Sous Chef ( JAKE ).

chapter twelve.

"You hungry?" He asked.

"For what?".

"Breakfast. Actual breakfast." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I promise not to make jokes. Not before caffeine, at least."

She considered him for a moment, eyes drifting toward the gray-washed window and back again. Then she nodded, just once.

"Alright," She said softly. "But you're making it."

He smiled, that same quiet, devastating smile and slid out of bed, stretching his arms before grabbing his shirt off the floor. Gianna watched him move through the dim room, still lit only by the rain-tarnished light. Something settled warm in her chest; slow, inevitable, holy.

She slipped out of bed as well, following him toward the kitchen. Their footsteps barely made a sound against the wooden floorboards.

And for the first time in what felt like years, she didn't feel like running.

Jake had spent what felt like hours in the kitchen that morning, the aroma of butter and garlic curling around the small apartment like smoke from a benediction.

The breakfast wasn't bad; no, it was actually quite good but the world beyond their sanctuary insisted on intruding. 22w was calling for them, loud and insistent, a clamoring for attention that could not be ignored. They took turns showering, steam steaming up mirrors like vaporous whispers of their night together, before stepping into a taxi, the rain-drenched streets wrapping them in a gray, misted silence. Hushed murmurs carried between them as the car navigated the city, the occasional splash of tire through puddles punctuating their quiet journey.

Arriving, they slipped into the restaurant with practiced quiet, shadows among shadows.

"Morning, Chef," Scott greeted, voice carrying over the soft clatter of prep. "Big order today for service."

"I take it you left everything ready yesterday. What do you need me to do?" Gianna asked, buttoning her crisp chef's jacket, the fabric snug over her shoulders, signaling the armor she wore in these battles of taste and precision.

"They requested something odd," Scott said, eyes flicking toward the chaos that already hummed around them. "A dish called L'Éclat de Gianna."

"Oh, that," she murmured, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "Did Howard nod off on it?".

"He did," Scott said, dry as ash.

Gianna pinned her hair back, tied her apron, and sent Jake a brief look; a flicker of acknowledgment that went unnoticed by the simmering pots around her before plunging into the symphony of the kitchen with Scott at her side.

"I haven't made it in a while," She admitted, almost to herself, voice lost among the clang of utensils. "It's a signature dish from school, but it's not on the menu ... why did Howard even say yes?"

"Who knows why that fuck does anything," Scott replied, tone clipped as the rhythm of service swallowed them.

The kitchen came alive around her: the hiss of searing meat, the chopping of vegetables like the strike of small, relentless gongs, dishes clattering together in percussion that somehow fell into a maddening, perfect cadence. Gia stood at the garnish station, eyes sharp, fingers steady.

"Pick up, L'Eclat de Gianna, lamb one, branzino two, chicken three!" She called, leaning down to inspect her handiwork, erasing any excess as though perfection could be rubbed clean from the edges of a plate.

"Sausage potatoes up!" Eddie called from behind.

"Nice," Scott replied. Gianna's eyes caught Simone lifting the plates; for a fleeting millisecond, their gazes met, an almost imperceptible spark, before Tess crept up behind her, silent and wrong-footed.