Sous Chef ( JAKE ).

chapter twelve.

"Pick up! Nineteen, shrimp one, strip steak two, lamb three!" Gianna's voice rang out, slicing through the chaos, hands sliding the plates along the metal surface with mechanical precision. She leaned to adjust a garnish, unaware Tess was gathering plates in tandem.

Then — the crash.

A plate shattered, ceramic screaming against metal, scattering a small constellation of disaster across the floor.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Scott bellowed, and Gianna's jaw clenched so tightly it might have cracked bone.

"Who let this girl run plates!?" She shouted, voice sharp as a knife through the tension. "She just fucking wasted a good steak!".

"I am... so so sorry," Tess began, voice trembling under the weight of the kitchen's fury.

"Don't fucking apologize!" Gianna snapped, exhaling through her teeth. "Pick up tartare B5!".

Jake remained by her side, silent but attentive, watching the broken pieces glint under the harsh kitchen light until Will finally stepped forward.

"What happened?" He asked, dumbfounded, stepping over fragments like a careful archaeologist.

"She's fucking up service!" Scott barked, rushing to the periphery.

"Get her the fuck out, Will. I told you no handling my goddamn plates!" Gianna sneered. "This is the first time in my entire career someone has dropped something of mine!"

"It burned me, I'm sorry," Tess offered again, words trembling. Gianna felt a fleeting pang of sympathy; a single heartbeat of humanity before annoyance surged back like a tide.

"No worries, man. We got this," Will said, taking the fallen plates into his own hands with the quiet authority of someone used to damage control.

"Great," Scott muttered, snatching a ticket from the printer. "Will and his new special-needs back waiter got this, asshole."

"Jesus fucking Christ, grab some fucking chips for a follow," Gianna barked, voice low and controlled now, "And tell them I'm the incompetent dumbass who can't three-plate." Tess nodded meekly, moving quickly to obey. "Refire strip steak, medium rare!"

"Jesus fuck," Scott muttered, watching her like she was a storm incarnate. Tess spared a glance, swallowed, and slipped out into the hallway.

Gianna's attention snapped back to the sizzling steak before her, the hiss and pop grounding her, a pulse of calm amidst chaos. She inhaled deep, tasting the faint smoke and butter, and exhaled through her nose.

"I fucking hate when shit gets dropped," She muttered, frustration still thrumming.

Manny chuckled softly, leaning over the prep. "Shake it off, florecita. That steak is going to come out perfect."

"Strip steak," She called to Will, sliding the plate across the station, garnishing with the precision of someone for whom control was a language.

The kitchen roared around her; clatter, sizzle, shouted numbers but for a moment, Gianna was a calm eye in the storm, the pulse of her craft steady beneath the chaos.

The kitchen became a living, breathing organism; metal and fire and sweat intertwined, each person a beating cell within it. Orders flew in like shards of broken sunlight, tickets printing with the urgency of whispered secrets, each plate a promise that could not be broken. Gianna moved through it all, precise and ruthless, her hands carving order from chaos, voice cutting through the clamor:

"Pick up! Lamb two, branzino four, chicken five! Strip steak medium rare, now!"

The pans hissed under heat, oil shimmering like liquid gold. The scent of rosemary and garlic, of butter melting over seared meat, rolled into her senses, anchoring her even as the world threatened to spiral. Tess moved with tentative precision, carrying plates like fragile birds, while Will shadowed her with quiet authority, intercepting mistakes before they rippled outward.