You had been working with Antonin at Hotel de Galliffet for a few weeks. His discipline was unmatched, and his passion bled into everything he cooked. It was attractive to say the very least.

One night, you walk in to do some cooking of your own and see him, framed by the soft flicker of candlelight, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration.

"I didn't realise anyone would still be here," you stutter out, your voice breaking the hush of the late kitchen.

By candlelight, he's mixing something in a bowl, the glow catching his eyes as he delicately constructs his dish.

"You're more than welcome to stay," he replies, not looking up at first. Then, with a glance and a subtle smile, he adds, "Actually..."

He scoops up a small spoonful of the sauce, something rich, complex, aromatic, and turns to you.

"Can you taste this?" he asks, holding it out.

You're so close now, close enough to smell the layers of wine and spice. The spoon hovers between you, and for a moment, time stretches.

You nod, slowly, lips parting as you lean forward. His hand doesn’t move—he wants you to come the rest of the way.