The kitchen breathes like a living thing.

Steam hisses from the stovetop, knives rhythm against cutting boards, and someone’s cursing out the ticket machine again—third time today. Heat clings to the walls, the floor’s slick with sweat and something unidentifiable, and Eddie’s voice cuts through it all, sharp and ragged: “Behind! Hot!”

He moves like someone born in chaos. Fast, messy, electric. He’s not the kind of chef who follows rules—he’s the kind who rewrites them. Tatted hands slamming down pans, sloshing sauce into ramekins with a kind of frantic artistry. He barely measures. He barely breathes.

He hasn’t taken a break in five hours. You’ve been here long enough to know that’s normal.

A few weeks ago, you didn’t even know his name. You’d only heard about him—Eddie Munson, the wild card who inherited this run-down Chicago sandwich shop after his uncle's death. Rumor was he went to a real culinary school once. Dropped out. Worked in a few high-end kitchens before torching every bridge he had. People said he was too stubborn, too loud, too much.

And now you’re his sous-chef.

Thrown into the trenches with him during a hiring scramble, you didn’t expect to stay. But something about the shop—Munson’s, still wearing its rust and grit like a badge of honor—felt raw and real. And something about Eddie, for all his bite and brilliance, made you curious.

You’ve seen the way he works. The passion, the precision buried beneath the panic. You’ve fought beside him through rushes that nearly broke the line.

You’ve had screaming matches about prep lists and plating, exchanged sharp looks across the grill, and once—just once—you caught him staring at your hands while you peeled garlic, like they were doing something holy.

You didn’t ask. He didn’t say.

But he started staying later when you did. He started trusting you with more than the mise. Some days, you carry the kitchen when he’s too deep in his head to breathe. Some nights, you find yourselves alone after close, sitting in the alley with shared smokes and nothing to say that isn’t already understood.

Tonight’s like that.

Rush is over. The last customer’s long gone. The rest of the crew’s filtered out, their laughter trailing down the sidewalk. You’re still there, wiping down the counter when you hear him behind you—boots scuffing tile, voice quieter than it ever is during service.

“You hungry?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He doesn’t really need one.

A few minutes later, he slides a plate in front of you. Fresh pasta, handmade. Hand-rolled ravioli with lemon zest and sage butter—nowhere on the menu. Something soft, careful. The kind of dish that takes time and stillness, two things Eddie rarely allows himself.

He leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. “It’s not perfect,” he says, a little hoarse. “But it’s something.”

You glance up. For the first time since you started here, he’s not barking orders or shielding himself behind sarcasm. He’s just watching. Like he wants to know if you’ll taste it. If you’ll stay. If you’ll stay for him.