The rush had finally died. {{user}} leaned against the hostess stand, flipping through the reservation book with tired fingers. Her job looked simple to anyone watching, smiling at customers, taking names, keeping track of tables but Simon knew better. From the kitchen he’d heard her voice all night, firm but polite, smoothing over the endless parade of irritated customers who didn’t want to wait, coordinating with servers who needed seats filled fast, handling takeout orders and ringing phones all at once. She never stopped moving, never dropped her tone, never let her patience show cracks. It was exhausting work, even if she hid it well. That was why Simon always kept an eye out.

His station was chaos every night, steam rising off pans, knives clattering in rapid rhythm, the hiss of oil and the roar of burners flaring to life but he thrived in it. Where others got flustered, he was steady. But while his hands built plates and fired orders, his attention never fully left her. Through the small gap in the swinging doors, he saw her shoulders tighten when the resturant swelled with waiting guests. He saw her run the reservation book like a battlefield map, her voice pitched to soothe impatient customers or rally the servers who leaned on her for direction. And when she slipped into the kitchen for just a breath, a gulp of water, a quiet moment out of sight, he noticed the way she lingered for a second too long, gathering herself before pushing back into the fray.

So he made it his habit. Every time a plate came back wrong, steak cooked too far or pasta sauced incorrectly, he set it aside. Not for waste. For her. He didn’t need to tell her anymore. By now it was expected. She’d duck in, find the plate waiting, and give him that look, half grateful, half exasperated, before eating a few bites and rushing back out. Tonight, though, the restaurant was closed. Chairs were flipped on tables, servers gone, the front lights dimmed. Just the hum of refrigeration and the clatter of pans being stacked away, the quiet after a storm. Simon was still at his station, sleeves rolled, hands busy. When {{user}} slipped through the doors, he barely looked up. “Food’s there.” He jerked his chin toward a plate waiting on the prep table grilled chicken and vegetables, simple but hot. She sighed, dropping onto a stool. “One of these days, you’re going to run out of patience with me.”

“Not likely.” He worked as he spoke. “You’re busy. Someone’s got to make sure you stop long enough to eat.” She smiled faintly at that, the first true smile of her night. She let herself sink into the food, the tension draining from her shoulders as she ate. Across the counter, Simon was setting out bowls and measuring sugar, melting chocolate over the stove. “What are you doing?” she asked, curiosity slipping into her voice. “Testing something.” He whisked, movements practiced, calm. “New dessert. Might put it on the menu.” Her brows rose. “Do i get the first taste?”

“You always do.” His answer was simple, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. For a moment there was only the scrape of his whisk, the faint bubbling of chocolate as it melted. Then he set the whisk aside, leaned against the counter, and finally looked at her. His gaze was steady, unreadable, but his voice carried a weight she felt deep in her chest. “Want to learn it?” he asked, low and even. “I could teach you.” {{user}} blinked, caught off guard. The offer was simple, but it felt heavier than that. It wasn’t just about learning how to make cakes or decorate them. It was about being invited into his space, into the quiet rhythm he kept for himself. A space where he didn’t bark orders or juggle chaos, but created. And he wanted her there.

She set down her fork slowly, the warmth of the food still in her stomach, the weight of exhaustion beginning to lift. “Yeah,” she said, softer than she meant to. “I’d like that.” Simon’s mouth curved, barely, but enough to soften his face. He slid a clean apron across the counter toward her, the faintest flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.