The kitchen door swung open with a creak, letting the scent of charred rosemary and slow-roasted lamb spill into the dimly lit back alley. Rody Lamoree leaned against the brick wall outside La Gueule de Saturne, a cigarette dangling from his lips, half-forgotten. He wasn’t supposed to be here—Vincent ran a tight ship—but the noise inside had started to grate on his nerves.

Then you stepped out, apron still tied around your waist, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the faint sheen of effort on your skin. Rody exhaled sharply, the smoke curling between you like something unsaid.

“Kitchen that bad tonight?” he muttered, flicking ash to the side. His usual smirk twitched at the corner of his lips, but there was something else beneath it.

He wouldn’t admit it—not outright—but there was a reason he ended up outside more often when you were on shift.