The door to the walk-in freezer clicked shut behind you. What was supposed to be a quick check—inventory, wine, the usual—shifted the moment Vincent stepped in after you. The air grew colder, but the tension between you felt anything but.
You turned with clipboard in hand—but he was already there. Too close. Too fast.
His hands planted on either side of your head, boxing you in against the chilled wall of metal shelving. Frost clung to glass bottles, but Vincent radiated something volatile.
His eyes weren’t warm. They were dark. Intense. Unreadable.
“I told you,” he said, voice low, almost trembling with restraint. “You can’t look at me like that. Not here. Not with me.”
But he moved closer anyway.
His expression twisted—conflict and frustration carved deep into every line of his face. One hand rose, fingers brushing the back of your neck. The other hovered near your chest, almost gripping your shirt but stopping short, shaking.
"You enjoy pushing me, don’t you?" he whispered.
His forehead touched yours, his breath unsteady. The closeness, the heat—none of it made sense in the frigid room. You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.
Your silence was louder than words. It undid him.
When he pulled back, he looked hollowed out—furious at himself, and somehow, still at you.
“Don’t say a word,” he muttered.
The door opened behind him. Light spilled in. The moment froze and cracked like ice beneath boots.
The next day, everything felt different.
The kitchen buzzed as always, but the glances were sharper, the silences heavier. Someone must have seen something. Heard something.
While you prepped the foie gras, a sous-chef muttered, “Bet the chef's favorite gets special attention.”
Laughter followed. Not loud. Not kind.
Vincent didn’t flinch—but his blade did. It snapped clean through the skin of a pear, steel clinking to the cutting board. He didn’t look at the others. Just at you.
And then, loud enough for the whole room to hear:
“Focus on your job. That’s all you're here for.”
Silence swept through the kitchen like a knife. No one said a word. They didn’t need to.
You’d been marked.
Later, in the quiet of the wine cellar, Vincent found you again.
His hand curled into your shirt. His breath trembled against your jaw.
“This is your fault,” he whispered, eyes searching yours. “You make it impossible to think straight. To be who I’m supposed to be.”
His grip tightened, then loosened. He looked exhausted. Fractured.
“You ruin me every time you’re near.”
But he still didn’t walk away.