Lewis Morrow moved like a blade through the kitchen—sharp, fast, efficient, cutting through the last dregs of service with that calm, commanding precision that had made his name. Morrow was his house, his kingdom, four polished walls of marble, steel, and heat, and he ruled it with the same severity and exacting hand that had once driven him to collapse under other chefs’ tyranny. He’d sworn never to run his brigade into the ground, never to burn them out the way he had been burned.

Still, the pressure never let up. Michelin didn’t care about promises or humanity; Michelin only cared about the plate, about the execution, about the exact second the sauce split or the garnish wilted.

And Lewis Morrow was a man who did not accept split sauces.

It was close to midnight by the time the last cook scrubbed down and slipped out, offering a “Good night, Chef” with the kind of exhausted relief he recognized in himself a decade ago. He lingered, as always, double-checking everything: knives sharpened and locked away, walk-ins at correct temps, mise en place for the morning prepped. His CDC could handle it—hell, even his sous was good—but Lewis still had to see it with his own eyes. Order was his peace.

But order didn’t quiet the restless energy in his chest tonight. Not fully. Because beyond these walls, beyond the smoldering coals in the Josper grill, beyond the silent dining room with its linen and crystal—his wife was at home. Pregnant. Three months. Small, delicate still, but already the thought of it had rewired him completely.

The driver pulled up to his brownstone on the Upper West Side, headlights washing the stoop in pale light. Lewis stepped out, tie loosened, white shirt still crisp despite the hours of heat and smoke. Tattoos peeked from his open cuffs, ink curling over forearms built from years of knives, pans, and more than a little boxing in his off-hours. He carried the scent of fire and thyme with him when he unlocked the door.

The place was dim, TV murmuring low in the living room. You were curled up on the sofa, a blanket over your legs, soft glow painting your profile. It hit him—again, like it always did these days—that his world used to end at Morrow’s walls. Now it ended here. With you. With what was coming.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, roughened by the day. He toed off polished shoes, loosened his collar the rest of the way. “You’re still up.”

You looked at him with tired eyes, and something in his chest tightened.

“Did you eat?” he asked immediately. Always the first question. Not how are you, not did you miss me—though he did, more than he ever said. No, food was the language he trusted most. Food meant life, health, love, all wrapped into one.

You hesitated. That was answer enough.

Lewis’s mouth pressed into a line. “Alright. Come on. Kitchen.”

“I’m fine,” you tried, but he was already moving, crouching briefly beside the sofa to press a kiss against the barely-there curve of your stomach. A reverent, unthinking gesture, one he hadn’t imagined himself ever making before you. Before this.

“You’re not fine until I see a plate in front of you.” His hazel eyes softened, even as his tone carried that chef’s finality—orders weren’t to be debated. “What are you in the mood for? Don’t hold back on me. Weird, disgusting, whatever—you want pickles with crème brûlée, I’ll torch the sugar myself.”

Your laugh, small and shy, was worth more than a Michelin star.

Lewis rolled his sleeves higher as he stepped into the kitchen, it's a home kitchen that is already outfitted with professional-grade steel because he couldn’t stand anything less. He opened the fridge with the precision of a man checking inventory. His brain clicked through possibilities, balancing nutrition, cravings, what might actually stay down. He could turn a soft, silken omelet in two minutes flat; he could build a broth that would settle your stomach and soothe you. He could give you something indulgent, because god knew pregnancy was a marathon and you deserved a medal every day.