in the next five minutes, so I give up the idea.

“Nah, ya ain’t,” Joel pauses like he’s sitting with his observation, then he continues, “Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it up proper.”

I shuffle toward the chair next to the bed and sink into it like my human gave up playing with me. “I’m so drained and I slept in waterproof makeup…” I trail off before realizing he probably doesn’t know how long it’ll take me to fix this mess. “I’m okay, I promise. Nothing that caffeine and a power washer can’t fix.”

Joel plants both hands on his hips and studies me from across the room. Each strand of his hair is out of place, and somehow, he looks better than he did yesterday.

“How ‘bout this,” he starts, voice calm. “You go on, get yourself cleaned up. I’ll grab us some coffee and let Miss Betty in if she done forgot her keys. When I get back, I’ll run El home so you can catch your breath some.”

I blink up at him. “Wait, seriously?” I ask. I guess I’m not used to people doing nice things for me.

He shifts his weight like it’s no big thing. “Yeah, reckon it’s the least I can do after keepin’ ya from your bed last night.”

My smile gets away from me before I can rein it in. “Maybe you’re right,” I say, quieter than before.

“Damn right I am,” he says smugly. “Now, where’s that coffee place at?”

“If you’re facing the bakery, Willow’s is to the left.” I push back into logistics because it’s easier than sitting in this strange, soft feeling blooming between us. “Store key’s on the hook by the door. It’ll open the front.”

He nods and backs away, still facing me like he doesn’t quite want to turn his back just yet. “Be back in a lil’ bit, sugar,” he says, before disappearing through the door.

As soon as the door clicks behind him, I launch out of the chair like I’ve been sprung and race to the bathroom mirror. What greets me could only be described as an unholy mess: mascara smeared under both eyes, hair resembling some kind of bird’s nest, and the dress from last night still hanging off me in sad, wrinkled waves.

With a small cry, I tug the dress over my head and let it slump to the tile in defeat. The moment the water turns on, steam overtakes the room, curling up the mirror and softening the edges of my reflection as I pull pins from my hair. Each spiral falls heavier than the last, refusing to cooperate. The mess causes an inhumane sound to leave my throat.

But then, the water hits my skin like forgiveness. I scrub with purpose, not grace. As if I can wash away not just the glitter and tension but the swirl of thoughts I’ve been dodging since I woke up on top of Joel.

I try to focus on detangling the mess that is my hair, but every few seconds, my brain slides back to him. His calloused hands, his accent, the way he said my name like it belonged to him.

I force my thoughts to shift. He has a daughter, is older, and has probably decided I’m more chaos than I’m worth after I quite literally passed out in his arms last night.

I rinse off quickly, dragging myself through the rest of my routine. Lotion. Deodorant. A few spritzes of my favorite perfume, light and sweet with just enough spice to pretend I have it together. Once I’ve slipped into my clothes, the world starts to feel less overwhelming. Maybe not fully okay, but I’ve at least graduated from mascara goblin to “functioning adult in recovery.”

I step into the bathroom and close the door behind me with a quiet click. Decently charged phone in hand, I lower the volume and tap play on my morning playlist. A mellow groove trickles out of the speaker, barely loud enough to fill the silence.

I barely get through the first song before my phone chimes. Once, then again. Then six more in a rush, like an alarm I forgot to set.

Willow: Carrie

Willow: Carrie Carrie Carrie

Thalia: She’s probably sleeping in. It’s Saturday.

Willow: No she’s not. A man just strutted in here, ordered a black coffee, then asked me if I knew her usual.

Thalia: Oh, Joel.

Willow: Who’s Joel?

Thalia: Dina’s new friend’s dad. Pretty sure Madi knows him too.

Thalia: Wait, did you two fuck while my sister was there?

I clamp the phone in my hand like it’s a stress toy. Yesterday, I texted Thalia updates: Joel was picking up the girls, he was making dinner. Normal stuff. What I didn’t mention? That he never left.

Not that I had the energy to explain. I barely got through dinner after fainting.

Me: yes madi knows him and no, we didn’t sleep together bc i would never do that.

Willow: You should have. He’s hot.

Of course she’d say that. Willow thinks "red flag" is just another shade of love. Her taste in men is somewhere between reckless and legally questionable. She’s dating a guy who’s charming in the way cologne samples are—strong, synthetic, and probably toxic if inhaled too long. And if marries him like she plans, she won’t be Willow anymore. She’ll be Mrs. Somebody. Attached to his name, his plans, his universe. I wonder if she’ll even remember the café bookstore we dream about.

Me: it was just a playdate that went too long… relax

I set the phone down by the sink and reach for my toothbrush. A ribbon of mint paste, a press of the power button, and the soft hum of the electric brush vibrates through my jaw. I lean over the basin, scrubbing last night out of my mouth while music drifts softly in the background.

The tiny ritual helps. I sway a little in time with the beat, tapping my foot, half-dancing like no one’s watching because, thankfully, no one is. I catch my reflection mid-spin and point like I’m backup vocals for my own morning routine.

Then the phone chimes again, causing my phone to buzz strongly. It shifts across the counter before tumbling to the floor with a loud thwack that jerks me out of rhythm.

I spit, abandon the brush, and crouch down to grab it. Just as my fingers wrap around the phone, three solid knocks rattle the bathroom door.

I jerk upward too fast and crack the back of my head on the edge of the vanity.

“Fuck,” I hiss, eyes watering as I slap a hand to the sore spot. Pain blooms behind my scalp like a firework made of shame.

“You alright in there?” Joel’s voice filters through the door with just enough concern to cut through the sting.

I pause the music and practically throw my device on the windowsill before shuffling toward the door, still barefoot and sleepy. “Yeah,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Just bruised my ego.”

I crack the door open and there he is, standing in the hallway with two to-go cups in hand.

“Sorry,” I say, brushing a damp strand from my face. “I’m not used to having a man here. You scared the shit out of me.”

A smirk ghosts across his face. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on ya, sugar,” he says. “But I brought ya your usual. Least that’s what Miss Willow said.”

I glance at the coffees in his hand, then back up at him. “Thanks,” I say, soft around the edges, before picking up the toothbrush and slipping it back between my lips.

“Anytime,” he replies, voice lazy but lined with something deeper. He tips his head slightly, his hair shifting with the motion. “You, uh… got an extra toothbrush lyin’ ‘round? Don’t reckon I wanna knock us both out with this mornin’ breath.”

I snicker. “Yeah, gimme a sec,” I mumble, the brush dangling from the corner of my mouth like a crooked cigarette.

I turn toward the cabinet, cheeks heating as I remember what’s crammed inside: the half-used perfume bottle shaped like a cupcake, emergency meds, and enough tampons to last a small village. I fumble past them and grab a spare toothbrush, one of the unopened ones I keep for Dina.

The cabinet door clicks shut and I suddenly see Joel behind me in the reflection. He’s close enough that my breath hitches and the tiny bathroom suddenly feels even smaller.

I glance at him in the mirror, then offer the toothbrush over my shoulder. “Here,” I murmur over the bristles in my mouth.

His fingers brush mine as he takes it, causing my heart to stutter. He doesn’t step back which seems to suck all the air out of the room for me.

He unscrews the cap on the toothpaste and adds a line to the bristles, then lifts the brush to his mouth. I catch myself staring, entirely fixated on the simple rhythm of him brushing his teeth. His jaw flexes and his arm tenses. Time seems to slow in the mirror.

I bend over the sink to spit, and in doing so, back into him. I catch myself purposely pressing right into the front of him and he doesn’t flinch. Instead, his free hand slides up my side unhurried.

A flushed, breathless, and pulsing heat floods my cheeks. I rinse my toothbrush, trying to act normal even as my entire body hums like a struck tuning fork. Then I reach for the mouthwash, grateful for the distraction. Joel nudges me slightly to spit into the sink, the movement brief but impossibly intimate. I step aside, swirling the icy burn through my mouth while he rinses.

He straightens, wipes his mouth, then glances toward my room. “I went on and let Miss Betty in, by the way,” he says, voice casual like he didn’t just set my body on fire. “She was fixin’ to call the cops on me till I reminded her I met her yesterday.”

With a final spit, I reach for a towel. “Thanks. And... sorry. She’s a bit nervy.” I dab at my lips, trying not to smile.

“It’s all good. Kinda nice knowin’ you got folks watchin’ out for ya,” Joel says as he reaches around me for his coffee on the windowsill. His hand brushes just behind my back before he leans back against the doorway with that worn-in kind of ease.

I glance over, curiosity nudging at my chest. “So... what’d you think of Willow?” I ask. Ideally, all my friends would get along. But that’s not always the case.

I watch him take a sip as I gently pull the microfiber towel from my head. “Well, she’s… alright, I s’pose. Bit of a spitfire, that one,” he answers, pausing like he’s tasting the words.

I arch a brow as I comb my hair upward into a ponytail. Alright? I don’t even think I have the brain power to decipher if that’s Joel’s version of a compliment.

Instead of digging deeper, I jump to conclusions. “Be honest,” I start, smoothing back flyaways with a brush. “She was mean to you, wasn’t she?”

His chuckle is soft but real. “Nah, not mean. Just blunter than what ‘m used to before sunrise. El’d like her,” he prophesies and I agree with him.

I laugh under my breath, trying to tuck the smile behind the curve of my cheek. It’s no use with a hairstyle that keeps me from hiding. “So,” I say, twisting the hair tie once more for something to do with my hands, “what are you up to for the rest of the day?”

Joel leans in with a grin that forms equal parts teasing and trouble. “Eager t’see me again already?”

My mouth parts, stunned, but no words come out. Before I can recover, he throws his head back with a loud, unfiltered laugh. It bounces off the tile walls, warm and unguarded.

Then Joel’s hand finds my waist, tugging me closer with the kind of quiet confidence that leaves no room for argument. “Just messin’ with ya,” he drawls, voice warm against the morning air. “Gotta head to work later. Saturday shifts’re always the busiest.”

The brush of his fingers against my side has my pulse skipping like a record. I nod, biting back a grin, and hope he doesn’t notice the way my breath falters. “What ‘bout you?” he asks, his hand still resting there like it belongs.

I shrug, aiming for casualness. “Not much. Probably read for a while. Then I’ve gotta finalize the menu for the harvest fest at the school.” My body sways slightly as he takes another sip of coffee, his grip steadying me without thought.

The words barely leave my mouth before his gaze sharpens. “You’re goin’, huh?” he asks, the question coming out rougher than he probably intended.

His urgency throws me off, but then I remember his daughter does go to Waldorf with Dina. I echo, watching the tight set of his jaw. “Yeah. I had a booth last year—it went really well, so I’m doing it again. Are you?”

He nods once. “Yeah, it’s on Ellie’s calendar.”

“Perfect. You should hang out in the booth with me. We can make fun of all the rich parents together. God knows what they’re still saying about me anyway.” I laugh lightly, then stumble into honesty. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they still thought I was Dina’s—” My ramble halts the second I feel Joel’s fingers tighten, firm on my waist. “Nanny,” I finish weakly.

His face darkens, jaw ticking in a way that makes my stomach flip. I freeze, panic buzzing at the edges. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? I didn’t mean to if I did. No wonder the school moms don’t like me.” The words tumble out too fast, and I can’t stop them. My neurodivergence always shows at the worst time. And I currently feel like I’m tripping over an invisible wire that only he sees.

I take his silence as my answer and retreat a step, trying to put space between us.

“Carrington, hold up now,” Joel says, his voice low and unhurried. I reach for the latte he brought me from the windowsill, eyes fixed on the floor as if that might ground me.

When I finally look up, his arm is stretched across the doorway like a barricade, broad and immovable. My gaze flicks to the barrier, then back to his face. “Excuse me,” I murmur, ducking beneath his arm, brushing against him as I pass.

I barely make it a step before Joel’s hand lands on my waist, tugging me back into him with effortless certainty. “Oh, hell no ya don’t.” His voice brushes low against my ear, the sound curling down my spine.

Pinned against him, I lift my cup for a sip, more for show than thirst. The coffee’s heat does nothing to disguise the way my pulse is hammering. My attempt at looking unbothered doesn’t stand a chance.

“Ya didn’t say nothin’ wrong, Care,” he says at last, exhaling through his nose like the weight of the world just shifted to his shoulders. His thumb flexes against my skin as I swallow my sip. “I just don’t take kindly to folks treatin’ ya anything less than ya deserve.”

Some of the tension drains out of me at his words, my posture straightening as I look up at him. “Oh.” A sigh slips free before I can catch it. “It’s fine, really. Happens all the time. The parents know I’m not in their tax bracket and make their judgments.” My insecurities spill out easier than I expect.

Joel’s jaw tightens, that familiar steel in his expression returning. “Don’t make it right none. Don’t sit worth a damn with me.”

I shift my weight, lifting my cup to cover the smile tugging at my mouth. “Then maybe you should come with me,” I say lightly. “We’ll stage our revenge. For the price of one cupcake, you, too, can be judged by the broke baker and the struggling chef.”

He huffs out a laugh as I take another sip. His hand stays right where it is, thumb drawing an idle line against the curve of my hip as if he forgot it’s still there. “Sounds like a fine deal to me.”

We’re close enough that one shift forward would end the conversation in a way neither of us is ready to name. My throat works as I swallow, but Joel’s the one who breaks the silence.

“Now that we got that squared away,” he drawls, thumb brushing once at my hip before he lets go, “I’m fixin’ to take El on home. Girl’s got herself an internship down at the planetarium, and I ain’t dumb enough to show up lookin’ like we just rolled outta a damn costume shop.”

The warmth of him lingers after he steps back. I pretend not to miss it, setting my coffee on the nightstand like it’s been my plan all along. “Good call,” I say, tugging my hair behind my ear as casually as I can manage. “Adler?”

“Yup.” Joel’s cup lingers at his mouth, steam curling upward as his eyes stay fixed on me over the rim. “They’re givin’ her college credit for all that science stuff. She’s eatin’ it right up.” He takes a slow sip, like he’s measuring my reaction.

I tilt my head, interest brightening. “I love that for her. I’ll have to ask her about it sometime.”

The corner of his mouth tugs, like he’s fighting a grin he doesn’t want me to see. “She’d like that. But fair warnin’, once that girl starts jawin’ ‘bout space, ya ain’t gonna get her to shut up.”

A laugh bursts out of me. The sound fills the room, bright against his gravelly tone. “That’s fine. I wouldn’t ask a fourteen-year-old a question if I weren’t prepared for a possible dissertation.”

That earns me a real smile, brief but soft, before he pushes the door open.

I yawn as I trail behind him. “You two should take a couple pastries before you go,” I offer, voice low.

He glances over his shoulder, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t turn that down.”

Our footsteps fall in rhythm—mine bare, his in careful boot-clad strides. The morning light spills lazily across the floorboards, casting a golden tint over everything. Dina and Ellie are still dead to the world.

Joel gathers the things he brought last night, condensing everything to one bag before heading towards the couch. He sets the bag down and his coffee down before crouching beside Ellie. He places a hand on her shoulder. “El,” he says gently, giving her a little shake. “Time to get on up, baby girl.”

She groans, stretching long and slow, her arms flopping like overcooked noodles. One eye opens, then the other, both foggy with sleep. “What?”

Her head lifts slightly, bleary eyes searching the dim room. There's a flicker of confusion, then full-on panic when she sits up straighter and squints at her surroundings. “Where are we?” she croaks, voice tight and panicked.

Joel rubs her back in slow, calming circles. “You’re all right. We just crashed over at Carrington’s, that’s all.”

She squints, still unsure, until her eyes land on me hovering just behind him.

“Morning, sweet pea,” I say gently.

Recognition floods her expression, and with it, relief. Her whole body deflates. “Mrrrnin’,” she mumbles, her voice soaked in sleep.

Joel’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He helps her to her feet, steadying her as she sways slightly. Ellie leans over to whisper something to Dina, who lets out a half-conscious groan and promptly rolls over, dragging the blanket with her.

Joel retrieves his things, and we start for the stairs without needing to say anything. I wordlessly take his coffee and the bag from him as he crouches to help Ellie into her jacket. Her hands fumble with the sleeves, fingers sluggish with sleep. Joel doesn’t rush her. I stay back, watching them with something quietly blooming in my chest. It’s soft and unfamiliar, curling low beneath my ribs.

Once she’s wrapped and zipped, he stands and gently retrieves his cup and bag from my hand. The scent of warm dough and sugar meets us on the landing. We head down the stairs together with Joel leading, Ellie tucked between us, and me just a few steps behind.

Once we're on the bakery floor, I head toward the racks of pastries and gesture. “A couple of these okay?”

Joel glances down at Ellie, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “Whatever ya wanna give us.”

I grab the tongs and tuck a few croissants in a pink to-go bag. Ellie cradles the paper sack like sacred loot as I hand them over.

“You asked what the worst order was last night and I never answered. I’ve decided it’s pie but it might just be because I don't like it,” I say, sliding a glance her way. “You’ll have to try everything on the menu and make the decision yourself. Starting with croissants.”

She peeks into the bag, lips twitching upward. “Bet.”

Joel squeezes her shoulder, his attention drifting briefly toward her face with that anchored, unshakable affection he carries for her. “Say thank you, El.”

Ellie glances up from the pastries, still gripping them like they might vanish. “Thanks, Carrie,” she mumbles.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, sheepishly.

Joel shifts his weight, already steering her toward the front. “Alright, you ready to hit the road?” His nudge is subtle but firm.

Ellie exhales like she’s being sentenced. “Not really, but yeah,” she mutters, dragging her steps.

He lets out a quiet chuckle, tugging her along with one arm. “C’mon. You can Snapchat her or whatever the hell y’all’re usin’ these days.”

She groans like it physically pains her. “Nobody uses Snapchat anymore.”

Joel pushes open the kitchen door, holding it wide for both of us. Ellie slips through, and I trail after her, brushing past him just close enough to feel the heat of him beside me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, remembering the quiet, firm way he corrected me the night before. I lead us to the main entrance and pause, waiting. Sure enough, Joel steps forward without hesitation and opens it for us. He doesn’t say anything—just gives me that smug little smirk, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing.

We step out into the soft, blue-tinted morning light. The air smells like dew and baked goods. Joel turns to Ellie, handing her his coffee and the bag. “Take this here and wait in the truck a minute, would ya?”

Ellie waves him off with a sleepy “Whatever,” then trudges toward the passenger side of his truck. She climbs in and slams the door with just enough force to let us know she’s awake now—but barely.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Joel turns toward me. His expression softens. It’s the kind of shift that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world for a second.

“Just wanted to say thank ya, Care. For everythin’ last night,” he says. “Hell, Ellie actually went and made herself a friend, finally.” Then he pauses, gaze catching mine. “And I gotta say, I really enjoyed bein’ here. Bein’ with you.”

The second those words leave his mouth, his pupils widen. It’s visible and undeniable. His eyes go dark like a flame getting doused, swallowing the warm flecks of espresso until there’s nothing but black.

Being around him feels like the sun opened up and shined a spotlight down on me. Like my mom saw I needed a friend as patient, caring, and protective as him and sent him to me from heaven.

I look down, heat rising up my neck, a full-body flush that leaves my hands feeling shaky. “I enjoyed being with you too,” I say quietly, almost like it’s a secret I’m still telling myself.

Before I can stop myself, my teeth catch my bottom lip. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the motion. The quiet between us stretches, but it’s not awkward. It buzzes.

Then he takes a small step forward, close enough that I can feel the warmth rolling off him. His fingers lift to my chin, and his thumb traces the edge of my lip, coaxing it free from where I’ve caught it between my teeth. The touch is so slight, but I feel it everywhere.

“I sure wish you’d quit doin’ that,” he says, his voice dipping into a low growl. “You ain’t got a clue what that does to me.”

The buzz under my skin tightens, pulling everything inward, like a string has been tugged that I didn’t even know was there. My breath stutters and my brain instantly jumps to worst case scenario. It probably annoys him. It probably turns him off.

He doesn’t give me time to dwell on it, pulling me into what I assume is the last hug I’m ever going to get from him. “I’ll be seein’ ya Wednesday night, sugar,” he proves me wrong, voice warm against my ear.

I manage a breathy laugh, too stunned to say much else. “Okay,” I whisper.

He pulls away slow, like it costs him something. That maybe, he’d stay here all morning if I asked him to. His hand grazes down my arm before it finally lets go.

And just like that, the moment is over and he steps back. “Bye now, Carrington,” calls, his boots already crunching toward the truck.

“Bye, Joel,” I say, though it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

Ellie waves from the passenger seat, her eyes half-closed, chin tucked into a hoodie she must’ve plucked from the backseat. Joel climbs in and closes the door with a soft thud that feels louder than it is.

When they pull away from the curb and down the street, I stand there in the chill of early morning wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with the rest of my day now that he’s gone and taken the air with him.

The steady beeping of a hospital monitor fills the room from the TV as I shuffle a stack of printed pastry photos across the counter for what has to be the hundredth time. When Dina left to go home, I figured there was no better time to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy. It even started raining two episodes in, which felt like a cosmic sign that I’d made the right decision. Now, four episodes later, I can’t remember a single plot point.

I press my palms into the kitchen counter, exhaling until my shoulders drop. Each one feels like it’s personally mocking me. I never have trouble finalizing the monthly menu, but this time it feels impossible.

The pressure makes it feel unbearable to make a decision. If the parents like the pastries, they’ll likely hire me for their fancy fundraisers throughout the year again. If not… well, bakeries like mine don’t survive long on charm alone.

I swirl the last inch of wine in my glass, searching for inspiration that doesn’t come. The taste of sweet red hits my tongue just as a surgeon on-screen starts seizing mid-operation.

My eyes widen. “Oh my god,” I mutter, half laughing, half horrified. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Immediately, guilt nips at me. A seizure is not funny by any means, but it’s so Grey’s to lob a medical emergency at you right when you think it’s safe to take another sip of wine.

I set the glass down and rub my temples. “Okay, focus. Menu. You’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.

Suddenly, the front door clicks before sliding open. I nearly drop the glass in my hand. My heart slams against my ribs, and I snatch the nearest thing that could double as a weapon—a whisk. It gleams under the kitchen light, which is funny because it’s useless. Unless I plan to whisk someone into submission.

That’s when a flash of glossy blonde hair appears through the doorway.

“So I heard you’ve been cheating on me,” Madi says, smirking as she leans casually against the doorframe like she’s walking into a reality show confessional.

“Madi!” I press a hand to my chest, heartbeat still sprinting. “Jesus Christ, you scared me half to death. I could’ve killed you,” I scold as I set my drink down.

She arches one perfectly shaped brow. “With what? That whisk?”

I glance down at my hand and scowl, realizing I’m still holding it. “Don’t test me.”

Her grin spreads slow and smug. She slides the door fully shut, the metal latch catching with a soft clack. The scent of autumn rain follows her inside—cold air, wet leaves, and faint traces of her jasmine perfume.

She shrugs off her coat and kicks off her heels in the corner, standing there in half a Halloween costume like she’s undecided whether she’s coming or going.

“Remind me why I gave you a key again?” I mutter, setting the whisk down on the counter.

“Because you love me, Care Bear,” she sings back, sweet as syrup, strutting over to the counter. “And because if I didn’t check on you, you’d spend your Saturday night having a full breakdown over fucking pastries.”

I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. “Are you coming from the party or going to the party?” I ask, catching sight of the glitter dusted across her collarbone.

She tilts her head, grinning. “You’d know if your phone wasn’t dead. I’ve been calling you all day.”

I blink. “My phone’s dead?” I ask, glancing around until I spot it sitting face-down on the other end of the counter. I turn it over expecting the wallpaper to show but the screen’s black. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ she says,” Madi mocks, her voice light but her eyes sharp. “What if there was an emergency? A fire or something?”

I crinkle my nose as I plug the phone into the wall outlet by the stove. The cord coils across the floor like a snake. “I know, but while it’s charging, maybe tell me why you’re in my house—in costume?”

“I’m stopping by before I go to the next place since I need you to tell me what happened with Joel,” Madi says, her tone breezy but eyes sharp, already scanning the room like she’s reading crumbs for clues.

I exhale through my nose and step closer to the counter. My shoulders slump as I slide a photo of the mini apple crumble pie into the maybe pile for the third time. “Wasn’t the group chat enough?” I ask, half under my breath.

I had told them everything, a full novel-length text while I waited for Dina to wake up. Facts only. No commentary. No room for overthinking.

Madi taps her nails against the edge of the counter, unimpressed. “No. You were methodically analytical,” she says, deadpan. Then her voice softens, almost imperceptibly. “Are you stuffing your emotions down again?”

I shake my head, picking up a photo of the brown butter pear tart and sliding it cleanly into the no pile. “I’m not stuffing anything down. I’m just looking at the situation logically. With all the information I have.”

“Right…” She leans forward, reaching past me to drag the pumpkin bread with chocolate chips into the yes pile, her bracelets clinking softly. “So now, I need you to put on your big girl panties and tell me how you feel emotionally.”

I narrow my eyes. She left out one tiny, massive detail when she played matchmaker. “Watch it,” I warn, plucking the pumpkin bread photo back and shoving it into no territory. “I’m still mad you let me find out he had a daughter this way.”

Her face flushes, that telltale pink that’s meant she’s irritated by my words since we were nine. “You literally said you weren’t into him on your birthday,” she fires back. “Why would I bring him up again after that?”

I sigh and press both hands to the marble surface beneath them. The chill steadies me more than her words do. “I never said I wasn’t into him,” I say slowly. “I said I wasn’t ready to be set up yet.”

She squints, studying me the way she does when she smells weakness. Then, with a sly smile: “And after hanging out with him… how do you feel?”

I freeze mid-reach for the photos, my pulse quickening like she’s called my bluff. “I don’t know.”

Madi arches a brow with a silent go on look. But I allow the silence to stretch, filled only by the hum of the fridge and faint talking from the tv.

I take a breath that feels heavier than air. “Hanging out with him was nice,” I admit, breaking our staring contest. “It felt good to be… cared for, even if it was just a couple hours. He made me feel—” I glance down, fingers smoothing the edge of a photo. “Safe. Or protected, I guess. I don’t know. I liked it.”

The confession slips out faster than I intended, like a truth that’s been waiting in my throat all night.

Madi’s lips purse into a thoughtful line. She doesn’t tease. Instead, she picks up a photo of the pumpkin chai bundt cake with vanilla bean glaze, taps it once against the counter, and slides it neatly into the yes pile.

“You know,” she says softly, “it’s okay to like those things.” Her voice lingers a beat. “It’s okay to like him.”

I groan, dragging my fingers through my hair and trying to smooth the flyaways back into my ponytail. “I know.” I let the photo stay where she put it this time, though my fingers twitch like they want to move it. “I just—” my voice dips low, mostly to myself—“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Madi exhales through her nose, shaking her head as she rearranges photos like she’s sorting evidence. “What’s wrong with you is you’re only vulnerable once in a blue moon.” She swaps out the butter pecan blondies for toasted marshmallow brownies, her tone maddeningly casual. “Like, the second your mom died, you turned into a smiling robot to protect yourself.”

The words land harder than I expect. My head jerks up. “Ouch,” I say flatly.

Her eyes widen. Hands fly up to cover her mouth, voice muffled behind her palms. “Ooo, I’m sorry. That was too blunt.”

I roll my eyes and blow out a ragged breath through my lips. “No, you’re right,” I admit, even though it burns a little to say it.

The TV hums in the background, Grey’s Anatomy’s ending theme spilling into the quiet. For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the faint tick of rain hitting the skylight and the low creak of the floorboards beneath our feet.

“I heard that’s a coping mechanism,” Madi says finally, her tone gentler.

“From who?” I ask, tilting my head, though I already know where this is going.

“My therapist,” she replies simply, like she’s talking about a hair appointment.

The word therapist hits like a quiet bell in my head. I think about the sticky note still taped to my fridge reminding me to call mine. The ink’s smudged now, like it’s been waiting too long. “Really?” I ask, leaning against the white marble. “What else did she say?”

Madi’s lip quirks to the side as she flicks her gaze between two dessert photos, indecisive. “She said I shouldn’t ask you why you do that…” — she gestures vaguely at me — “but what you’re afraid of instead.”

The air shifts. I bite the inside of my cheek and roll my shoulders back, the motion doing little to shake the tightness in my chest. I stare down at the glossy picture of a pumpkin tart, tracing the edge of it with my thumb. “That I’ll fall for him and it won’t be reciprocated. That he’ll think I’m reading into things, tell me I’m being ridiculous, and disappear.” The words come out soft, fragile, like they might break in half before they reach her. “That he’ll just want to be friends.”

Madi snorts and then bursts into laughter so sharp it startles me. My stomach drops instantly. “Oh my God.” I half laugh, half wince. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She waves a hand, trying to breathe between fits of laughter. “No, no,” she manages, still giggling. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

“Then why are you laughing?” I ask, folding my arms, though my lips twitch despite myself.

She chuckles, tucking a gold strand of hair behind her ear as she leans against the counter. “Because, Care Bear, before I even tried to set you two up, he was on me and Nic about it at every single event. Even after I introduced you two, he didn’t stop. You’re not reading anything wrong. The man likes you.”

My eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

I reach for the photo of pumpkin spice macarons, sliding it into the safe pile like that’ll keep my brain from short-circuiting. It doesn’t. My stomach knots anyway. “What if he changed his mind since my birthday?”

Madi whines like she’s heard this song too many times. “He probably didn’t,” she says, wagging a finger at me, “but you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

I swat her hand away with a scoff. “God, no. I’d rather live in my bubble.”

She narrows her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching into that half-grin she uses when she’s about to make a point I won’t like. “Listen here, Glinda. You’re not allowed to self-sabotage. You feel things, even if it doesn’t always feel good.”

I meet her gaze, trying the whole puppy-eye routine, but it’s no use. Her stare could melt steel and within seconds, I cave. “Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll try. Happy?”

Her frown breaks into a satisfied smile. “Enough to leave and go to another party? Yes.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and heads for the coat rack, the faint scent of her perfume trailing behind her.

“Thank God,” I mutter, half under my breath.

She bends to pull her heeled boots on, tossing me a smirk over her shoulder. “Don’t be like that. You know you love to watch me leave.” Her voice drips with that effortless charisma that’s gotten her out of every traffic ticket and into every VIP event since she turned eighteen.

I don’t even dignify it with a response. My eyes drift to the TV instead—two new characters have appeared on screen, subtitles flashing faintly against the flicker of the hospital monitor.

“So, when are you seeing him next?” she asks, voice pulling me back before I can focus.

“Wednesday,” I say, setting down the photo I’d been fiddling with. “He’s coming to my booth at the school’s harvest festival to make fun of all the rich parents with me. Should be fun since we’re both semi-broke.”

She freezes halfway through slipping her arm into her coat sleeve. Her face twists up like she just bit into a lemon drop.

“What?” I ask, suspicious.

She straightens, turning fully to face me. “Care Bear,” she says slowly, “Joel Miller is loaded. Has been for a while. Not old money like me or Nic, but still rich.” She tugs her hair free from under her collar with a flick of her fingers.

For a second, all the warmth drains from my body. My stomach dips. He didn’t correct me when I made the joke but his body language was off. How could I have been so clueless? I know the Madi would never set us up if he weren’t the full package, millions included. The man owns a penthouse restaurant, for God’s sake.

Madi’s smirk softens, worry flickering behind her eyes. “Why do you look like you’re about to puke? Do I need to stay?”

I shake my head, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach. “No, I’m fine. You should go to your party.”

She plants her hands on her hips, one brow arching. “Kicking me out is crazy.”

“Maybe,” I say, looping my arm through hers and steering her toward the door. “But I’m doing it anyway.” The movement’s playful enough to mask the swirl in my chest. I need the quiet before I start unraveling.

We stop at the landing outside my loft. The smell of cinnamon and sugar from the bakery downstairs still lingers faintly in the air, blending with the cool bite of November. I pull her into a hug, squeezing tight enough to say what I won’t out loud. “Don’t drink too much, and text me when you get home,” I murmur, already knowing I’ll be tracking her on Life360 as soon as she’s gone.

She pulls back, the corners of her mouth tilting in a small, knowing smile. “I will.” She takes a few steps down, then pauses halfway, one hand gripping the railing. “And, Care—don’t Google him. Maybe there’s a reason he didn’t correct you. You should hear that from him, not some article.”

I nod, swallowing hard. I hate that googling him was my first instinct and I hate that she’s right. “Okay. Bye, Madi.”

“Bye, Care,” she says softly, and then she’s gone. Her heels click down the stairs, fading into the hum of the bakery below. A moment later, the front door bell rings, that familiar ding echoing up through the floorboards.

The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. My chest eases a little, but my mind doesn’t. I slide the loft door shut, the track giving a quiet groan before the lock clicks into place. The wood is cool against my back when I lean into it, attempting to ground myself.

For a second, I just stand there—breathing, staring at the outline of my kitchen against the dim evening light. My heart’s still beating too fast.

And then, against my better judgment, I push off the door and make a straight line for my phone on the counter.

If I’m going to lose sleep over Joel Miller, I might as well find out exactly who he is.

honestly wasn’t sure if anyone would still care about this story, so if you made it this far, thank you so much. i’m planning to update more often from here on out, even if a chapter feels a little imperfect. i really want to see this fic through so I can move on to new stories (and maybe some requests for y’all).

love you all endlessly,

xx, via

dt: @ashleyfilm @bau-muffin

There was no such thing as a quiet shift at the restaurant. Whether it was the clatter of pots and pans, expletives darting across the room, or the unrelenting tick of the ticket machine rolling off order after order. It was exhilarating. The constant loudness quietened every decibel of noise in your mind; no matter what was happening outside of work, you could count on the pressure of controlled creativity to drown it out. Family drama, heartbreak, grief - it all slipped away as soon as you slipped your uniform on and heard the first shout of fuck! blaring across the room.

It should've been impossible for your heart to race any faster than it already did. But there it was. So subtle, unnoticed by all except you. His fingers brushing against yours when he would snatch the knife out of your hands, loudly berating you for dicing the onions too damn big. Your eyes would catch for just a moment, but it was enough. You were obsessed, infatuated.

Not only with the feel of his rough skin against yours, or the intoxication of his scent but with the secrecy too. Something stirred inside of you every time you would pass him, knowing he could still taste you on his tongue, your perfume lingering in his nose. At any moment to yourself, you would squeeze your eyes shut and remember the feeling of his hands on you. Grabbing for god knows what, the thrill of it all, taking any inch of your skin in his grasp that he possibly could. Devouring you in the knowledge he would have to wait hours until he could have you like this again.

Working beside him drove you insane. You constantly toyed between accidentally slicing a carving knife through your pinky just to feel his touch on you, or being a good girl for him, knowing you would relish in his praise later that night.

You didn't know how no-one else could feel the spark between you both. It consumed your entire being, only ever finding sweet release pressed up against the shelves of the supply closet. You managed to keep your meetings secret. Sometimes they felt concealed even between the two of you, never wanting to brave the question of what you even were in fear of it all dissipating beneath your fingers.

Most mornings began with your bare feet padding across his kitchen floor. He always woke before you, the smell of coffee coaxing you from his sheets. You felt feral. You were drunk on the sheer scent of him like an animal searching for its first meal after hibernation.

What had begun as lust had turned into something almost ugly, you didn't want to acknowledge the person you had become. Desperate for his affection, his praise, him. Each touch, kiss, and clash of your hips, felt like a nicotine rush surging straight to your head. You were addicted.

"So fuckin' needy for me baby, ain't ya?" He would laugh into your hair, whether he had you pinned against the bathroom door or tucked softly between his torso and bed sheets.

In the kitchen, you would find yourself subconsciously gravitating toward him.

"Back to your fuckin' station." He'd growl, loud enough for the others to hear.

"Yes, chef. Sorry, chef."

Later, tangled in his bed, he would coo "you gotta stop doin' that, baby. People are gonna start noticing."

"Maybe I want them to. I want them to all know I'm yours." Fingers in his hair, his teeth gently sinking into your shoulder. Yes, you would think, mark me, brand me yours.

"You're too good for that, baby. You gotta make a name for yourself."

"I know, I know." You'd whine. He was right, and you knew it. You didn't want to be known as Joel Miller's girl. It was a cut-throat, misogynistic business as it was, you had to have your own exposure, not be known as the poissonier chef fucking her head-chef.

The restaurant was always closed on a Sunday. Saturday nights rolled into Sunday mornings so sweetly. Peeling each other's garlic-scented clothes off, a smell only you could find satisfying. In those long-awaited moments alone, the collision of your bodies was ravenous. You were ruthless in the greediness of taking everything from one another.

Those Sundays would flow like honey, sickly sweet, slowly sticking to every inch of you. You savoured every moment alone with him. At around 7 pm, you would begin prepping dinner together. Experimenting with love, trust, and maybe a new recipe you had found in an Ottolenghi cookbook. In his kitchen, you bounced off one another. Otis Redding flooded the background, mangled with the sharpness of metal cutting into the chopping board.

"Did you get the parsley from the market?" You shouted, rifling through his cupboards.

"Still in the bag, on the table."

Tonight, you were making a pumpkin and cinnamon oxtail stew. The oxtail had been slow-cooking all afternoon, filling his small apartment with a warm, hearty smell. You chopped the parsley, lemon, and garlic for the gremolata, while Joel decanted the mixture of tomatoes, thyme, and rosemary into an oven dish.

"Smells so good, baby." He kissed your cheek, hands around your waist. "I'll set the table. Want a glass of red?"

In moments like this, maybe you didn't need the world to know Joel was yours and you were his. His kitchen was your utopia, and you would happily live out the rest of your days bathing in the smell of simmering vegetables and his cologne.