#Dry fruits shop near me

[shreejifoods]

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[dagabrother]

Title: "Premium Quality Seeds for Bountiful Harvests | Daga Brothers"

[bookmunchies]

Just spent an hour looking at diff sorts of nutcrackers on aliexpres instead of taking a nap like I want to do cause of? no rsn? ah w.e I wanted to nap bfr stuying and like I still will but the hours are really dripping away on meeeee. Also like, Serbia price is cheapest for this, Croatia is getting scammed out of like 3e and CG out of 4e plus the 1e u give to the post office/postman which is from what I hear, gon go uppp, also the only place that even pays for that?? Scammmm.

[chokhidhanikalagram]

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[gavirae]

42 tbps • wusiala wip

a new fic idea I’ve been planning for a while. Pastry chef flo who doesn’t know much about anything or anyone outside of his circle and jamal an upcoming bayern star who takes a liking to the resident baker. still in progress here’s a snippet

The air outside carried the earthy tang of rain, lingering in cracks and crevices like a memory on the cobbled streets of Munich. The sky above stretched in long ribbons of grey, draping the city in a hushed stillness that felt almost sacred. Flo always liked mornings like this—the kind that slowed the world down just enough for him to breathe and sort everything out before the bustle of crowds came streaming in.

The patisserie felt warmer on days like this, the glow of the overhead lights making the fogged window panes appear soft and dreamlike, as if the world outside had been painted in watercolors. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of vanilla and caramelized sugar, wrapping around Flo like an old friend. It made the quiet feel less empty.

At the counter, rows of fruit tarts gleamed under the soft golden light, their glossy surfaces catching faint reflections of the room. A fresh tray of Nussecken sat cooling behind him, their chocolate-dipped edges still soft and glossy, the pieces laid out in uneven rows. Flo liked it that way—imperfect but inviting.

He brushed the last traces of flour from his apron and glanced at the clock. Almost time to open.

Near the register, Juliane sat with one leg folded beneath her, flipping lazily through the newspaper she brought every morning from the train station. She wasn’t reading it, not really. Her eyes kept drifting to the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass in slow trails.

“You made the strudel today, right?” she asked without looking up, as if she already knew the answer.

Flo leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “Like always. If I didn’t you’d be the first to start complaining.”

She peeked over the top of the paper, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “At least you know me well.”

There was a beat of silence until the bell over the door chimed softly, cutting through the low hum of the patisserie.

Flo’s eyes flicked up by instinct, but the man who stepped inside wasn’t a regular. He was tall, with dark curls half-hidden beneath a cap pulled low over his forehead. His jacket looked slightly too big for him, hands shoved deep into the pockets. He hesitated just inside the entrance, dragging the bottom of his boots over the welcome doormat to dry off the remnants of the outside weather. His eyes scanned the room like he wasn’t sure if he belonged here.

Tourist, Flo thought. They drifted in sometimes, especially when the rain chased people off the main streets.

“Morning,” Flo greeted, stepping behind the register flattening the tail of his apron.

The guy’s gaze lingered on the pastry case, narrowing slightly as if trying to decipher what was behind the glass.

“Morning,” he said after a beat, his German accented—just enough to catch Flo’s ear. “Uh… I’ll take whatever’s good.”

Flo raised a brow, shifting his weight against the counter. “That’s not how this works. You have to pick.��� If you asked Flo, everything in the shop was good.

The guy let out a soft laugh looking away at the sweet items and meeting Flo’s gaze for a second. “Yeah, see, the thing is… I don’t know what half of these are. I just want something sweet.”

Juliane lowered her paper slowly, watching the exchange with poorly hidden amusement.

Flo suppressed a sigh, leaning over the display case. He tapped the glass lightly, pointing to the neat row of pastries. “Start simple. Apfelstrudel, Nussecken, or Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte if you’re feeling brave.”

The guy’s head tilted slightly, eyes catching on the tarts. “I’ll take… one of those.”

Flo glanced up. “The Himbeertarte?”

“I don’t know. The red one.”

Flo’s lips twitched despite himself. “Right. One red tart, coming up.”

Juliane’s quiet chuckle didn’t escape him as he boxed the pastry, folding the paper with practiced ease.

“That’ll be 4,20,” Flo said, sliding the box toward him.

The guy shifted, patting his pockets like he’d forgotten how money worked. After an awkward moment of fumbling, he produced a handful of coins—more than necessary—and crumpled cash that looked like it had gone through the wash.

“Sorry, I—uh, here,” he said, holding out the entire handful, as if letting Flo sort through it would somehow speed things along.

Flo stared at it for a second, unsure whether to be amused or mildly concerned. Slowly, he began counting, plucking the right coins from the disorganized mess in the man’s palm.

“Bit much,” Flo muttered under his breath, dropping the rest of the change back into the guy’s hand.

The man hesitated. “Keep it. For the next one.”

Flo blinked. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Or tip. I don’t know.” The guy smiled, and it wasn’t sheepish this time—just easy, like he didn’t mind.

Flo shrugged, sliding the extra change into the tip jar by the register. His gaze flickered back toward Juliane, whose smirk had only deepened.

“Anything else?” Flo asked, trying to ignore her stare.

The guy’s eyes drifted back to the display case, as if something else had caught his attention.

“Actually—can I get five more things?”

Flo’s hand stilled halfway to the jar. “Five?”

The guy nodded, resting his elbows lightly against the counter. “Yeah. Whatever you like best.”

Flo gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t even know what they are.”

The man grinned again, leaning in slightly. “Doesn’t matter. You look like you know what you’re doing.”

Flo huffed softly but started pulling pastries from the case, carefully boxing them up one by one.

Juliane watched, chin resting on her hand as she elbowed the newspaper aside. Her expression said everything she wasn’t saying out loud.

As the guy left, balancing the box under his arm, Flo caught the faint creak of Juliane’s chair as she stood, stretching lazily.

“You didn’t know who that was, did you?” she asked, voice laced with barely contained laughter.

Flo barely glanced at her. “A customer.”

She snorted softly. “Oh, Flo. Sometimes I think you live under a rock.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Juliane grabbed her coat, the lingering grin never leaving her face. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy your day.”

Flo frowned, watching her disappear into the back kitchen.

He didn’t think much of it.

The rest of the morning passed in the same quiet rhythm—kneading dough, humming softly to the patter of rain against the windowpanes.

Lemme know what you think about this

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | mature | wc: 1.1k | tags: spy au, spy boyfriends, established relationship | @steddielovemonth prompt: Love is sitting in comfortable silence together doing their own thing by @steddieasitgoes)

The sun beats down on a sprawling city below. Eddie Munson, an unassuming young man with unruly black curls pulled back in a loose bun, crouches on a nondescript rooftop overlooking the maze of buildings. It's hot as Satan's breath and he's sweating like a pig in his heavy leather jacket. Knowing that Chrissy was right when she told him to leave the jacket behind doesn't help his rapidly souring mood. He adjusts the high-powered binoculars pressed to his eyes and scans the streets again for his mark, just as he's been doing for most of the afternoon.

Through the scope, Eddie finally spots Jason Carver strolling casually along the crowded sidewalk, talking on his phone. Carver's movements are mundane, and he seems engrossed in a conversation that Eddie is sure is as boring as everything else he's seen Carver do since being assigned to the case.

With a deep sigh, Eddie thinks he's seen more action watching paint dry. He leans back against the edge of the roof, his posture betraying his growing impatience. He idly wonders what Steve is doing right now and wishes he could be spending time with his boyfriend instead of being boiled alive in the scorching sun and bored out of his mind. Hell, even watching Carver do jack shit would be better with Steve at his side. At least Eddie would have something pretty to look at.

"Why can't these guys have a more exciting life?" Eddie grumbles in frustration. Just then, he almost loses sight of Carver and thinks it's time to leave his vantage point and get some action.

But no. Carver simply disappears into a shop, from which he reappears seconds later to continue his leisurely stroll until he stops near a street vendor to inspect a selection of fruit. Eddie lowers the binoculars as the building excitement dies down and shakes his head in disbelief.

"Wow, exciting selection of apples you got there, asshole," Eddie mumbles in annoyance.

As boredom sets in, Eddie pulls out a small notepad and starts scribbling, creating a caricature of Carver munching on an apple. Chuckling to himself, he is only made aware of the presence of another person with him on the roof when their shadow falls on him.

Before he can fully process what's happening, his gun is aimed at the head of whoever snuck up on him.

"Oh baby, is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?"

Scowling, Eddie slowly lowers the gun until it's no longer pointed at the pretty face of his grinning boyfriend.

"What the hell are you doing here, Stevie? Please don't tell me Carver's your mark, too? You know what happened last time we had the same job. This time it's you who gets to sleep on the couch if I have to give up sex for the foreseeable future."

Steve laughs at his words, like it's funny how Eddie had to go weeks with Eden's forbidden apple winking at him in Steve's tight boxers, but not allowed to touch it, until he gave up and let Steve bag the job Eddie was also signed up for.

Being spies for competing agencies was bad enough, but when they ended up on the same job, things got ugly pretty fast. Eddie is still surprised that their love survived. Some days he even thinks it made them stronger as a couple.

He still doesn't feel like a repeat performance.

"Nah, don't worry. I told Robbie to make sure it doesn't happen again. Despite what you might think, I would rather not have us fighting as well. Although you have to admit, the make-up sex was amazing. One of our top five fucks. But I don't get enough time with you as it is, I want to enjoy what little I get. That's why I'm here. I thought I could keep you company, y'know. If you want me to, that is."

Steve shrugs as if he doesn't care either way, but Eddie knows his boy. He knows him well enough to see right through him, and he gives Steve a soft smile as he pulls him in with an arm around his waist.

He misses Steve, too. Since he started the Carver job, Eddie's hardly ever home, and when he is, 9 times out of 10 Steve isn't. It's frustrating. It makes Eddie reconsider civilian life, no matter how mundane it might be.

"It's not really exciting. Carver's looking at apples."

"I don't mind, Robbie and I are playing words with friends. I just prefer to sit here with you while we do it."

Eddie finally holsters his gun again before leaning forward and capturing Steve's mouth in a deep kiss.

When he resumes his position on the edge of the roof to continue his surveillance, Steve sits down next to him, his shoulder leaning against Eddie's thigh and his head resting on Eddie's hip.

The distant hum of city life surrounds them as they both go about their business in comfortable silence. Eventually Eddie checks his watch and realizes that hours have passed without anything substantial happening.

"I signed up for espionage, not rooftop babysitting," he grumbles to Steve, and his boyfriend hums in agreement. They both know that being a spy is not like the movies. It's weeks, sometimes months of nothing but watching and waiting.

His attention fades and he stares at the skyline, daydreaming about the record store on Elizabeth Street he passed a few weeks ago. The one he offered to buy without telling Steve. The wind ruffles his hair as he contemplates the surprisingly mind-numbing monotony of his current job and wonders what Steve would say if he offered him a different life. If Steve would keep doing a job that could get him killed one day, maybe sooner than later. If Steve also wondered if it was worth the risk now that he had something - someone - to lose.

Suddenly, Carver looks up at the sky, bringing Eddie back to reality. He watches as Carver adjusts his suit and walks toward a sleek black car parked at the curb.

"And it's on," Eddie says, adrenaline surging through his body. He presses a firm kiss to Steve's lips and whispers, "I love you, don't wait up," against them.

"I love you too. Be careful and don't let me wait too long, Robbie's already complaining about me whining all the time."

Eddie readies himself, folding up the notepad he had been scribbling on and tucking it away. As Carver's car pulls away, Eddie quickly follows, eager for the mission to be over so he can go home to his beautiful boyfriend and let his clever hands take him apart. When he looks back, the rooftop is deserted, with only the echo of the city's pulse in the air.

[omgsuperstarg]

Market Day- Toto Wolff x Black! Caribbean Reader

Author's Note: This one shot is based on another function of Caribbean Life. Going to the Market or Farmer's Market to get fresh food for the household is a normal occurrence and Toto decides to tag along with you and assist.

Saturday mornings are usually a staple of your household. That's the day when you head down to the local farmer's market and pick up the much-needed fruits, produce (ground provisions), & seasoning herbs for the meats and fish. Today, you wake at the crack of dawn to get ready. Toto was fast asleep during the summer shutdown taking the much-needed rest from flying for weeks at a time. This is usually a solo trip, so going out and returning in record times is an art form for you.

All that you needed was in your car, you proceed to leave a note so that he knew your whereabouts and with that, you're off for another fruitful Saturday morning.

Mini time skip..........

You're already halfway through your list when your phone begins ringing.

Hello

"Good Morning darling, I see you've left me all alone", your love speaks playfully.

"Morning to you as well Toto. I decided to let you sleep in because GOD KNOWS you need it and market trips have always been a solo task for me. Plus, I'm getting all the ingredients for SOUP SATURDAY!!", you state matter of factly.

"So where are you?", you inquire.

Turn around.

What!?!?", your voice

In doing what's instructed, you observe your boyfriend in some dry-fit shorts, a t-shirt with silver arrow logos, and some aviator shades with sneakers completing his relaxed outfit. Knowing Toto he always wore the love for his team on his sleeve in both figurative and literal senses. He jogs up to you with a bright smile on his face, one that you've come to love in your three years together.

"Im surprised to see you here, I thought you would be sleeping in since Saturdays' are usually my day", you profess as you hand him one of your market bags.

"Well, I couldn't let my darling do her shopping unaccompanied. Not only that it's a perfect way to catch up and spoil yourself with the florals you admire soo much", the statuesque man states with his accented speech seeping into your bones.

"Well, there's still a few more things that need to be purchased and since I already have meat seasoned for cooking, I say when we arrive home I can make us some soup. Judging the clouds it's going to be a heavy rain shower." you speak observing the bleak sky.

"Ahhh yes, soup is always comforting on a rainy day," he says smiling.

A fruitful trip was completed, you both were now home and cutting up vegetables for a hearty lunch. Dancehall and Soca music is blasting throughout the kitchen which is typical of a Saturday Morning. Toto observes you dancing along to the music and even finds himself nodding along to its infectious beat.

"So its always this noisy when you're back home?", he inquires as he sits near the granite countertop.

"Yes, this is a pretty normal vibe for a Caribbean household. Sometimes I would do my Saturday chores on a Friday so I wouldn't have to and the second Saturday or whenever the funds arrive would be market day. After coming home, I would assist my grandma in making soup, my favorite is Chicken foot and I would add ramen noodles to it as well. Early afternoon we would either bake homemade bread or coconut bake'', you profess wistfully as you think of your island home.

"I think that's quite sweet and I'm glad that you're able to share this part of your life with me,'' he confessed.

"I hope I can drag your butt for Trinidad & Tobago Carnival, get some seasoning in you as well as a little more colour, the fangirls I know would appreciate it, me being a major one," you say as you shut the stove off and begin to distribute the food.

The rain finally came down as you both began to eat, the warmness of the soup filling your soul, and the man sharing his love making you feel even more cozy.

[kanerallels]

My submission for the @swprequels-big-bang! I had a lot of fun writing this and working with the artist, it was so fun!!

First lines under the cut!

Taglist: @laughingphoenixleader @day-to-day-thots @accidental-spice @heckin-music-dork @opalknight @cassie-fanfics @ana-cantskywalker (DM me if you want to be added or removed from the taglist!)

It was pouring rain over the province of Lothal, and it had been for the past three days. At times, it would slow to a lighter drizzle, but by now the roads were turned to thick troughs of mud, and the skies seemed almost permanently gray. Anyone out in this weather would be soaked through and chilled to the bone in minutes, even with a proper coat.

The citizens of Lothal seemed to recognize this, as there was no one out on the streets. No one, that is, with the exception of one figure, huddled in a doorway, trying to stay out of the wind if not the rain.

Shaking a few droplets of water off of his face, Ezra gritted his teeth, trying to keep them from chattering together. There wasn’t any real way to stay warm—his clothing was thoroughly drenched, clinging to him heavily. Still, he kept his arms wrapped around him, trying to at least preserve some illusion of warmth.

He had a spot to hide from the rain, and had planned on staying there until it stopped. But his tower was miles from town, and he’d been out of food. Perilously so. So Ezra had pocketed his tools, a knife, and a few other essentials, and snuck onto an Imperial transport heading into the nearby town.

That was the first day, before the roads had become impassable. Now, Ezra didn’t have a way home, and he was running out of places to hide. He’d stolen some fruit from a vendor on the first day, and the man running the shop had promptly sent the Empire’s soldiers after him. So Ezra had spent all his time and energy avoiding them—hiding on rooftops and in barns until the owners found him and chased him out, sneaking around and barely finding time to sleep.

He’d almost nodded off in the doorway when he heard the tramp of boots through mud, and shrank back into the shadows, praying he wouldn’t be noticed.

Sure enough, two soldiers appeared around the corner, both wearing heavy cloaks to keep the rain out. “Can’t believe we’re still looking for this thief,” one grumbled in disgust. “If he’s out in this, he’s either long gone or long dead. Good riddance either way.”

“At least we’re not with the patrol near the Dume Library,” the other said. “That place gives me the creeps. They say the guy running went blind fighting a wizard who burned his eyes out with a magic blade.”

The first soldier scoffed. “No such thing as wizards. He’s just a washed up old warrior from a forgotten time.”

“Yeah, well, at least he’s warm. You think Kallus is gonna let up on this thief and let us rest?”

“Not a chance.”

The rest of their conversation was lost to the wind as they carried on, not even glancing Ezra’s way. But he’d heard enough.

The Dume Library. He’d never been—a street rat didn’t really have time or a reason to read, especially not Ezra—but he’d heard the stories, too. The ones about the madman who lived there. But the Imperials avoided it, it would be dry, and it was closer than his tower.Good enough for me. Reluctantly, Ezra stood up, wincing at the chill of the air around him. Glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the soldiers weren’t turning back, he took a deep breath, then darted out into the street.

[luckyroll3]

Chef's Kiss: Part 2

Masterlist and Summary

The Farmers’ Market

You step into the busy activity at the farmers' market, the morning sun casting a golden hue over the stalls. Colors burst from every corner—a mosaic of ripe red tomatoes, sunny lemons, and deep green zucchinis. Laughter mingles with the calls of vendors announcing their fresh goods. You weave past stalls overflowing with rainbows of produce, following the mingled scents of lavender and wood smoke.

As you look around deciding which booth to visit, you spot him — Chris, leaning against a wooden post, watching the crowd with those warm brown eyes as he pops something into his mouth from a small paper bag. You take him in, enjoying the way his black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off showcases his large biceps and triceps, and also gives a small peek at his sculpted pecs. The slim cut of his jeans hugs his muscular thighs, making you wonder how often he works out…and if you’re being honest with yourself, how those thighs would feel wrapped around you. 

When he sees you, his lips curve into a slow smile. Your pulse stutters. His presence is unexpected, but wholly welcome. He pushes off the post and walks towards you with the swagger of a man who knows he’s hot.

“Fancy meeting you here.” His voice rumbles, low and playful, his accent thick and sexy. You like the way the sunlight catches the playful spark in his brown eyes.

You laugh, hoping the melanin in your cheeks is enough to hide the heat rising there. “Chef Chris. I didn’t know you came to this market.”

“Best basil in the city.” He plucks a sprig of green leaves and holds them under your nose. “Have a sniff.”

The scent envelops you, fresh and bright. You close your eyes, breathing deep to savor the moment. The rich and peppery aroma wraps around you.

"Nice, right?" He's close now, his breath a whisper against your cheek.

“Heaven,” you agree, eyes fluttering open to meet his. He grins at your response.

"Imagine this, torn over a fresh Caprese salad," he muses, his hand lingering near your face.

"Or folded into a strawberry basil sorbet," you counter, feeling bold under his attentive look.

"Ah, sweet and savory." There’s a hint of admiration in his tone. "I love that combination."

"Me too," you reply, and it feels like you're talking about more than just flavors. “Shopping for ingredients?” you ask, shifting the topic.

"Always," he replies, his gaze sweeping over the colorful displays. "Join me?"

You nod, matching his grin, and together you weave through the crowd. The air buzzes with energy, a symphony of sounds and smells.

“So, what are you hunting for today?” you ask.

“Inspiration.” He shrugs, gaze drifting over the stalls. “Maybe some peaches for a tart, if they look good. You?”

“Just restocking. Tomatoes, zucchini, ginger, maybe some berries—the usual.” You follow as he meanders toward a fruit stand, bumping shoulders. “Any new recipes you’re dying to try?”

“A few.” He smiles down at you, eyes glinting with secret amusement. “But I’ll need an assistant to help test them.”

“Oh really?” You raise a brow. “And would this position come with benefits?”

Chris stops, turning to face you. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and letting his fingers linger against your neck. Your breath hitches.

“Some,” he murmurs, “and it might require overtime.”

You swallow hard, mouth gone dry. “I—I see.”

Chris drops his hand, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Interested?”

You stare at him, stunned into silence. Your heart thuds wildly, torn between excitement and panic.

After a long moment, Chris laughs. He leans in, voice dropping, “Think about it... The offer’s open if you change your mind. You’d get to work directly under me.”

He turns towards the stand before you can respond.

"Check these out," he continues, pointing to a pyramid of oranges that gleam like little suns. One of them has been sliced in half, revealing the beautiful crimson-colored flesh of a blood orange. "Perfect for a zesty sauce, don't ya think?"

"Or a summer cocktail," you suggest playfully, imagining the tangy sweetness on your tongue.

He chuckles, and it's a sound that seems to dance in the air. "I like the way you think."

You follow Chris to the jam stand nearby. He cheerfully chats with the vendor for a few minutes. He turns to you. “Found the perfect peach preserves for that tart. Want to try?”

The vendor offers you a spoonful of glistening amber preserve. You take the wooden spoon and place it into your mouth. The sweetness of ripe peaches bursts over your tongue, balanced by a hint of tartness. “It’s delicious.”

“Told you.” He grins in satisfaction. “I’ll have to save you a slice when I test the recipe.”

“Please do.” You lick the remnants of preserve from your lips, noticing how his gaze flickers down to follow the movement. Your blush returns in full force.

Clearing his throat, Chris tears his eyes away and examines the jars beneath them.

"Bet you can't guess the secret ingredient in this one," he teases, offering you a spoon laden with a deep, berry-red jam.

You accept the challenge, the wood touching your lips. The burst of flavors is complex—tart, sweet, a hint of something elusive. "Is that... cardamom?"

"Close," Chris grins, clearly delighted. "Star anise."

"Of course." You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. You chose a jar, reading the label and asking him to guess this time. The playful exchange, a dance of spoons and guesses, weaves a thread of camaraderie between you.

"Okay, how about this one," he insists, scooping up a golden-hued preserve.

The taste is sunshine on your tongue, summer captured in a spreadable form. "Mmm. I’m not sure what the fuck it is, but it’s divine!"

He laughs loudly. "Right answer," he says approvingly, his dimpled smile widening.

“I definitely taste the mangoes. And there’s….” You think for a moment as you use a new spoon to bring another small scoop to your tongue.

“Passionfruit,” he whispers.

“Ah. Great combination.” You smile at him as you swallow slowly.

You move on, feet guiding you to where sacks of spices spill their contents in vibrant heaps. Earthy aromas beckon, a tapestry of scents painting the air. Chris' hand hovers over the mounds, his fingers dusted with a fine powder of paprika and turmeric.

"Smell this," he says, holding up a pinch of saffron threads, delicate and red-gold.

You lean closer, the scent exotic, a whisper from faraway lands. He watches you, the look in his warm brown eyes intense, inviting you to share in his passion for the culinary arts.

"Imagine this in a paella," he murmurs, "Infusing the rice with its color and flavor."

"Transformative," you breathe out, caught in a moment where all that exists is the spice between his fingers and the possibility hanging in the air.

"Exactly." His voice is low, reverent. "Spices are the soul of a dish."

Your gaze lingers on his hands before moving back up to his handsome face.

“This would also make a great curry. Have you ever tried making it from scratch?”

“Can’t say I have.” You smile, leaning against the stall. “It sounds complicated.”

“Not at all. Maybe I’ll teach you one day.” He gathers up an armful of packaged spices and grins at you. “If you ever have the time, that is.”

Your heart leaps at the invitation. “I could make the time.”

“Great.” Chris pays for the spices, then turns to you. “We’ll schedule something, yeah?” You nod slowly.

You stare at each other for a long moment, smiles fading into something more serious. The air between you seems to hum with possibility.

Chris clears his throat again and looks away. “Let’s see what they have over here.”

An hour later, you settle onto a wooden bench, the grain rough beneath your fingers. Chris hands you a cup of lemonade, cold condensation kissing your skin. You take a sip, the sweet tartness dancing on your tongue and the liquid soothing your dry throat.

"Nothing like fresh lemonade to revive the spirit," Chris says, his dimpled smile in full bloom as he sits beside you, closer than necessary. Your legs touch, and neither of you move away.

You chuckle, nodding. "It's the simple joys, isn't it?"

"Exactly." He leans back, stretching his legs out. Chris takes a deep breath, his gaze drifting to the crowd before meeting yours. “So,” he says after a moment, followed by your name. “Tell me more about yourself.”

You share details of your work, your hobbies, your dreams for the future. Chris listens intently, asking questions and sharing bits of his own life in return. The more you talk, the more you realize how much you have in common. It feels natural, easy in a way that few connections ever do.

"The kitchen is my battlefield," he admits. "Every service is a challenge. Precision, speed, creativity—all under fire." He pauses. “The restaurant business is tough though,” he continues. “Long hours, high pressure, almost always on call. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

"Sounds intense." Your heart twitches with empathy.

"It is." His brown eyes lock onto yours. "I left home, traveled to work in kitchens across the globe. Each one, a step to hone my skills, to chase better opportunities."

"How long have you been here?”

“Almost 10 months. I probably wouldn’t have stayed as long if Dani didn’t also live here. We’ve been mates since college, since our first restaurant jobs working as servers. She connected me with some of the top restaurants in the city when I arrived and I was her first choice when Chef Jax left.”

“Must be difficult, always being so far from home," you say, feeling the weight of his sacrifices.

"Yes. And sometimes lonely," he confesses, "but necessary. You must feel the same way."

You nod, your own struggles rising to the surface. "Running a business, being a woman in charge—it's like walking a tightrope. Balancing work, personal life...it's a lot."

"Is it worth it?" His question is gentle, probing.

"Every day." Determination pulses within you. "I love the rewards, helping clients create moments they’ll never forget."

"Respect," Chris says, raising his cup to you. "At the end of the day, that’s what makes it worthwhile.” He smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Finding your passion, and pursuing it with everything you’ve got. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? That drive, it's what makes us...us."

"Thanks." Warmth blooms in your chest. You sip your lemonade, savoring the shared kinship. “It is.” You return his smile, struck by the intensity of his gaze, the warmth and understanding there. “I’m glad we see it the same way.”

“Me too.” Chris leans closer, just a fraction, but it makes you stop breathing all the same. “Something tells me we see a lot of things the same way.” You bite your bottom lip. He raises his cup in between the two of you. "Here's to our battles, then," he toasts, clinking his cup against yours.

"To victories, big and small," you reply, leaning back against the bench and returning your gaze to the crowd.

Shortly after, you continue your journey through the market, threading through the crowd with Chris by your side. A brush of his hand against yours, fleeting but electric, sends a shiver up your spine. You glance at him and catch the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

Chris stops at a booth selling artisanal breads, inhaling deeply. “Fresh-baked bread. Is there any better smell?”

The warm, yeasty scent fills your nostrils, a comfort and a temptation.

"Let's get a loaf," Chris suggests, already reaching for his wallet.

"No, I shouldn't." You hold back a laugh. "Carbs are my nemesis."

"Nonsense." He waves off your protest with a dismissive hand. His gaze sweeps over your body. "You have nothing to worry about." His words, light and teasing, make you blush.

After a beat, he finally pulls his eyes away from you and smiles at the vendor. “We’ll take a small loaf of the brown bread, please.”

“Chris, you don’t have to—”

“My treat.” He winks. He hands the vendor some cash and turns back to you, a small, crusty loaf in his grasp.

"Here," he says, tearing off a chunk and offering it to you. His eyes twinkle, that familiar mischief there. "Try it."

You reach for the bread—but he pulls it back, shaking his head. Your brow furrows, confused, until he brings the bread to your lips. Heart pounding, you open your mouth, let him feed you. Your eyes lock. Chris slides the bread into your mouth, his fingertips brushing gingerly on your lips.

The bread is soft, moist, delicious, a hint of rosemary coupled with a hint of sweetness making it dance on your tongue. He watches you intently as you chew, eyes darkening. You swallow hard, hyper-aware of him in a way you’ve never been with anyone else.

You feel a crumb on your lower lip. Chris brushes his thumb over your lip with a gentle touch, lingering just a moment too long. Then, with deliberate slowness, he brings his thumb to his mouth, tasting the crumb, his eyes never leaving yours. A jolt of desire shoots through you as he sucks the crumb away, tongue flicking over his thumb. You feel a twitch between your legs.

Chris lowers his hand, but doesn’t step back. His eyes smolder into yours.

The market buzzes around you, but in this bubble of intimacy, it's just Chris, the bread, and the heat creeping up your neck.

"Good, right?" he asks, his voice a low hum that vibrates through you.

"Delicious," you agree, the word barely a whisper.

He steps closer, staring at your mouth. He brings his eyes back up to yours. There’s a question there, lingering in his gaze, that makes your heart pound even harder than it already is. Do you dare push this further, throw caution to the wind and see where this undeniable attraction might lead?

You are snapped out of your trance when a pre-teen carelessly bumps into you.

“Sorry ma’am!” he calls over his shoulder, barely sparing a glance for the impact he had on you before running off to catch up with his friends.

You turn in the direction he runs off in, feeling a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Ma’am???” you ask incredulously as you watch him flee. “How old does he think I am? Fifty?” You turn back to Chris, shaking your head. “Fucking kids….” you add under your breath.

Chris can’t contain his laughter as he tears off another piece of bread and pops it into his mouth.

You can’t help but join in, feeling a weight lifted off your shoulders. It’s refreshing to be able to let go and laugh with Chris. He splits what remains of the loaf in half and hands it to you.

“Fucking kids,” he echos with a smirk as he starts walking to the next booth. “Sometimes,” he says as he chews, “I wish I could just stick my foot out and trip them. I’ve come close a few times.” He pauses, contemplating his own words before adding, “But just the obnoxious ones though.” He grins.

You chuckle at his words, feeling grateful for this light moment amidst the charged atmosphere. “That’s most of them!” He nods enthusiastically.

As you follow him to the next booth, you catch yourself stealing glances at Chris, noticing the way his black t-shirt clings to the sweat on his toned frame and how his easy grin lights up his face.

Laughter bubbles up between the two of you as you continue to walk, trading jokes that feel like secrets, flirting in the spaces between words. Each laugh, each smile shared, feels like another layer peeled back, another step closer.

As you turn a corner, a sudden gust of wind sends a flurry of paper menus flying from a nearby booth. Without missing a beat, Chris reaches out, his reflexes quick as lightning, and catches them mid-air. He hands the menus back to the flustered vendor with a charming smile.

"Smooth," you tease, impressed by his agility.

Chris shrugs casually, his eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and faux-pride. "Years of dodging flying plates and towels in the kitchen prepared me for this moment."

You laugh at his response, feeling a sense of ease settling between you.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the farmers' market. You glance at your watch and startle.

"I was only supposed to be here for two hours," you murmur, more to yourself than to Chris. Time has unraveled, spooling out in a sweet, endless thread since your unexpected meetup. "Did I mess up your day?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Chris' laugh is light, carefree. "Nah. I had planned to join a pick-up soccer game, but there’ll be another one next week. This," he gestures between the two of you with a sly smile, "is definitely the highlight of my day."

Relief flutters inside you, mingling with something warmer, something that makes your heart drum a little faster. He didn't mind the change of plans. He preferred this—preferred you.

"Can you stay for a late lunch/early dinner?" His invitation is casual, but his eyes are earnest, hopeful. “My apology for disrupting your plans.”

"Sure," you reply, trying to mirror his ease, despite the flurry in your chest. “And I’m glad for the disruption. This is one of the best days I’ve had in ages.”

You walk together to the edge of the market where a dozen food trucks have lined up. He navigates the trucks with an expert eye, visiting his favorites and selecting one dish from each with a decisive nod. Korean barbecue from one, grouper tacos from another. He also buys loaded pulled pork cups, samosas, Kobe beef sliders, and spring rolls. The scents intermingle, a promise of flavors yet to dance on your tongue. He has an easy rapport with the staff at each truck. They all know him and like him.

While he waits for his orders, you wander to the booth of your favorite local small-batch winery, the last tendrils of sunlight glinting off the bottles. You choose a light red wine you think will pair well with the symphony of tastes he’s selected.

Chris finds a secluded spot in the grassy field by the lake. You sit close together, the array of food laid out before you. He examines the bottle of wine.

"Perfect choice," Chris approves. You share food and trade sips of wine. Although there are no cups, it doesn't matter. The bottle tilts, glass meets lips, a shared indulgence straight from the source. It's intimate, this passing back and forth.

"Good?" he asks, his gaze following the trail of the bottle from your lips to his.

"Better than good," you say, the truth easy in the space between you.

You eat, you talk, laughter and bites exchanged under the boughs of whispering trees. Each mouthful is a revelation, each word a brick in the bridge you're building together.

Shit, you think to yourself. You like him. There's no use denying the tingling in your veins, the way your body leans toward his with a mind of its own, the quiver between your legs. You are falling for this handsome, charming, passionate man; and from the way he's gazing at you, it seems the feeling might be mutual? But what now?

"Chris..." You begin, faltering, not sure what you're asking, what you're confessing.

He waits, patient, his brown eyes steady. You let the moment stretch, let the silence speak, hoping he understands the language of your hesitation.

"Uhm…thank you…for today," you finally say, because gratitude is safe, because it's true.

"Anytime," he replies, the words simple, but they feel like a promise.

After your make-shift dinner, you and Chris quietly make your way to the farmers' market entrance. The day's end brings a hush, vendors packing up, voices melding into a soft hum. Your steps slow, neither of you eager to say goodbye.

"Today was..." Chris starts, then stops. He looks at you, that dimpled smile holding back words not meant for the crowded space.

"Unexpected," you supply, your voice barely above a whisper. You mean it in the best way possible. There is a shared understanding in the silence that follows, an intimate conversation without a single word spoken.

A small crowd bustles by, forcing Chris to step closer. His warmth radiates, the spicy-citrusy scent of him wrapping around you like the evening breeze. It's a closeness born of hours spent laughing, tasting, sharing—suddenly too much and yet, still not enough.

His hand lifts, fingers gentle on your left cheek, while his lips brush the skin on your right cheek with a chaste kiss that sends ripples through you. "For luck," he murmurs, but his eyes tell a different story—one of longing, of possibilities.

"I’ll see you at the wine pairing next week?," you manage, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The simple touch lingers, branding you with the promise of more.

"Definitely. And maybe sooner?" he suggests, hope threading through his words. His hand falls away, leaving a ghostly trail of heat in its wake.

"Maybe." You smile, feeling the tug of a thousand maybes stretching out before you. He smiles back with a nod before walking off towards the parking lot.

There’s a tightness in your chest as you watch Chris disappear into the lengthening shadows. Your walk home feels surreal, each step punctuated by memories of his laughter, the tender scrutiny of his gaze, the careful way he fed you bread, his thumb brushing your lip.

His eyes, dark and fathomless, had seen you today—really seen you. His lips, curved in easy smiles or concentration as he explained a recipe, linger in your thoughts. Pink, puffy, kissable. His body, lean and capable, movements sure and practiced, whether handling delicate herbs or guiding you through the crowd.

And his hands—those skilled, strong hands that knew just how to coax flavors into being—had touched you with a gentleness that belied their strength.

Excitement courses through you, mingled with a hint of fear. What does this growing pull between you mean? Where could it lead?

Three blocks. Three blocks to consider every glance, each word, the feel of his hands and lips on you. By the time you reach your apartment building, your mind is awash with the taste of wine and the image of Christopher Bahng, chef and enigma, who has effortlessly stirred something deep within you.

The Wine Pairing

You step into Saffron & Thyme, the familiar jingle of the bell announcing your arrival. Your heart races with a combination of anticipation, excitement, and nervousness weaving together as you enter the intimate space. You've been here countless times before, but today feels different; today you're meeting Chris again.

Chris greets you at the entrance, his warm smile making your pulse quicken more. "Hey there." His voice is warm. He leans in, soft lips brushing your cheek, his light cologne drawing you closer. The kiss is subtle enough to be professional, yet lingers for just a second too long. It sends a ripple of warmth down your spine.

"Hi." Your voice sounds steadier than you feel.

"Ready to taste some great wines?" he asks.

"Absolutely," you reply, eager to dive into the world of aromas and flavors, hoping it will steady the flutter in your stomach.

His light touch on your lower back guides you through the crowded restaurant to the private dining room. The door closes behind you, enveloping the room in a calm silence. You make your way to a polished wood table lined with an array of bottles and glasses, each glinting under the soft lights.

Chris uncorks the first bottle, the pop echoing slightly in the quiet room. He pours a buttery Chardonnay, the golden liquid swirling in the glass. You breathe in rich vanilla and toasted oak before taking a sip, the silky wine coating your tongue.

"Mmm, I love the creaminess and hint of green apple. It would complement the herb-crusted halibut nicely."

Chris nods, making a note. "Great catch on those flavors. Let's try the Sauvignon Blanc next." He hands you a glass, fingertips grazing yours, electricity sparking at his touch. The wine dances on your palate, bright citrus and grassy notes awakening your senses. "The acidity and herbaceous undertones would enhance the flavor of the octopus dish."

You smile. "My thoughts exactly.”

"Try this one," he suggests, his tone playful yet attentive. He swirls a glass with a golden liquid that catches the light, handing it to you with those callused, dexterous fingers.

You bring the glass to your nose, inhaling deeply. "Peaches," you pronounce, "and a hint of honey." The fragrance is robust, promising.

"Spot on," he praises, his eyes crinkling at the corners with his dimpled smile. "And the taste?"

You sip, letting the wine coat your palate. "Crisp, with a slight oakiness. It's bold, but just a bit overpowering."

"Sounds like someone I know," Chris teases, his gaze holding yours for a moment too long. That spark, that undeniable connection zips between you, electric and thrilling.

"Which dish are we pairing this with?" you ask, redirecting the charge into something tangible, something safe.

"The citrus-infused sea bass," he asserts confidently. "The fruit notes will complement it nicely."

"Eh, let's not overpower the sea bass," you argue, reaching for a bottle with a label that promises citrus and sea breeze whispers.

"Trust me, it needs a slight challenge, not a mirror," Chris counters, selecting a more daring companion, his hand brushing yours as he passes you the glass.

"Bold choice," you concede after a taste, impressed by his skill to balance harmony with excitement – in wine and, seemingly, in the moments you share.

"Life's too short for boring pairings," he says, a twinkle in his eye that suggests he's not just talking about wine.

"Cheers to that," you laugh, clinking glasses with him, feeling the dance of near-confessions and restrained desires in every sip. “Shall we move on to the reds?”

Chris uncorks a decadent Malbec, deep garnet with an inky core. You swirl and sniff, relishing the luscious aromas of ripe plum, cocoa, and leather. The full-bodied wine envelops your tongue in dark fruit and spice.

"Oh…This is sexy. It needs a dish that can stand up to its boldness. The coffee-rubbed filet mignon, perhaps?"

"You read my mind," Chris grins, honeyed eyes locking with yours. "A wine this sensual deserves an equally alluring match."

Heat rises in your cheeks as you take another indulgent sip, imagining the tender filet paired with this captivating wine. And the bewitching man before you, his passionate expertise making the task at hand even more tantalizing...

You swirl the wine in your glass, watch as it clings to the sides before settling into a still pool of burgundy. "I never imagined I'd find myself so invested in the delicate art of pairings," you confess, the scent of oak and berry rising to meet you.

"Wasn't part of the plan?" Chris asks, leaning against the table, his expressive eyes searching yours.

"Plans change." You take a sip, savor the complexity. "Originally, I was going to be a dancer."

The revelation sparks interest in his eyes. "Really? What happened?"

"Life, I guess. And practicality over passion. I was the best at my home studio and didn’t really have to try to be at the top. But that wasn’t the case when I got to the dance program at NYU. Everyone was ‘the best’. And I wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices to stay at the top. You know, starving myself, giving up a personal life, coming on to the people making the selections. It wasn’t for me and I switched to Business and Hospitality. It was a better fit. But what about you? Was it always cooking?"

Chris nods, pours another wine, this one lighter, more playful. "Always. Though there were moments I thought of giving it all up. To travel. See what food stories I could gather from around the world."

"Food stories..." you murmur, enchanted by the idea of Chris collecting flavors like memories.

"Yeah." He smiles, a dimple flashing. "Every dish has a tale, right?"

"Right." You agree, warmth spreading through you.

The banter returns with the next pour, a dry white that makes your nose wrinkle. "Ah, no love for the crisp ones?" Chris teases, catching your expression.

"More like a respectful disagreement," you retort, playfulness bubbling up. "I prefer my wines like I prefer my evenings—rich and full-bodied."

"Rich and full-bodied, hmm?" His grin is mischievous, and suddenly the air between you is charged again, heavy with unsaid thoughts.

"Exactly." You hold his gaze, heart pounding. The moment stretches.

Chris reaches for another bottle, his hand brushing against yours. He pours a rich, velvety Pinot Noir, the aroma of ripe cherries and earthy undertones filling the air. "This one reminds me of you," he says softly with a playful grin. "Elegant, complex, and utterly captivating."

You blush, taking a sip of the wine, its silky texture caressing your tongue. "Flatterer," you tease, your eyes meeting his over the rim of the glass. "I could say the same about you, Chef Bahng. A perfect balance of boldness and finesse, with just a hint of mystery."

Chris laughs, the sound warm and inviting. "I'll take that as a compliment." He leans closer, fingers resting delicately on your wrist, his voice lowering to a whisper. "I have to admit, you've intrigued me from the moment we met. There's something about you that's just...irresistible." His fingers stroke gingerly across the skin on the back of your hand. 

Your heart races, the air between you electric with tension. You find yourself drawn to him, your faces inches apart, his lips tantalizingly close. Just as he’s about to close the distance, your phone rings, shattering the moment.

You both pull back, startled by the intrusion. The spell snaps, leaving you both adrift in what might have been. Your hand jerks, sloshing wine onto the pristine tablecloth as you scramble for the device. "I have to—" you start to apologize.

At that same moment, a server enters the room, approaching Chris with a hushed urgency that pulls him away. Chris gives you an apologetic smile, excusing himself to handle the issue in the kitchen.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. The almost-kiss lingers in your mind, the taste of the wine and the heat of Chris's proximity still on your lips. You silently curse the ill-timed phone call, wondering what might have happened if the moment hadn't been broken. You sigh, taking another sip of the Pinot Noir, its flavors now forever entwined with the memory of this charged moment.

You swipe the screen to answer the phone, pressing it to your ear. "Hello?" Your voice, a steady calm that betrays none of the disappointment curling in your chest. On the other end, Marcus' brisk tones rattle off some issue with a supplier—a hiccup in the rhythm of your carefully tuned world.

"Understood," you say, watching Chris from the corner of your eye through the open door as he converses with the server at the other end of the restaurant, his expression focused, hands gesturing precisely. The server nods, scribbling notes onto a pad.

"Will handle it first thing tomorrow," you assure Marcus, then end the call with a tap. Silence falls, save for the faint clink of glass and murmur of voices from the main dining area. As you set the phone down, Chris approaches the private dining room, his hands tucked into his pockets.

As he re-enters the room, closing the door behind him, he gives you a small smile, his eyes filled with a mix of apology and longing. You offer a tight smile. A shared awkwardness hangs in the air, a veil too thin to hide the undercurrents.

"Sorry about that," you both say in unison, then laugh—a release valve for the tension.

"Timing," you begin, but the word dangles, unfinished.

"Impeccable," Chris concludes, his dimpled grin returning. It's infectious, the way it crinkles the corners of his deep brown eyes. "It seems like we keep getting interrupted, doesn't it?" He sits in the chair next to you.

You nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. "It's like the universe is conspiring against us," you joke, trying to lighten the mood.

Chris chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He leans in closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. The gentle touch sends a jolt of electricity through your body, and you find yourself leaning into his hand.

"Maybe it's a sign," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours. "That we should stop fighting this...whatever this is between us."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. The rational part of your brain screams at you to keep things professional, to maintain the boundaries you've worked so hard to establish. But the way Chris is looking at you, the heat of his touch on your skin, makes it impossible to resist.

"Chris," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "We...we shouldn't..."

But even as the words leave your mouth, you find yourself gravitating towards him, towards his lips, drawn in by the magnetic pull of his presence. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. You inhale sharply, your body trembling with anticipation.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, his lips hovering just above yours. "Tell me you don't want this too, and I'll back away. No hard feelings. And we’ll just focus on the work." His words are a faint whisper.

But you can't. The desire coursing through your veins is too strong, the need for his touch too overwhelming. There’s some force slowly beckoning your lips closer to his.

The door creaks, the sound echoing through the room and nudging you back to reality. You and Chris both sit back as Nat enters the room.

Her eyes dart quickly between you and Chris. She remains silent for a second, but you catch the glint of understanding in her gaze.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Nat says finally, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of her mouth. “I got everything sorted out with the band. Thought I could help out with the pairings. Unless you’re good?”

This is work, you are a professional, and you need to exercise restraint, you remind yourself. “That’s great news, Nat. And we can definitely use your help.” You try to compose yourself and fidget with the sleeve of your shirt. Chris looks equally flustered, the tips of his ears red, his eyes flitting between you and Nat as he also tries to regain his professional demeanor.

“We were just…discussing the final wine selections,” Chris adds, running his fingers through his curls. “There were a couple we couldn’t agree on. Having a third opinion would be useful.”

Nat raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying the excuse. "Right. Well, don't let me keep you from your...discussion." She takes the seat across from you.

"Chris, would you show Nat the wines we've been considering?" You keep your voice steady despite the lingering awkwardness in the air.

"Of course." His dimpled smile reappears effortlessly as he turns to Nat, pouring the wines with a skilled hand that betrays years of experience.

Nat nods appreciatively, taking delicate sips, her brows furrowing in concentration as Chris explains the options and the potential dishes they’ll be paired with. While she agrees with you about the sea bass, she and Chris seem to have similar sentiments about the other pairings you and he disagreed on.

Chris excuses himself to fetch another bottle from the cellar, his athletic frame disappearing through the doorway. When it’s just you and Nat in the space, you pretend to review your notes on the ipad. It’s a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact as you feel Nat’s gaze burning into you. You don’t have to look at her to know that she’s smirking. 

"Biiiiitch! You said he was good looking, but I think that’s an understatement.” Nat's whisper breaks the silence. She leans in conspiratorially even though the two of you are alone. “He’s fucking hot!” She sticks her tongue out and fans herself dramatically. “Sparks flying, much?" Her tone light, teasing.

You snort softly, shaking your head. You glance up at her. "It's not like that. We're working."

"Uh huh. And I'm the Queen of the Outback." Nat's chuckle bubbles up. "Come on, it's obvious. He's gorgeous, you're single, and you’re clearly into each other. What's stopping you?"

"Professionalism?" You try for stern, but it comes out more like a question.

"Right." Nat rolls her eyes playfully. "And I'm not sitting here sensing enough chemistry between the two of you to blow up a meth lab."

"Nat..." You shake your head.

“At the very least, you need to sleep with him.” You ignore her and add some notes on your ipad. “C’mon. When’s the last time you had a good fuck? He’d be a good way to release all that pent up stress…” She downs the remaining wine in her glass, watching you closely for a reaction. You give her a pointed look, silently conveying your disapproval of her suggestion.

"Okay, okay," she concedes with a wink. "But if you won't, can I? Let me take one for the team. My gawd, that ass…"

"Nat!" You cut her off sharply, just as Chris steps back into the room, a new bottle cradled in his arm. Your heart stutters at the sight of him, his dark hair tousled and his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Talking shop?" Chris asks, settling beside you, unaware of the conversation he’s just walked in on. His proximity sends a rush of heat through your body, and you try to focus on anything else but him.

"Always," you lie smoothly, forcing your focus onto the labels of the wine bottles closest to you and inwardly cursing Nat for the near disaster. But your mind is consumed with thoughts of Chris and the charged energy between you that seems to intensify with each passing moment. “Nat was just complimenting your….suggestions.”

Nat nodded with a devious grin. “Yeah, they’re real firm, uhm, solid choices.” You shoot her a look. 

"Well I have one more potential for the final course. Let's taste this one," Chris suggests, and your fingertips brush as he hands you a glass. A jolt, electric, undeniable. Yet all you do is nod, sip, and pretend it's just about the wine. Just work.

Nothing more.

Especially as Nat has unintentionally brought you a newfound awareness of how others might be perceiving your interactions with Chris. And the last thing you want is for someone to label you as ‘unprofessional’. It’s the fucking kiss of death for woman’s career.

"Definitely a contender," you murmur, setting down the glass with deliberate care. “Nat?”

"Agreed," she responds. She takes another sip. “I might like it more than the other option.”

“It’s cheaper than the other one, but it tastes expensive. It might work well with your crowd,” Chris says, his voice low and rich.

The session progresses, each wine tasted under the guise of scrutiny, yet with each pour, the air grows heavier, thick with unvoiced thoughts.

You catch yourself watching the way Chris' fingers grip the stem of the glass, the assured grace of his movements. He notices your gaze, smiles that damn dimpled smile, and you quickly avert your eyes to the notes before you. You know that crossing this line could jeopardize everything you've worked for. You have to stay professional, no matter how strong the attraction between the two of you may be. You have a job to do, and you won't let anything, not those dimples, that ass  - not even your own heart - get in the way of that.

So you push down your feelings, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. You make your final selections, then discuss the next steps in the planning process.

"Shall we call it a day?" Chris asks when the last bottle stands empty. Your eyes lock for a fraction too long, but you nod, snapping the professional mask back into place.

"We’ll send the list of options to Marcus tomorrow and you and I can connect later on this week to confirm the wines he’d like to move forward with,” you suggest, feeling the weight of those deep brown eyes on you as you write on the tablet. “Will that give you enough time to source the number of bottles we’ll need for the event?”

"Sure. While we wait for the okay from the big boss, I’ll confirm with my suppliers that they have the inventory and ask them to set it aside for us as a favor." Chris's tone is steady, but the undercurrent is there, a whisper of something more.

"Good." You stand, smoothing out your shirt, a futile attempt at organizing the chaos he stirs within you. "And we should finalize the event layout."

"Right." Chris' agreement comes with a subtle shift in his stance, closing the gap just enough to keep the connection alive.

“I’ll text it to you tomorrow?”

“I have to run,” Nat interrupts. You’d already forgotten she was still there. “My meter expired 10 minutes ago and I don’t need another ticket. Great to meet you Chris. Boss lady, I’ll see you in the morning.” She’s out the door before either of you can respond.

You turn to follow her out, but Chris’ voice stops you when he calls your name. The way he says it, low and intimate in his accent, makes your heart skip a beat.

You look back at him, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes?"

He hesitates for a moment, as if searching for the right words. "I just wanted to say... I really enjoy spending time with you. Not just for work, but... in general."

You feel a flush creep up your neck, your skin tingling with the implication of his words. "I feel the same way," you admit, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, lost in each other's gaze. The air between you feels electric, charged with all the things you want to say but can't.

Finally, you force yourself to break the spell. "I should go," you say, your voice trembling slightly. "I'll be in touch about the final arrangements."

Chris nods, a small, understanding smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'll be waiting."

With that, you turn to leave the room, but not without one last glance over your shoulder. Chris watches you go, and in his eyes, you see the reflection of your own tangled emotions.

You and Chris aim to maintain a professional distance even if the attraction between you is undeniable.

It's just work, you remind yourself. But the lie tastes more bitter than any dry wine on your lips.

*************************

Would love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for reading.

[clatterbane]

One good thing that came out of today's early morning trip out for more bullshit bloodwork: I found some promising-looking vegetables, which are pretty exotic by local standards but remind me of home! One of the benefits of living in an immigrant-heavy neighborhood. (Doesn't really matter where from IME, just as long as it's got longer warmer growing seasons there.) Hasty lap shot of today's haul when I was about to head home.

Much better view after getting home! Some nice young examples of one common Middle Eastern variety of summer squash, along with some okra. Which was borderline overgrown by my standards, but it didn't feel like it was going all tough and dried out yet--and it's the nicest fresh okra my admittedly near-hermit ass has spotted in years.

On the way home this morning, I got Mr. C to drop me at the nearby shopping center, so I could pick up an Instabox package (shoes) and enjoy the weather and a little exercise while "strolling" the rest of the way.

It was still early enough that at least half the businesses weren't even open yet, but that also meant that things were enough less busy that I felt like I could get in more easily for a better look at a couple of stores I'd wanted to check out more. One of them a halal butcher shop with attached fruit and vegetable shop just across from there, obviously run by the same people. Both are usually mobbed enough that I haven't felt like shoving myself in--especially with the chair.

The butcher side was still not looking so accessible, even with only a couple of other customers in there, plus a few workers finishing getting things set up for the day. I also figured that I didn't really need to go on an early-morning meat buying spree in hot weather--much less when my backpack was already completely full of shoebox, and carrying capacity was already pretty limited. So, no meat for me.

The other side did, however, lure me over with some gorgeous plums. Which sadly turned out to still be so hard that I noped away from those. Yes, I am that produce prodder, and I can be particular. Was hoping they would have some nice leafy greens out front today, but no such luck.

But, then I did spot the okra and then the squash.

I didn't grab much today, since I am the only one in the house who really likes either thing. Plus the okra was running the equivalent of US$7.69/kg, or roughly $3.50/lb. 😓 Squash was $2.90/ or $1.30/lb by comparison. I got away at about $2.50 for both of them together, which really wasn't at all bad by local standards. I am also cheap as hell sometimes and also still mentally comparing with prices on locally grown squash and okra in a much more rural area 15-20 years ago when I was last buying anything back home.

I am also now lowkey pining for some Floyd County peaches, and J. Random Farmer's cantaloupes that he's selling off his truck by the road. Then there's the fresh just-picked regional variety corn. 🙄

If that okra is any good and I see more there in nearly as good a shape, I may have to pick up enough more to try pickling a few jars of it. That's one thing that I do miss sometimes, and I don't really want to try with the frozen stuff--which is usually better for cooking than what I see fresh anymore.

The produce side also carries a bunch of dried fruits and nuts, and some other loose bulk goods including some interesting-looking Afghan brown sugar in like fist-sized chunks which I'd never seen before, but made me think of panela or jaggery. May need to try me some of that.

Also looks like the place to go if you want a sack of pumpkin seeds or similar at reasonable prices! Today I did not, and also did not particularly want to carry that home in my lap because that would have been the only place for it.

Their produce is all out front, but I did go ahead and bull my way back through the rest of the store to get a good look at the dry goods. Needed to shove a couple of obstructions out of the way in the narrow aisles, but I was the only customer in there at that point and idgaf. It was well worth a look around. May need to go back another morning after a few things that looked good.

There is also a spice shop a couple of doors down, which always smells heavenly to go past but is usually so packed that even Mr. C hesitates to peruse it on foot. There were few enough people in there too that I had to roll through and case the joint. Did look and smell like some quality stuff at decent prices. Also some pretty good looking bulk bin dried fruits and nuts and other snack items, and some assorted Middle Eastern sweets. I didn't buy anything there either today, but will probably need to make a morning raid on that too before too long.

But yeah, the day was not all bad. I also got to see a delightful young Boxer out for a walk on the way home.

[shreejifoods]

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🦐- Talk about a time when you made yourself laugh or cry?

Heyyy sorry this took so long I've been a lot busier than I thought! (From this WIP shop ask game!)

🦐- Talk about a time when you made yourself laugh or cry?

Believe it or not, I don't make myself cry. But I make myself laugh so here's stuff that made me laugh! Longer post to justify the time you had to wait:

From The Secret Portal Part One (Robbie POV)

“Also, I just turned thirteen today, so I’m not a child.” “A child means someone between infancy and puberty,” Akash confirmed. “He definitely has hit puberty. Do you want me to tell you about the erection he got—” “Okay, that’s enough!” I spat out the words as fast as I could. Akash laughed.

From The Secret Portal Part One (Ash POV)

“Ah, yes!” George said. “Well, the cheese from cowyotes is incredible.” “From what?” Liam repeated. “Cowyotes.” “That sounds like a shitpost.”

From The Secret Portal Part One (Akash POV)

I gasped in realization. “Robbie, is there any chance you forgot to take your Adderall?” “What? Of course I—” His face went slack and he bolted to his feet. “Shit, shit, shit. My parents were on the night shift all week—” “Pretty sure it’s your responsibility,” I said, half-joking. “I know, but I had projects and—” “I told you: set an alarm.” “Okay, I get it—” “Just go home and get it.” “Yes.” Robbie stood still for a second, then bolted toward the hallway. “I’m going home!”

From The Secret Portal Part One (Robbie POV)

“You thinking about something?” Akash asked at the table as I stared at the bowl in front of me. “Have you ever thought about how cereal is like the skeleton of milk?” “You’re implying that milk is meat, and I don’t like that at all.” “Milk has fat—yes, I’m implying that it’s meat.” “So milk is cereal that’s, like, boneless?” “Exactly.” “However, some people have cereal dry, which means that the cereal is a fatless skeleton, but we add fat if we feel the need.” “Does that make the bowl the flesh?” “Of course it does.” “So we’re eating the insides right out of the skin?” Akash paused. “Yes.” “Terrifyingly morbid,” I said, taking a huge bite of my soggy bowl-innards. “Some people have fruit in their cereal,” Akash pointed out. “What are those?” “Organs?” I suggested. “Sure, why not?” “I just realized something even more morbid.” “What?” “So we keep the bones in its own separate box, we keep the meat refrigerated in a liquid state, it’s already disemboweled, and we keep its empty flesh sack in a dark room with other flesh sacks.” “What the heck are you guys talking about?” I looked up to see Sammy in the doorway, her hair a mess from just getting out of bed. “You’re up early,” I noted. Sammy shrugged. “I got hungry.” “You want some disemboweled innards served directly in the flesh sack?” Akash asked, holding up his bowl. Sammy pressed her eyebrows together in a disturbed expression. “I think I’ll get toast.”

From The Secret Portal Part Two (Lexi POV)

“Is that a dragon?” Hye-Jin whispered to me. “Nah, that’s just Gabriel,” I whispered back. “Hey, Gabriel!” I said as we neared.

From The Secret Portal Part Two (Robbie POV)

I turned back to Akash. “Well, we’d better eat our sandwich before it gets cold.” “They weren’t hot to begin with,” Akash said, smirking as he finally picked up his sandwich from the plate. “Maybe not yours, but mine got ‘Sexiest Sandwich Alive’ back in 2022.” Akash almost choked on his sandwich. He swallowed his food and finally laughed.

From The Secret Portal Part Two (Akash POV)

I made eye contact with Robbie, who raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Dude, what the hell?” I furrowed my brow to say, “What are you talking about?” He looked at Gwen, then back at me, which implied he was saying, “Dude, your girlfriend.” I cocked my head to ask, “What about her?” Robbie sighed as if to say, “What a dumbass.” I gestured to the chessboard to tell him, “What about watching Ty get his ass kicked?” Robbie widened his eyes as he tilted his head toward the elevator, telling me, “Gwen wants to spend time with you alone, you idiotic nut box.” I opened my mouth in an “O” as if to say, “Oh, yeah, she does.” Robbie rolled his eyes as he turned to Lexi beside him, as if to tell her, “Can you believe this joker?” Lexi laughed, somehow having followed the whole conversation.

From The Secret Portal Part Two (Akash POV)

“Hey, guys.” Parker flicked his hand, summoning his remaining breakfast to his newly-picked table on light current of air. “What’s up?” “Me,” I said, causing Robbie to snicker. “Are we still on for practice today?” “Uh, yeah of course,” said Parker as Wade joined our table. “Your joke sucked. You’re sitting down. We’ll have to work on that.” “Is part of being an air-molecule-manipulating person good humor?” “I thought it was until you came.” “Give him a break, Parker.” “He made a bad joke, Wade! What am I supposed to say.” I ate my bowl-innards so I didn’t have to reply. Yeah, it was a bad joke, but it was the anti-humor that made it funny! “The fact that it was bad made it good,” Robbie defended. I smiled smugly at Parker through my cereal-filled mouth. Thanks, Robbie. “Humor is a subjective but meticulous craft,” said Parker. “The joke needs to make sense to be funny, and considering that you are not up, it doesn’t make sense.” “But I’m a flyer,” I protested. “That’s the logic.” “You said it when you were down!” Parker protested. “That would be like Jazlyn saying, ‘I’m so hot!’ when she’s not on fire!” “I’m gay, but Jazlyn’s objectively hot,” said Wade. “Totally not the point,” said Parker. “You’re taking this too seriously.” Parker laughed, throwing his head back. “Serious? Me?! That’s a first. Could you tell that to Mrs. Holladay? Besides, I’m just helping the kid out.” “You’re, like, two years older than me,” I pointed out. “Regardless, I’m helping you out. Watch, I’ll make your joke work.” In a fast yet graceful move, Parker thrust his hands out and up in a swooshing movement, causing a gust of wind to suddenly lift me out of my seat and a handful of yards in the air.

From School of the Legends Year One (compilation since I don't have to deal with narrators)

He was an old man with a farmer’s tan due to being, well, a farmer who was also old.

Tierney was jolted awake that morning in two ways. The first jolt was from Jarred rapidly knocking on the door to his room. The second was a literal jolt of static shock from the friction his body caused from sliding against both the fitted sheet beneath him, as well as the duvet covering him, when he jumped from the first jolt. He yelped at both, causing Jarred to laugh from outside the door. Tierney scrambled out of bed and practically ran to the door--bare feet sliding on the hardwood floors--threw the door open, and jabbed his finger into Jarred’s side, causing Jarred to let out a rather embarrassing “eep!” as the static shock pierced through his cotton clothes, and he jumped back, almost falling over when his feet slipped on the carpet beneath him. Now it was Tierney’s turn to laugh. Jarred regained his balance and pointed a finger at Tierney as a mock threat. “You’re dead.” “Not if I kill you first!” Tierney said, jumping out at Jarred, who bolted down the hall. Tierney followed his brother with his hand outstretched, making extra sure to drag his feet on the carpet to keep up the static, even if it slowed his pace. Jarred turned a corner and made an “oof!” sound as he ran into Ritchie--both falling over, causing Tierney to trip over both of them and crash to the ground.

“Why are we less mature than our ten-year-old sister?” Tierney asked, sitting up to join his brothers. “Don’t worry, she’ll mature less when she’s older,” said Jarred, rising to his feet.

This was a chance to show that he was special. He wasn't just the third-born son of the English king who blew things up. He was gifted. He could learn magic and maybe even master potions! He looked at the potions on his desk and smiled. Maybe he could figure out how to not blow things up while he was there.

If Jack had a euro for every time he had climbed a magically-overgrown plant today, he’d have two euros. That wasn't a lot of euros, but it was weird that it happened twice.

“I’ve always wanted to play the harp,” said Jack, admiring it. “Since when?” “You don’t know everything about me.”

Yay, this was fun I hope! Sorry again for the delay.

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@nebula--nix @literarynecromancy @honeybewrites @the-golden-comet

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[chokhidhanikalagram]

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