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neoneun-au · 2 months

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THE MIRROR-BLUE NIGHT; ACT I

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: SLOW burn, affair au, suggestive, angst, romance ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 11.2k ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild language, very minimal josh in this chapter (sorry), death mentions, cheating, lots of introspection ―STATUS: ongoing

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is act i to my entry for svthub's world tour collab. it's heavily inspired by wong kar wai's film 'in the mood for love', and it's been fun to play around with a totally different atmosphere and setting, and i hope everyone that reads this enjoys it! if you do, please consider reblogging with your thoughts and comments i would love to hear them. hopefully before long i will have the following two acts out for you to continue <3

ACT I

. . .

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies when you were young, stories to either make you feel better or to just force you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her favourite shows.

It never worked, and you never believed her.

It was raining, too, on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse pretty stories and prettier lies about the woman who raised you.

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move.

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart as you might have if she had been anyone else. Instead it was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her own life. Her death was sad but it also finally opened you up the hope for freedom.

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace with your mother overseeing from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing in front of the crowd of people that had managed to crawl their way through traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter left to deal with this whole mess. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had rehearsed. None ever did. You stood silent under the scrutiny of a hundred eyes and seconds ticked by into minutes as the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s carefully neutral expression devolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat.

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up speed, buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury, and you thought that maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was clinging to your clothing–soaking you to the bone.

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised finally that you had nothing to say.

For your husband’s part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after the abandoned eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there with you. The anchor at your side.

When had he stopped?

When had he stopped being there–holding your hand, playing his part as your partner through it all on this grand stage of life. When had he decided he no longer wanted to be that?

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight?

For your own part, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much sadness. Only a hollow aching at the pit of your stomach, like a hunger long ignored. Gnawing at your insides as you stare out into some unfixed point on the horizon and wait for your husband to return home. Late, again. Always late these days. Always some excuse or another. Traffic, work, friends wanting to grab drinks, errands to run. Tonight though, perhaps, the excuse would be the rain.

With a sigh you abandon your post at the window, floating through the apartment by the dim light of the city pouring inside. No reason to turn the lights on inside–you knew your way around. The remnants of your dinner sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter, steam long since evaporated, as they wait for a mouth to enter, a stomach to fill. You had lost your appetite when you received the text message.

You knew it was coming, had known for months. At first it was easy to trick yourself into believing that nothing had changed at all. Everything was normal. These excuses were all truths and you were in fact in the wrong for not believing your husband when he told you. After a time this denial stopped working, however, and you moved on to believing that the changes were only superficial–temporary–that the fissure that had opened up in your marriage was not a yawning pit preparing to engulf you but an easily repairable crack in the foundation. Before long he would return to you as a ship to the shore. He would pour out his feelings and you would mend them easily, with tears of your own. Your relationship would grow in strength for enduring this storm and all would be well again.

As the days and months dragged on, though, it grew harder to ignore the signs. You had seen them so many times before–on television, in film, in friends’ relationships, in your own parents’ marriage before it fell apart when you were 9.

A whiff of an unfamiliar perfume in the air, breezing behind your husband as he enters the apartment after work–orange blossom, ginger, patchouli and jasmine. Cloying and heady. A scent of seduction and sex in the wake of a man that hadn’t touched you in days. He waited to kiss you hello now, waited until he had changed out of his clothes, maybe until after he had a shower. You would sit, perched on the arm of the couch, and stare out the window of your living room while he scrubbed the scent of another woman off of his skin.

More evidence collected over the next few months. Pastel purple and blue splotches dotting the nape of his neck–just above the birthmark you used to trace over with a loving fingertip in the early days of your marriage. Lipstick stains faded on the white collar of a shirt–brick red, a shade that never painted your own lips. He was getting careless–bold. And you continued to observe without a word. Maintaining the calm on the surface of your life, letting the stains and perfume to sink deep underneath.

Maybe you should have confronted him early on, when the days were still young and you still had lingering affection for this man that was becoming a stranger to you. You should have yelled, screamed, fought, let your tears flow freely in a torrent of anger and betrayal. Every rational thought in your mind was screaming out for you to face him down and do something. You would work yourself into a fury of anger and anxiety waiting for him to come home but the second he stepped across the threshold of your apartment, all of it dissolved. Melted away into nothingness and left only that old, hollow ache until that was all you had left inside.

You remember how your mother had reacted when she found out about your dad’s affair. The consequences were swift and brutal–a storm of emotions and rage bursting out and swallowing everyone in its vicinity. If rain was sadness, surely her rage had been a tsunami. Your dad left and you retreated–into your room, into yourself. Left alone to rebuild in the wake of this natural disaster.

When you got married your mother warned you–warned you of your duties as a wife. To keep him happy, keep him home, and remember that marriage is work. Life was so hard after your father abandoned us, she would say, don’t let the same happen to you. She would sermonize his weakness and cruelty, and you would listen. But you loved your father, in spite of all his flaws and humanity. He was kind and soft-hearted and you never blamed him for what happened, how could it all have been his fault? This one man that bought you ice cream and tanghulu and took you shopping for school uniforms up until he died? No. You blamed your mother.

What would she say to you now, sitting alone in the dark staring at a photo of your husband with his arm slung casually over the shoulders of another woman, her head resting against him with a soft smile on her face. Pathetic, spineless child.

You shrug off the ghost of your mother and focus back on the picture. They were in a restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The low lighting cast soft shadows over their faces, obscuring the details of their features, but there was no doubt in your mind that it was him. It was the same slope of brow and cheek that you have run your fingers over so many times before. The same slight upturn in the corners of the mouth that you fell in love with. The glimmer of mischief and daring that so easily drew you in when you first started dating, now turned towards someone else. A stranger? You were sure you didn’t know her but there was something familiar about her in the photo, something about her profile that tugged at the recesses of your recollection.

Your imagination has been running frantic circles in your mind since you opened the message. Where had he met her? Work? He wasn’t a part of any clubs, didn’t play mahjong on the weekends with friends, hadn’t been selected for any work trips where he might have brushed elbows with her in a conference. Might have snuck into each other's hotel rooms, followed each other onto the plane. She could have been a stewardess–as alluring as they are professional. An untouchable creature bending to your every whim and all you can do is look and hope and wish. Slip her your number as you disembark, pray she deems you worthy enough to contact.

But he hadn’t been out of the city in at least a year. So that couldn’t be it.

Maybe she had a more humble occupation. She worked at the hot pot restaurant his company frequented after work. That was how you had met so is it so out of the realm of possibilities that lightning might strike twice?

Maybe he had always known her. Maybe you were the other woman–some twist of fate had led him to marrying you instead of his highschool sweetheart. A girl that had occupied his mind for longer than you had known him. Maybe she had traveled after graduation–moved to the US and taken his heart with her while he pined away and finally, losing all hope, he settled for the strange girl with the zealot of a mother. Turned you into a project to fill his loneliness and occupy his thoughts until she returned and he was reminded of all the things that she had been for him that you never could.

Maybe.

Or maybe she was just a whore.

Your thoughts flitter back and forth; all possibilities confronting you at once, neon red in alarm. You watch taxis and motorbikes speed through traffic on the rain soaked street 15 stories below your apartment–each one weaving a new thread of anxiety in your mind as you wait for one to stop in front of your building. Wait for your husband to emerge, shielding himself from the rain and rushing to get inside before his white-collared shirt is soaked through with the sins of his flesh.

He arrives shortly after you give up waiting and prepare for bed. The rain has begun to let up and with it he steps through the front door of your apartment while you sit perched on the edge of your bed, running a hand over the embroidered silk duvet coverlet you had received as a wedding present. You listen as he drops his keys, briefcase, coat onto the kitchen counter. Focus on the sound of his footfall as he walks through the short hallway to the bathroom. He doesn’t see you sitting in the dark, doesn’t seek you out to greet you. You watch as he flicks the light on to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the shower running follows a few moments afterwards.

You brace yourself when he enters the dark bedroom after washing himself free of the day. Body tense as he slips under the blanket beside you. The anticipation of something, anything, stiffens in your muscles and you wait for him to say something, to give you some explanation for his whereabouts. Nothing comes. He, believing you to be asleep, slips too into the arms of the night and you’re left alone–staring blankly into the dark of the room before you give into the heaviness of your eyes.

Morning dawns, grey and overcast. You’re alone again, your husband having left for work with the tin of leftovers you had pre-packed for him, and the day stretches out in front of you–long and lonely–as you shove all thoughts of last night to the back of your mind and turn your attention to the household tasks that require it.

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead as you make your way through the aisles with a basket hanging on your arm. You know what you’re getting–you’ve rotated through the same small selection of meals since you were 11 years old and started cooking for yourself–but you take your time anyway. Wandering through the rows of produce, fish, and imported goods. Enjoying the distant company of strangers, their idle chatter and routine conversations are a welcome reprieve from the oppressive silence that has dominated your apartment over the past few months.

You drift to the fruits, letting their bright colours draw you in, and reach for a melon. It’s heavy in the hand, weighed down with the density of the flesh inside. It would be delicious–perfectly ripe, bursting with flavour and juice–you could almost salivate at the thought of slicing into it, bringing a cube of its sweetness to the tip of your tongue. You haven’t had it in ages. Your husband was not fond of fruits–he never had been. Always preferred spice and heat over sweetness, and you were more than happy to accommodate–to oblige his tastes and sacrifice your own for the sake of love. But now?

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought. As soon as you do, a hand reaches out to grab it, neatly manicured fingers wrapping around the fruit still warm from your touch. You smell her perfume before you see her face–that aroma of orange blossom, patchouli, and jasmine (with a hint of ginger) cutting through the air of the supermarket like a knife through fruit. It’s even more overwhelming first hand. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of her face, her bright red lips, before she turns away and clacks towards the green wall of vegetables.

You follow transfixed behind her as she weaves her way through the market, picking up an array of items as she goes. Mindlessly you fill your basket behind her, hands reaching out for whatever as you try to disguise your objective. You had only seen one blurry photo of her, clandestinely snapped with her head buried in the crook of your husband’s arm, but you would know her anywhere. In fact you did know her. Not by name, you had never been introduced, but you recognize her instantly now in the bright noonday lights of the shop.

She lives in your building, a few floors up, you were sure of it. You had run into her in the elevator a few times, never exchanging a word, but always evaluating each other with that cold calculation of strangers destined to become rivals. Not that you knew that at the time. She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren't alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice.

Does she recognize me? you wonder as you get in line a few people behind her at the register. Your eyes remain fixed on the back of her head while she pays and you tap your foot in anxious impatience as her form disappears through the doors and you’re left waiting for the elderly woman in front of you to deal out her entire coin purse to the cashier for spring onions and flour.

Finally you step out into the streets, bag of assorted groceries clutched tight in your fist, and you whip your head around to try to locate her. It doesn’t take long–she’s a flash of red in a sea of black–and you hasten your stride to catch up with her as she rounds the corner towards your apartment building, taking care to maintain a neutral expression. You trail her over the few blocks it takes to get back home, pulse quickening whenever her step halts–paralysed with the fear that she may turn around and realise what you’re doing.

Does she know who you are? Aa a neighbour, maybe, but as the wife of the man she’s having an affair with? Has he told her about you, have they shared jokes in confidence at your expense? Or are you some shameful secret he has kept hidden in his coat pocket. Maybe he slips his wedding band off before each meeting, spinning it around his finger thrice before tucking it out of sight, alongside his conscience. Does he know about her husband? Does her husband know about him the way you know about her? Were the same thoughts turning over in his mind as he sat at his desk at work, staring idly at their wedding photo?

You follow her, a few paces behind, through the lobby of your shared building. Part of you–a bold, reckless part–wants to slip into the elevator with her, just before the doors can slide closed. Meet her face to face. Confront her and lay bare your knowledge of her discretion. Maybe she would cry, maybe she would yell, maybe she would laugh. Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate.

You push that part of you away, back into the shadows, and watch as she gets into the elevator. The numbers on the display above the doors climb higher and higher as she ascends and you hold your breath, waiting for them to halt. 22. Higher up than your own, more expensive. So it wasn’t money that had drawn her to your husband. You jam your finger against the button, calling the lift back down and wrestling between going home with this new knowledge or feeding into your curiosity and following her up to her door. Would you know the right one if you saw it?

You press both floor numbers when you finally climb into the elevator, staring at the illuminated buttons as you slowly ascend. You stand still, staring at number 22, and wait as you move up and up–torn between the two options you’ve given to yourself. The doors finally slide open to reveal your floor, 15, and you stare out into the empty hallway, waiting for some unseen force to push you out of the lift. To make up your mind for you. Nothing does, and you just stand silent and still, frozen in time until they slide closed once more and you’re left looking blankly at your own twisted expression in the stainless steel. You keep eye contact with the twisted version of yourself reflected back at you and wait as the elevator continues its ascent.

What were you hoping to gain from following this woman? Confirmation that she is, indeed, real? As if the brush of her arm against yours as she stretched out for your relinquished fruit hadn’t been enough to convince you. Her head bobbing through the crowds of people on the street as you kept pace behind her was just a figment of your imagination. Did you think you would find him there? Waiting for her? Eating slices of fruit from her outstretched hands in an act of worship? Your reflection purses her lips, eyebrows knit in thought, and you shake your head at her in askance, a silent plea, before the elevator finally stops at floor 22.

The door slides open for the second time and you brace yourself to alight, but your path is blocked.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping aside to give you space to pass, “are you getting off here?”

You freeze on the spot, standing on the threshold of a million converging thoughts as they crash through your mind. His smile is the same as you remember it, soft and kind. The smile of someone for whom life was easy, someone who hadn’t seen much strife. Or perhaps the opposite . Someone who had seen all the horrors life had to offer him and chose to remain soft despite them. You’re distantly aware that you look like a fool, standing there in the elevator with your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stare into the eyes of your husband’s mistress’ husband, but you can’t make yourself move. Paralyzed by a strange twist of fate that had, unbeknownst to him, entangled you in a web of deceit and betrayal.

Surely he didn’t know.

“Is this your floor,” he asks again, prompting you to move or speak or do something more than just stand still as the elevator beeps its final warning. It wasn’t going to wait much longer.

“N-no,” you stammer, trying to right your thoughts. “I was going down, actually.” In a panic you jam your finger against the button for floor 15. If he notices the obvious lie, he doesn’t say anything–instead politely skirting around you as he steps into the lift and presses the button for the ground floor.

The lift jerks as it starts to descend, and you hold your breath. Afraid that any movement might somehow reveal every thought you’re holding tight within. He keeps a polite distance, checking his phone as he stands in the opposite corner of the narrow, enclosed space. The elevator inches closer to your floor and your muscles tense in preparation to bolt through the door as soon as it slides open at floor 15. You stare up at the numbers as they transform–20, 19, 18. Eyes transfixed on the digital display as your brain whirrs with static noise.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” You jerk your attention towards him as soon as he speaks, head spinning too fast to pass off your expression as casual and you’re sure that you look as panicked as you feel. “When we first moved into the building, I mean. It’s been a while but I recognize you.”

You nod and take a second to clear your throat of the built up nerves before replying, voice trembling with a light quiver. “Yes, I uh–it’s been over a year now I think. I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”

He smiles–that same soft, kind smile as earlier–and shakes his head reassuringly. “It’s Joshua. Hong.”

“Joshua?” your voice betrays a hint of curiosity–it’s not a common name here.

“I moved here from LA years ago with my wife,” he supplies the answer to your unspoken question. Unwittingly adding a layer of intrigue to his personage that you hadn’t expected. At the mention of his wife, however, you feel the hairs on your arms rise to attention. A cold chill ripples through your body. The elevator dings, startling you out of your daze as it arrives at your floor. You turn to face the hallway as it appears between the doors, lingering astride the threshold between him and the emptiness ahead of you. Something inside of you hesitates, hanging back to remain in his presence despite the anxiety still flooding through your body. Something about the way he spoke had drawn you in, a strange curiosity taking root in your mind. You shake it loose; it’s not your place to say anything, and it’s not your place to further entangle yourself in this web. His life is his own. You take a step forward, finally clearing the door just before it beeps its insistence at you.

You turn to say a farewell to Joshua–it wouldn’t bode well to appear impolite after he was so courteous to you a moment before–but before you can open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it.

“I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words.

Does he know?

Nothing in the way he held himself, in the casual expression gracing his handsome, well composed features would have led you to believe so but…why else would he have said that?

You stand still, staring at the scuffed stainless steel doors of the elevator as if they might reopen and he might still be there. That he might dull the sharpness of your anxieties with some clarity . Instead you’re alone, bag of groceries cutting the circulation in your fingertips off as they hang forgotten in your hand.

You try to search the memory of his face as it lingers in your mind’s eye for any clue–any miniscule hint–as to what thought had been hiding beneath his calm facade. His face twists and contorts in your mind, swirling and transforming as you try to keep hold of the static image. Joshua, your husband, his wife, your own warped expression in the polished metal of the door. Many parts of an ever colliding whole.

When you finally manage to get your legs moving and step away from the elevator the hallway seems to stretch out in front of you endlessly. You walk as if to the gallows, imagining all the horrors waiting for you when you open the door to your apartment. Your husband, Joshua’s wife. Limbs entangled in carnal desire. The heat of their bodies steaming the windows and fogging your vision as you stumble through the darkness. The thought overwhelms you, slows your already stuttering pace, though you know in your logical mind that no one’s there. She’s in her own apartment, and your husband is at work, and you’re alone. A state you’ve become numbly accustomed to.

The familiar silence of your apartment is all that greets you when you finally enter, in spite of the baseless worries of your frazzled mind. It soothes the storm of worries clouding your mind as you stow away your meager haul of groceries and set out the ingredients needed for dinner. Joshua’s face fades to darkness as you slip back into routine–letting your hands take over and your mind to narrow to a single thought.

So what if he did know. Would that change anything about your present circumstances? If he wanted a scene he had the chance to cause one and let it go. He could have held you in that elevator and interrogated you for all your husband’s many sins; pouring his hurt and betrayal out at your feet as you bear witness to your own anguish reflected in another person. But he didn’t. Instead he was polite, almost kind, and you parted without the cosmic clash the worst parts of you might have anticipated.

The water for the noodles starts to boil and you quickly finish chopping your small array of vegetables before turning the heat down to simmer and tossing them in. Leftover shrimp lay on the side of your cutting board, ready to add in at the end. It was a lazy meal–one you never would have made early on in your marriage–but who cared about that now? You knew it would be the same routine tonight. Eating without tasting, alone in the kitchen, lit only by the light filtering in through the windows, while you stare at the clock on the wall. He’ll show up after you’re finished–maybe 15 minutes later, maybe an hour–and eat the portion set aside for him while you disappear into the bedroom and will the day to come to an end.

Would Joshua’s night end the same or were he and his wife better at maintaining the charade of marriage? Were their hearts as distant when they lay in bed next to each other, barely touching?

You had a hard time imagining it. You try, between mouthfuls of noodles and broth, to capture the image of them. Joshua sidestepping his wife in the kitchen, carefully avoiding her touch–her skin stained by the kiss of another man. Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to?

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the scene that was playing out. You knew nothing about this man–about his life or his thoughts. This scene you had conjured up, fleshed out with his feelings and emotions, was just a projection of some possible life dwelling within you.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. How different would things be if you tried?

The night drags on as all the previous ones have. You sit in front of the window, letting the TV drone on in the background, and stare down at the street below. Watching as people come and go–each with their own thoughts, their own lives, their own worries and desires. None more or less important than your own. It was comforting, in some odd way, to imagine the lives and futures of others. It took the distinct sting out of imagining our own.

The front door opens, earlier than expected, and you glance over your shoulder to see him enter. He nods in greeting and you return the gesture before acting on an impulse you haven’t followed through on in months. You move towards him. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until his form comes into focus only a few feet in front of you. He doesn’t notice you right away, too busy reheating the noodles; you wait and you watch as he moves through the task with a slight droop to his shoulders. He’s tired.

“How was work today?” you ask. The question spills unbidden from your mouth but you don’t rush to stop it.

“Long,” he sighs, stirring the food as it begins to steam in the pot. There’s no hint of surprise or shock in his voice at your sudden interest in his day. He accepts it–whether from sheer exhaustion or ignorance of the deafening silence that has defined your life for the past few months. Maybe he never noticed how distant you were. How could he when he still held someone so close? “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, intending to leave it at that before a thought flashes through your mind. “I ran into one of our neighbours earlier, in the elevator. Joshua Hong. We met them once or twice when he and his wife moved in just over a year ago, do you remember them?”

“I can’t say that I do,” he shakes his head, flicking the heat off on the stove. His back is still turned, so you focus on his tone, on the micromovements of his muscles under his shirt. Searching for anything other than the polite disinterest he was feigning. Anything that might betray some feeling brewing below the surface. Fear, love, guilt. Anything at all.

“Hmm, yeah I couldn’t remember him well either at first,” you agree, pausing to allow him the space to settle in, to pour his dinner into a bowl and sit down at the counter. He leans forward, blowing the steam away as he prepares to take a bite. “He mentioned you though,” you say finally, watching his face as he glances up at you with his chopsticks suspended above his bowl. “He mentioned you know his wife.”

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie.

“That’s odd,” he replies, voice carefully neutral, he drops his gaze from yours and brings his chopsticks the rest of the way to his mouth to slurp up the hanging noodles. You stay silent, watching–waiting–as he finishes his bite before he continues. “He must be mistaken.”

“Must be,” you nod, trailing a finger lazily over the countertop. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You let the silence settle in between you–an observer of its own, interrogating him with the absence of speech. You’ve had months to become accustomed to it, to make friends of the stillness of the air in your apartment, but you can see as your husband carefully avoids your lingering gaze that he hasn’t. He’s been too preoccupied to even notice it as it slowly moved in, taking over his place at your side.

After a few moments you shrug, straightening your posture and smoothing down the front of your dress–releasing him of the heaviness of your gaze. The atmosphere settles back into one of easy stalemate and your husband resumes eating in silence. Nothing more is said. You slip back into blue.

You never wanted a traditional wedding.

With your father long buried and your mother under the spell of religious fervor, you never saw any appeal in the tradition or ceremony. You felt estranged from your scattered family–disconnected from the broader world. You floated in blissful independence, living life on your own terms and only reigning it in to pay fealty to your mother when required. Then you met him.

He was handsome–dark hair and dark airs and expertly sculpted features. The sort of handsome that was easy to overlook at first but unraveled more and more as soon as you tugged at a loose thread of it. You looked at him across the lecture hall and took your time, dissecting his profile as the lectern’s voice melted out into the distance. It didn’t take long for your introduction to follow these looks. College is like that. Friends of friends of friends, dorm rooms, study hangouts in the library. Before you could even notice, your blissful independence had given way to comfortable partnership.

After college, still in the early days of your courtship, you had grand ideas of elopement. The last lingering strands of your individuality. Traveling to a foreign country, marrying on a beach under the stars, and not telling your families until you either came back or decided you were going to live out your wedded bliss and future marriage in the streets of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney.

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you.

Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world.

That should have been the moment you knew that this would not last. Or at least that the happiness and contentment that shrouded your relationship was just that–mere illusory material. If you could turn back time, redo the last years of your life, you would have taken your meager inheritance from your father and booked a one way flight to the US. Used what little connections you had from distant family to build a life and chase your dreams. Live for yourself instead of the external expectations that you had been raised to abide by. You could have sent your mother back what little extra income you had–supported her from a distance as she ruined her own life where you did not have to bear witness.

Instead, like the perfect picture of a good daughter, you went along with your husband and his family’s wishes. You let them arrange the entire thing and you–a mere passenger in your own life–silently went through the motions. Assured by word and by every soft kiss that all your dreams would be realised once it was all over. Your hands would reach the farthest destinations of your imagination, your feet would touch the sands of your desire. You let yourself be carried forward into this future with a smile, unaware that the only sand your feet would see would be the foundations of your own life as it crumbled and fell around you.

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on your throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else's dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12.

But you didn’t. You continued to simply go with it, smile waning as the years began to drag on and none of those golden promises spoken to you at night ever materialised. Business was good, now was not the time to take a break away it would only spell financial ruin for yourself and your entire family. Fine, you could wait. Were happy to wait, in fact. Dutiful and loyal and ever patient as you filled your days with the duties you had accepted in spite of yourself. Homemaking, cleaning, cooking. You had longed to work yourself, use your degree for something other than simply occupying space on your wall, then in a drawer–but no, your obligation was to the home, to your husband. Business was good. It was the right time to start trying for children. Did you want children? Did it matter?

The flames of passion burned bright in your union early on. Your skin was on fire in the moonlight, bathed in sweat and dappled by the heated kisses of your new husband. Your body felt like a temple of worship, and he was there to pay his respects. He was the first man you had ever been with and you felt like you had won the jackpot each night as he brought you to new heights with his devotion.

Maybe it’s true what people say about newlyweds. That passion is fleeting. The newness and excitement of having each other at the tips of your fingers would inevitably dull down until even sex simply became a part of your daily routine. A task to be completed, to stave off the questions of family and friends speculating on the growth of your family. Yours wasn’t meant to grow, though, it seemed. No matter how often you came together in pursuit of it, your monthly courses came as consistent as the full moon. Month after month until you stopped trying.

But there was love there, in the beginning. You think about it still, lying silent in the vast wilderness of your marital bed next to your sleeping husband. When you think to yourself ‘how could I have let this happen’ your mind drifts back to those moments–wrapped up tightly in his embrace as he peppered your face, neck, shoulders, with kisses and promised you the world. How could you have known that it was built on such faulty foundations? That it would all drift away over time?

You run a slow finger over your thigh, tracing the paths that he would take each night before. Remembering the love that you had shared. Wondering if the woman he shares it with now feels it as deeply as you had. Did he think of you when he was with her or had she eclipsed you completely in his memory? Was her back the only one that arched as he was deep inside her, spilling his love into her?

The thought digs its barbed wires into your chest–ripping and tearing at what little tenderness you still held for the man. You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom.

Dawn comes, as it always does, sunlight taking the place of the filtered neon of the city–streaming its way into your windows and nudging you awake long after your husband left for work. You’re alone again, and the thoughts don’t cease for the daytime.

The flickering bulbs of the supermarket welcome you as you hunt around for a decent bunch of spring onions for dinner. Your hands find them and you add them to your basket, moving on to the next item on your list while your mind is half-occupied by the thought of the woman from yesterday.

You wonder if she’ll make an appearance again. Standing behind you in line, perhaps, or waiting for you in the cold section–eyes scanning tanks of crabs for the perfect one. You wonder if she’ll be wearing red again. The contrast of the colour against her milky white skin as it hugs her body just so, conveying the image of someone with the world at her fingertips.

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough. It was clean, well made, and fit you well even after all these years of wear, but it was just that. A dress. Function over form. It was the dress of someone who didn’t want to stand out, who wanted to blend into her surroundings and remain unnoticed as she moved throughout her day. It was the green in the shade of the bright red orchard as it shimmered in the sun.

As if summoned, a flash of red lights up your periphery–calling your attention away from the pear you had been inspecting. You lift your gaze to see her, a few stands down from you, a beacon of red just as you had envisioned her. You blink a few times to solidify her existence–not entirely convinced that you hadn’t just conjured her up out of smoke and mirrors. She remains, gathering a small selection of tomatoes before striding out of the produce section.

The shock of her appearance from yesterday has long since faded. You’ve had time to reckon with the weight of her existence in your proximity. What was once a desperate, aching curiosity has since dulled to a cold, calculated interest. Instead of abandoning your grocery haul you stick to your list–taking the time to pick out the right ingredients–and achieve your own goals all while keeping her in your sights. You time your actions to match hers, moving on as she adds items to her basket, lingering by the teas as she stalls at the opposite end of the aisle from you. You make your way to the till, trailing her casually, and choose the cashier adjacent to her so you can pay at the same time.

You leave the market assured with the knowledge of your mutual destination. No need to hurry, no need to chase, no need to match her pace. You let yourself fall into easy step a few feet behind her–content with enjoying the temperate weather that the day has brought. She arrives at the apartment a minute before you but you meet her in the lobby, standing silent beside her as you both wait for the elevator to descend.

The anxieties of your trip yesterday melt away as you evaluate her through the steel mirror of the door–letting your gaze drift over her distorted figure. How long until she starts to notice your presence as more than mere coincidence? Would you be able to maintain this routine–living alongside her and watching from the peripherals as she goes about her daily tasks without so much as a second thought?

As if in answer her eyes meet yours in the reflection. You politely avert your gaze, unwilling to be bested in this dance before it had even begun. Whether she was aware of who you are or not, you didn’t need to relinquish the satisfaction of knowing to her.

The doors open at your floor and you alight into the hallway, leaving her to ascend the rest of the way to her own apartment where she would maintain her own charade. Your heart lurches at the thought, an odd disruption to the calm satisfaction you had been feeling up until now. You remember Joshua’s face from yesterday–the soft curve of his lips as he spoke to you. Polite, kind. You could blame yourself easily for your own husband’s infidelity but what had Joshua done to deserve this?

Was he plagued with the same self loathing thoughts that haunted your every step? Or was his kindness, too, an illusion? Hiding some deeper malice that lurked at the heart of everyone wrapped up in this love affair.

You shake your head free of him as you enter your apartment and set your groceries down on your kitchen counter, but he returns as swiftly as he leaves. A thought circling round and round–unable or unwilling to give you a moment's peace as you unpack your bags.

Somewhere in life you had adopted this sense of pessimism about life and the people that walked through it. It was easy to imagine cruelty at the hearts of everyone–to picture the worst case scenario, the worst intentions. But something inside of you revolted as you tried to apply it to Joshua.

How silly, you think. I don’t even know him.

And yet it remains, this tiny revolution inside of you. A hope for a kinder heart amidst the sea of troubles that you had been cast adrift on. Some lifeboat in the blue-black of it all. If you just reached out, maybe you could save yourself from drowning.

Foolish, you think, casting the thought aside. No one is coming to save you. Not from your misery, not from your life, not from yourself. You had gotten married under the guise that your life would forever be tied to another person–that you would carry each other through everything–and now that that has dissolved to nothing, you know. You are alone. You have always been alone.

The fog of winter rolls in shortly, blanketing the city in gray. For a few weeks in the beginning of December, your husband’s mistress disappears. He comes home on time, eats dinner with you, and you spend your days together like any married couple might. You’re lulled into a false sense of security and for a moment you think you could simply float back into the life you had expected to have and forget everything that has been. But only for a moment. Before long she reappears, her hair cropped shorter and a spring in her step as she bounds through the aisles of the market. Your temporary marital utopia dissolves into the mist and you resume your post as observer.

The weather starts to warm again, sunlight finding its way through cloud and smog to dapple the sides of buildings, and you take up a nightly ritual of walking through the streets in your neighbourhood. You never stay out too late, or stray too far, but you were starting to feel like a caged animal as you paced through your home and your thoughts night after night.

On the nights your husband stayed out–either still at work or somewhere with her–you would forgo cooking all together, instead heading to a nearby restaurant as the sun starts to set over the city skyline. You eat slowly, relishing in each flavour and texture, and watch the rest of the patrons as they would do the same. It makes you feel less alone–or at least, less alone in your loneliness–as you would sit and watch the strangers around you bury their own miseries in the warmth of the broth steamed over countless hours. Their minds filled with thoughts and worries of their own.

Tonight is much the same. You linger at home, straightening cushions and wiping down already clean surfaces to keep your hands occupied while you watch the clock tick down the time. Your phone lights up with a message–your husband informing you that he will be home late, telling you not to wait up. You slip on a light jacket and head out the door. Your feet know the way by now, they carry you almost mindlessly forward–down the elevator, out through the lobby, down the street, two left turns, one right turn, a few blocks ahead. You pass by some familiar faces–vendors and other denizens of the evening that you’ve become accustomed to during your walks–and you acknowledge them as a friend in your mind. Kindred spirits.

You enter the small restaurant, blinking away the temporary fluorescent lights induced blindness, and take up your usual seat in the corner. Time ceases to exist in this place. If it weren’t for the last vestiges of sunlight forcing their way through the small, foggy window at the front, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was day or night.

Over the month or so you’ve started becoming a regular fixture of the place, you’ve grown familiar with a number of the other restaurant denizens. The cook and his wife–presumably the owners of the establishment–are ever silent unless yelling instructions about orders back and forth at each other. The wife, a small woman of indeterminate age, would move with efficiency between the five tables dotting the small space–taking orders, handing them to her husband in the kitchen, taking payments, refilling tea. She never appeared to be rushing, and no one was ever left for too long waiting for anything.

Occasionally a young man would take her place–likely their son or another relation roped in to help with the family business for a night. He was young–university aged maybe–and clearly disinterested in spending what little free time he had serving customers and bussing tables. The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen.

Tonight it was the woman, she didn’t even bother to ask you what you wanted as you had ordered the same thing every night over the past week. After a few moments she walks over with a teapot and cup in hand, setting them down with a silent nod, before turning to greet the next customer as they enter through the front door.

You take a sip of tea, not too hot, before leaning back in the chair to settle in for another evening of people watching. The window in the front of the restaurant is clouded slightly with steam built up from the inside, and a light dusting of grime from the outside, but your eyes have adjusted to the distortion over the past month. You sit and watch as people pass by on the street outside, a few salarymen will stop in throughout for silent meals alone before returning to the streets, but often you’re the sole patron during the few hours you spend there each night.

You watch as the new patron takes a seat at the table nearest the entrance–you haven’t seen him here before, but he looks the same as the rest. The same white button down, creased with a long day's work; the same black trousers; the same black tie and blazer thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. They were a dime a dozen in the city, these salarymen. Your husband had been one of them, once upon a time. Even with his many promotions over the years he still dressed much the same. You wonder briefly what made him stand out from the crowd to his mistress.

The woman returns to your table a few minutes later, bearing your soup in her work worn hands. Steam billows from the top and you thank her before straightening in your seat and picking up your spoon.

The food is not remarkable–truly nothing about this place is. Much like the salarymen that dip in and out through its front door, it’s no different than any of the other random hole-in-the-wall establishments that populate this city. The menu varies little from the usual, and the dingy white tiled walls do little to visually differentiate it. Everything about the place appears to be almost designed to blend into its surroundings. To serve its purpose without disturbing the status quo. It was solid and reliable and it's this very reliability that keeps drawing you back.

It could be any restaurant. You could be any woman.

You sink into the anonymity, slowly savouring the warm comfort of your food, and watch the slightly obscured figures of people as they pass by outside under the darkening sky. The man at the table by the door finishes his food quickly–in all of 15 minutes he orders, eats, and pays–with the chiming of the front door you’re left alone again as the only customer inside and the wife returns to rifling through a stack of papers spread out across the small table next to the kitchen.

An hour passes as you sit in your chair, draining your soup and sitting silently as the scene repeats itself twice over. You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications. The light of the evening sun has all but disappeared by now, only a faint yellow clinging still to the corners of blue that construct the city at night. You push your bowl to the side and sigh–both ready and not ready to head back out into the street and begin your short walk home. As has become the routine, the woman sets her papers aside and presses a few buttons on the old till. You linger a moment longer at the table, watching a pair of women stroll by outside, before getting up and pulling out your wallet. No word is exchanged as you set down a few paper bills on the counter in front of her.

The night air still bites with the remnants of the winter air and you tug your jacket tighter around to your chest as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s a quieter part of your neighbourhood, but still the streets are abuzz with people even aa the sky deepens with the threat of twilight. You fall in line behind a trio of women, walking a few paces behind them and letting your mind focus in on their conversation as they talk and laugh with each other.

Their conversation is nothing interesting–daily gossip about people you know nothing about, feel nothing for–but it reminds you of when you would wander around at night with your friends in University. Aimless and carefree, talking about nothing and everything that came to mind. When was the last time you had seen any of them? Not for months, surely. Maybe you should reach out.

The women make a left turn a few blocks later, disappearing in the opposite direction that you’re headed and you let your thoughts drift off as their voices do. Would your husband be home already? Would he be upset with the lack of prepared dinner? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it up until now, but you do wonder how long that might last. You know you should summon up some excuse for why you’ve taken up these walks, why you’re sometimes not home when he gets back, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to lie. What does it matter anyway?

You round the final corner towards home. The building looms ahead at the end of the street, lobby lights casting yellow highlights onto the pavement out front.

“Mrs. _____.” You don’t hear the voice at first. Your attention is far away, lurking in the recesses of your thoughts, and it takes a minute and a repeated call for you to register that acknowledgement. With a quizzical look, you turn towards the source of the voice and see Joshua Hong striding towards you from the opposite side of the street, pace quick to avoid an encroaching motorbike.

“Mr. Hong?” you ask, wavering with confusion. Still unsure if he’s a real person or a spectre come to warn you of some impending doom awaiting you as you approach your apartment.

“I thought that might be you,” he smiles, coming to a stop under a streetlight a few feet away. “How are you?”

You blink him into reality, righting your attention back to alertness after it’s time away. He’s sporting a cream coloured corduroy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Blue jeans. He looks the same as the last time you met him in the elevator–the same dark brown hair carving waves over his forehead, the same easy smile. You return the smile, sense reasserting itself enough for you to remember your manners. “I'm well, thank you. How are you?”

“Also well,” he replies, gesturing for the pair of you to resume walking towards your shared building. “We were away for a while, my wife and I. Visiting my family in LA.”

You know this–the kiss of sun on her skin and your previous knowledge of Joshua was enough to clue you into where they had disappeared to those few months ago. Though you weren’t about to tell him this. “Ah, that sounds lovely. How long have you been back?” Polite conversation demands the question, though the answer to it is already blaring red in your mind.

“About two months ago or so,” he replies. “It was a nice trip, thank you.” You arrive at the entrance to the apartment complex, Joshua reaches for the door before you have the chance and you nod a thank you as he holds it open for you. “Have you ever been?”

“To LA?” you ask, though the question is rhetorical and serves mainly to fill the empty spaces in between. He nods, affirming. “No, I haven’t.” You fall into step beside him, low heels clacking across the well worn black and white tiles of the lobby floor. You think to leave your answer succinct but reconsider it as you approach the elevator for fear of the silence that might ensue if you do. “Though, I did once have a dream to move there and become an actress,” you laugh.

“Oh?” He looks surprised at the sudden confession and you worry you might have said too much about yourself. “Why didn’t you?”

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply.

Why didn’t you?

“I–well,” you start, fumbling through your thoughts. “It wasn’t a very serious dream, and it wasn’t like anything would have come of it. My mother preferred that I stay here and do something more practical.”

He nods, thoughtful, appearing to seriously consider your response as you watch the numbers descend on the display above the right side elevator. “That’s understandable,” he says after a minute, “I think most parents just want security for their kids. Acting isn’t the most stable or assured career.”

The elevator arrives, its buffed stainless steel doors sliding open to grant you access to the lift. Joshua gestures for you to step in first, so you do, lighting up the button for your floor as he steps in behind you.

“Which floor?” you ask. Another question you know the answer to but he humours you anyway and you press the button for him as well.

Silence steps into the elevator with you just as the doors shut. You realise you’re twisting your fingers together in front of you–a nervous habit you thought you had gotten rid of years ago–and you shake them lightly before dropping your arms back to your sides.

“What about your father?” Joshua breaks the silence after a moment and again you take a second to register his question, too focused on the audible sound of your breathing.

“I’m sorry?” You glance at him, not trusting that you had heard him correctly.

“Your father,” he repeats, soft smile still lightly dusted over his lips. “What did he think of this acting dream of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t–” you pause, clearing your throat. Truthfully, you had never even told your mother about it, you just knew what she would have said if you had. “I’m not sure, he passed away when I was 14.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, expression sombering.

You revert to silent passengers as the lift continues to rise towards your floor. A part of you aches to say something, to break the silence again and continue polite conversation. Something about his demeanour was easy–easy to talk to, easy to be with. But you flounder for questions, comments, topics to mention. The weight of your partner’s affair presses at the front of your mind and you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay before it spills free from behind the dam of your resolve.

“What were you doing?” he asks suddenly. Breaking the silence just as you think you might not be able to withstand it any longer. The question confuses you and it must show on your face because he clarifies, “when I ran into you outside. It was getting pretty late.”

“Oh, right of course,” you say, “I was just out for a walk.”

He nods, understanding. “I was as well. Do you walk often?”

“Most nights, these days,” you reply.

“Does your husband not mind?”

You want to laugh. “He’s not home often, these days,” you answer after a moment, casting your gaze to the floor. Dancing around the implications as the weight presses heavier in your mind. “Your wife?” you ask, flirting with the edges of truth unspoken nestled between you.

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must.

The elevator dings, warning you of your arrival, and you clear your throat, tearing your eyes off his and smothering the warmth that had blossomed in your heart. “Thank you,” you say, unsure exactly what you felt compelled to thank him for but giving sound to the sentiment anyway. “For um, the chat. It was nice to see you.”

“You as well,” he smiles as the doors slide open to let you out. You nod and step into the hallway, torn between the eagerness to be alone once more and a strange resistance at departing from his company so soon. The doors begin to slide closed behind you but you hear him call your name once and spin to see his hand blocking their attempt. “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon, on one of our walks.”

You nod again and watch as he lets his hand fall, body swallowed back into the elevator as the doors shut and it continues its climb upwards. You stand for a minute, stock still in the hallway once more staring at the space where he was.

It's amazing how little time it takes for your whole world to shift. It’s a fact you’ve been presented with again and again throughout life–the deaths of your parents, accepting your husband's proposal all those years ago, the photo of him sent to you by an old friend with his arms around another woman. Mere seconds of time that seemed to move entire planets–rearranging your life without your consent at a subatomic level.

Standing in the hallway now, with the sound of Joshua’s voice lingering in your mind, you get the uncanny feeling that you’ve just lived through another of these moments. You turn away from the elevator and walk the final steps to your apartment accompanied with this knowledge, and the hope that his final statement proves true.

please consider reblogging, i would love to know your thoughts on the story so far !

#svthub #svthub.collab #joshua angst #joshua hong x reader #joshua x reader #svt x reader #svt angst #man idk #seventeen x reader #joshua scenarios

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nolita-fairytale · 6 months

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so my darling | sydney adamu x the restaurateur (unnamed male oc) | oneshot

summary: sydney falls in love with a restauranteur (one played by pedro pascal). song title inspired by so my darling by rachel chinouriri.

warnings: swearing, unnamed ocs, talking about sex, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, two original characters (the restaurateur & the pastry chef), the pastry chef is the mc from make my heart surrender, wong kar-wai films, ambiguous ending

wc: 4.8k

a/n: ok, so i'm not entirely back, but this photo of pedro pascal and ayo edebiri at the sag awards quite literally haunted me and made me write something about it. also i've really missed all of you. and i've missed these characters. and i miss this world. this oneshot feels really different to me than a lot of the things i've written for the bear and there isn't much inclusion of the other characters because i really, really wanted to write from sydney's perspective. it's limited storytelling in the way that it's mostly her experience of being charmed by the restaurateur but i had a lot of fun with this and i hope you enjoy. fic inspired by the pic below:

nolita fairytale's masterlist

Sydney doesn’t expect to win, yet her name is called out anyway, followed by the phrases: “James Beard Rising Star Award” and “the winner is.”

Most of the night is a blur. Somewhere between winning the biggest award of her career to accepting congratulations from the best chefs in the world, Sydney’s still trying to gather her bearings. It’s not until Carmy’s girlfriend, the woman who picked up her life and moved to Chicago to be with her exec chef, tugs at her arm.

Sydney doesn’t mean to completely reduce the woman to just Carmy’s girlfriend.

She’s also become many other things: the head pastry chef at The Bear, a colleague, and most importantly, a best friend.

“Hey, Syd! Carm wants to introduce you to someone,” she says, before giving Sydney a chance to politely excuse herself from the previous conversation she’d found herself in.

As The Pastry Chef leads her away from her present company, Sydney follows with a soft smile, half expecting it to be yet another celebrity chef—someone in Carmy’s network that reminds her why she began working at the Bear when The Bear was The Beef.

What she doesn’t expect is to meet him, her breath hitching in her throat as she and her best friend who’s dragged her over here, find themselves standing across from Carmy and an unfamiliar man.

“I see a congratulations is in order,” the man greets her, tipping his half-empty glass of champagne in her direction with a smile so charming she has to do a double take.

“To this year’s newest Rising Star chef.”

He’s handsome, sure—but that’s not what catches her eye.

The first thing Sydney notices about the man is his soft, dark curls—much cleaner than the unruly ones that belong to her head chef. He wears thick-rimmed rectangular glasses and has a perfectly groomed mustache that surprisingly works for him. It’s not usually her kind of thing, is all. In a white button down, perfectly tucked into his pristine black trousers, it's somehow still black tie with a touch of rebelliousness for forgoing a tie and a proper suit jacket.

He can’t be much older than Richie, she thinks to herself. What? Ten… maybe fifteen years older than herself?

Reality comes back to her, as she realizes that she hasn’t said a word, wondering just how long she’s spent caught up in her own head over the handsome stranger.

“Oh uh, yeah. Thanks,” Sydney replies with a smile and a nod, snapping back to her senses.

“Syd, this is… probably one of the few mentors I’ve had in my career. Well, him and Terry, ‘course,” Carmy begins to introduce, shyly. He’s not used to the one doing the introductions. “From Malibu.”

“Fairest Creatures,” the man clarifies with a hearty chuckle, citing the name of the restaurant they worked at together. “Way, waaaaaaay back in the day.”

Right.

The restaurant that put Carmy on the map, winning himself the same award that year that Sydney’s won tonight.

That’s when it clicks for her.

An old mentor of Carmy’s.

Not Terry.

And no, not that one—not the asshole from New York—to put it nicely.

The Restaurateur from California.

“No, I-. Yeah! I’m a big fan of your work, yeah,” Sydney scrambles to say, a glimmer of recognition in her eyes as she reaches out to shake his hand.

“Carmy was one of my early boys—look at him now. The student has far surpassed the teacher,” the chef adds, implying he’s mentored plenty of then-up-and-coming chefs back in the day.

“Oh thanks, but uh. Nah, I don’t know about that,” Carmy mutters, quick to brush off the older chef’s compliment.

Sydney can feel The Pastry Chef nudge her playfully, letting out a chuckle in response. The two exchange glances as Sydney follows her gaze from Carmy to his mentor.

“Oh they’re just being modest. Don’t think I’ve ever met two humbler chefs than these two,” the pastry chef adds with a playful eye roll, shooting her lover a look that doesn’t go unnoticed. “Which… if you ask me, is practically unheard of in this industry so… I consider us lucky, Syd.”

Sydney lets out a small, nervous laugh in agreement, before raising her own champagne glass to her lips as she finds herself, suddenly, parched.

She sees him again, weeks later, when the pomp and circumstance of winning a James Beard award has almost died down. She’d been quick to assume that, like many other chefs that weekend, he’d only been in town for the award ceremony, but as Sydney listens to the man tell Carmy that he’s moved to Chicago for “the foreseeable future,” she wonders why she never asked in the first place.

The Restaurateur had come in to say hello, for a meal, and Carmy had quickly declared that it would be on the house—eager to feed the best mentor he ever had in his California fine dining days.

“Yeah, I’ll be steppin’ in for Cuadros… when he goes on paternity leave… and we’re talking about expanding—what that could look like. Well, you know how it goes, Carm. Right now I’m just hangin’ out, helping out where I can between the two restaurants he’s got now,” he explains to Carmy with a nonchalance, as if he’s not a restaurateur whose reputation precedes himself.

“Ah, man. That’s cool. Well, you let us know if you need anything. I’ll give you mine and uh… Syd, you cool if I give him your number too?” Carmy asks, catching Sydney off guard.

“What do you-, I mean-?” Sydney begins to ask, unable to hide her surprise.

“Since he’s new to the restaurant scene here in Chicago. Can help each other out, you know?” Carmy returns, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess I-. Sure,” Sydney nods, forcing a small smile in an attempt to shake the ‘deer-in-headlights’ look she’s sure her face has involuntarily contorted itself into.

She watches her head chef carefully, as Carmy continues to interact with the restaurateur in a way that she’s never seen before. She’s never seen him this eager to try to impress someone—hell, sometimes she wonders if Carmen thrives on pretending like he doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks—so it’s sends her head spinning as she tries to reckon with this newly-revealed side of her business partner.

“That means a lot. Thank you–the both of you,” The Restaurateur replies, genuinely, bringing her back into the conversation.

“Sure,” Sydney manages to get out, still caught up in her head—exploring this new side of Carmy she has yet to see. “Anything for a friend of Carmy’s.”

“I’m at Amaru most of the time these days,” the restaurateur continues, his eyes shifting from Carmy then back to Sydney as he adds one last thing.

“You should stop by sometime.”

They exchange a few texts here and there, but it’s all business.

Who’s your preferred vendor for kitchen towels?

You guys see success with extended weekend hours?

Thoughts on being open on Monday?

“He likes you,” The Pastry Chef insists one day, in between lunch and dinner service. Sydney quickly shoves her phone back into her apron pocket, as if she’s a kid again—one who’s gotten caught texting in class.

“What? He does not! I-. This is-, it’s not-, we are two professionals… talking shop,” Sydney dismisses, because it’s easier to push those thoughts aside than to entertain them.

“Syd. He could be texting Carm but he’s texting you,” the her friend continues, completely and utterly unconvinced. Sydney finds herself on the receiving end that says, ‘cut the bullshit’ as The Pastry Chef continues.

“Even if it is… just about work, I think it says something that he’s texting you, Syd. I mean, do you know how long it took me and Carmy to-.”

“Okay, but not all of us are you and Carmy!” Sydney interjects, letting out an uncomfortable laugh as a means to break the tension.

Off her look, her friend just chuckles with a shake of her head, reminded of a time that she too could live this far in denial.

“If you say so,” The Pastry Chef resigns herself, accepting that she won’t make much progress on this one today.

She waits a beat, focused on cleaning up her station as Syd unconsciously checks her phone to see if there’s a notification from a certain someone yet.

“When are we going? To his restaurant, I mean,” The Pastry Chef speaks up again with a quirked eyebrow.

Could she really have noticed that? Syd wonders.

This time, Sydney only groans in response with a mumbled, “Fuck off. I am sick of you,” earning a bigger laugh this time from her pastry chef friend.

But the conversation seems to be the push she needs. It only takes a week or so longer for their days off to align, and Sydney’s the one bringing up the idea: that they should do a happy hour at Amaru to “show support” (and nothing else — really, no ulterior motives at all).

The Pastry Chef is more than enthusiastic about the idea, easily suggesting that they make it a girls’ night.

Which is how Sydney finds herself here, seated between her two biggest cheerleaders, Sugar one side of her, and her pastry-chef-colleague-turned best friend, at the bar of the Pan-Latin American neighborhood spot. She’s sure that Sugar was recruited for said girls’ night, in an attempt to get a second opinion on whether the handsome, older restaurateur is or is not in fact, into her.

She doesn’t hate the idea of it, for the record, but she wonders if they’re reading this all wrong—hesitant to get her hopes up.

But after the first plate—a gift from the kitchen—and the aperitif sent their way, both on the house, Sydney can only assume that The Restaurateur has something to do with it.

Of course, it’s easy to chalk it up to good hospitality. After all, hadn’t they done the same when he visited The Bear, a few things on the house Carmy insisted they send out? Isn’t it customary?

Sydney thinks back to how easily Carmy had given her number to the older chef, eager to extend as much support as possible to his previous mentor as he transitioned into the Chicago market.

But he wasn’t texting Carmy all that much. Just her.

She tries not to brush off yet another excuse: because she’s the CDC, not Carmy; because maybe he thinks Carmy, as the exec chef, doesn’t have the time when she does. Syd thinks she could go on and on like this, and instead, for a split second, she allows herself to think that maybe, just maybe, it’s because her friends aren’t all that wrong about this.

“You’ll have to forgive me. I wanted to come say hello earlier, but. Well, you know how it goes,” The Restaurateur says, earning the attention of all three women. While he acknowledges both of her friends warmly, he makes sure to he’s look at Sydney as he concludes with:

“I’m glad you came.”

“Oh, yeah. Thank you for everything. Seriously. Everything’s been amazing,” Sydney answers, wondering why it suddenly feels five degrees warmer inside of the restaurant.

Sugar snickers and the knowing look shared between her and The Pastry Chef doesn’t go unnoticed.

She just might have to kill her best friends later for this.

The Restaurateur smiles, and with a polite nod of his head, mutters a ‘thank you’ before her friends chime in with compliments, kudos, and their own respective ‘thank yous’ for the superb hospitality. Syd listens as he picks The Pastry Chef’s brain on their newest dessert addition, while Sugar enjoys what feels like a well-deserved second margarita. As The Restaurateur explains the most recent dishes he’s added to the menu since taking over as CDC, she notices that somehow, his focus and attention always seem to return to her.

He can’t visit for long, The Restaurateur apologizes—it is a busy night of service—and before she knows it, he bids his goodbyes before disappearing to the back of the house for the rest of the evening.

“Well he definitely likes you,” The Pastry Chef declares, as soon as he’s out of earshot.

“Oh. So obvious,” Sugar adds with a knowing smirk as the two exchange the exact same glance from earlier

“I’m gonna kill you guys,” Sydney mutters, her head hanging low as she feels a heat rush to her cheeks. She can’t make eye contact with either of them—not right now—or she might just burst into flames.

“Well, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you! That’s for sure,” Sugar clarifies, earning a nod of agreement from The Pastry Chef.

“See! This is what I’ve been telling her since… shit, since he came to The Bear a few weeks ago!” the pastry chef exclaims, sharing another looking with Sugar. “I think he likes you and I think you like him.”

Sydney opens her mouth to say something, but instead, just lets out an exasperated sigh, earning another round of giggles and exclamations of ‘I knew it!’ from her best friends.

They don’t stay for much longer, knowing they’re all due back at the restaurant in the morning. The three women say their goodbyes before parting ways, and as Sydney sits on the train, on the way home with her phone on do not disturb, she notices a few notifications waiting to be read.

A text from Carmy about the prep list.

The pics from tonight waiting for her to open in the group message labeled: Girlies.

And then, from the Restaurateur…

Thanks for bringing friends! It was great to see you.

There’s a familiar heat that warms her cheeks as her fingers race to reply:

Thank you for everything. The meal was incredible.

She waits before adding:

I’m glad we stopped by.

And almost instantly, there’s a reply:

Come back any time. :) With or without friends.

Come back any time. With or without friends.

The words linger in her head over the next few days. She lets them settle in, tossing them back and forth in her mind, while holding what feels like a fragile kind of excitement in her hands that’s somehow seemed to have buried itself deep inside of her.

So he is flirting with you, she thinks to herself, coming to the conclusion that her friends were perhaps right about The Restaurateur.

She doesn’t want to completely misread the situation, but she’s not sure how else she should interpret it either.

It takes Sydney two more weeks to work up the courage to go back to Amaru on her day off that week. Part of her wonders whether it’s been too long—if she’s missed her chance—and part of her knows that in the business they’re in, the days blur together, and two days become two weeks, become two months, and that he probably hasn’t even noticed that’s been that long. Her and The Restaurateur are both on Kitchen Standard Time, right? She’s not sure what takes over her, but she’s somehow mustered up the cajones (she can practically hear Tina’s voice in her head as she hypes herself up) to show up, this time, without friends.

Her risk does not go unrewarded, when he comes out to say hello. This time, he’s not alone, introducing her to his soon-to-be-business partner, Chef Cuadros, the owner of Amaru and his other venture, Bloom. They exchange pleasantries and congratulations (you know, over the huge fucking deal of an award she’s just recently won) before he pats The Restaurteur on the back, excusing himself back to the kitchen.

The Restaurateur chuckles, noting how much he’s looking forward to joining Cuadros’ restaurant group.

“Rodolfo’s a great guy,” The Restaurateur sighs, contently.

“Yeah, he seems great,” Sydney agrees, almost just to be polite.

“Yeah. Really leads by example. Rare to find that in this industry,” he chuckles, before changing the subject.

“Speaking of. Cuadros is closing up tonight which means I’m off, starting now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You wanna get a drink?”

She doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Yeah. I uh-, I’m in.”

“It’s devastating!” The Restaurateur declares, the passion evident as the words escape his lips.

“I mean, the transitions are a little choppy. And even they can’t take away the fact that: It. Absolutely. Without a doubt. 100% ruined my life,” Sydney wholeheartedly agrees, completely captivated this conversation—one that she finds incredibly sexy.

“I cry. Every single time,” the man that sits across from her says, a dopey smile plastered to his face and a heat to his cheeks from the second whiskey on the rocks he’s nursing.

“Every single time!” Sydney emphasizes, just to drive the point home.

“Because, well-, I mean, they just can’t catch a break! Always just a moment too late. It’s like… well, it’s like they’re never supposed to end up together in the first place,” The Restaurateur clarifies, in reference to what about the film is so goddamn devastating.

Syd nods with a sigh, examining the idea in her head cautiously, knowing that he’s right—even if she doesn’t want him to be.

A beat.

She leans in, the corners of her lips beginning to turn up into a smile.

“Have you seen Chungking Express?” she asks, because she’s ready to start this whole thing over again.

“Have I seen-? Are you-, of course I’ve seen Chungking Express,” the Restaurateur answers, building on their shared excitement about finding common ground outside of the kitchen. “I love Wong Kar-Wai so much I even put myself through My Blueberry Nights.”

“Okay, chill. It’s not a competition,” Sydney jokes, earning a full bellied laugh from The Restaurateur.

“You’re funny,” he states, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles back at her.

Her heart skips a beat, her breath caught in her throat.

The way he says it is genuine. It’s real. It feels… more earnest—more intimate than what should exist between two colleagues.

Then again, she didn’t exactly say ‘yes’ to drinks thinking it was just as colleagues.

“I-,” Sydney hesitates, scrambling to find the right words when it feels like so many of them could burst out of her at any minute.

Instead she settles on, “Thanks,” feeling more like Carmy than she’s ever felt in her life.

There it is again—that flutter in her belly.

This man is most definitely flirting with her, a thought that only mildly causes her to panic.

The moment feels almost too tender for either of them. Sydney shifts nervously in her seat while The Restaurateur takes another sip of his whiskey, before clearing his throat.

“I uh. I should probably get going. It’s uh… yeah. It’s getting late,” Sydney says, finding the words to excuse herself.

She’s not sure what she wants out of this—it’s maybe why she takes the out in the first place, thinking it may be best to end the evening here. Tonight was… more than she expected it to be, and she’s torn between wanting to stay and wanting to flee the great state of Illinois.

Better pause while we’re ahead, Sydney thinks.

“Yeah, no, of course,” The Restaurateur agrees, easily, before insisting that he pick up the tab.

“No, I-, I couldn’t let you-,” Sydney begins to argue.

“Please,” he insists, his tone once again rendering her once again at a loss for words. “You’ve been more than helpful to us over at Amaru since the minute I got here. This is on me.”

Syd spends the next few days going back and forth over whether or not it—whatever the hell the other night was—would be a good idea. She eventually concludes that she can’t stay away—from the high, from the way he made her feel when he insisted on paying the bill (a moment she’s replayed in her head over and over again), from him. She doesn’t tell anyone: not Nat, not The Pastry Chef, and certainly, not Carmy.

She sends the text before she can chicken out one Saturday night, as she finishes closing up.

Heading to Green Door Tavern for a night cap.

He puts her out of her misery, quick to respond as always, almost as if he was expecting her to (or waiting for her to, which, she decides is a little too much of wishful thinking).

I was just thinking about you! Just rewatched 2046 the other night. Want some company?

Yeah.

Let me close up. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way :)

The smiley face.

The fucking smiley face.

She discovers that the same dopey smile finds its way across his lips as soon as he enters the bar. The two of them quickly find themselves in yet another deep conversation about foreign films over, for him, a whiskey on the rocks, and for her, a tequila soda. There’s that same buzzing in the air between the two of them—chemistry, one might call it—as they move from Wong Kar-Wait to Jean-Pierre Jeunet with an ease that feels good to her.

Really good, actually.

So good that as soon as Sydney realizes it’s getting late, she doesn’t run in the other direction. She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but she thinks this time, she could stay. This time, she could talk to him till the sun came up, allowing herself to get lost in his soft brown eyes she finds more comforting than she should. It’s not till he brings it up that she notices again that:

“It’s getting late.”

“Oh shit. Yeah,” Sydney agrees, reluctantly, because she doesn’t want this night to end. Before she can say anything else, her body moves to get up, just half an hour away from last call.

The Restaurateur stops her, reaching out a hand that feels warm against hers as she pauses, her eyes locked with his.

“I hope it’s not uh, well, I hope it’s not inappropriate of me,” he begins, clearing his throat as he pauses.

“No, I-, I don’t want the night to-, you know… I lost track of time too and I-,” she stammers through, unsure of what she wants to say.

He smiles warmly, his hand moving to grab hers, as if, in spite of the fact that she can barely get the words out, he understands exactly what she’s trying to say.

“You can say ‘no,’�� he prefaces with, a sure nod as his gaze returns to hers.

“Can I take you home?”

And the only response that makes sense to her is the biggest, most enthusiastic:

“Yes.”

Maybe it’s just a one time thing.

Okay, a three-time thing, considering it happened that night, then two more times after the sun came up.

But to Sydney’s surprise (and delight) he texts her later that day, and the one (three) time thing becomes a one to three times a week kind of thing (schedules permitting, of course).

They fall into a rhythm—and she likes this rhythm—they cook, work at their separate restaurants, and then she lets him fuck her into his mattress like they didn’t just work their own respective twelve-hours shifts.

The Pastry Chef lets out a laugh, noticing that it’s the third day in a row that Syd’s come in having ‘not gotten enough sleep’ yet still glowing.

“How’s the sex?” she smirks, shooting Sydney a look.

In return, Syd rolls her eyes, like she isn’t getting laid on the regular, her best friend waiting patiently for a proper answer.

She checks over both shoulders to ensure no one else is listening before lowering her voice.

“It’s the best sex of my life.”

She finally moves into her own apartment a month later.

Of course, it’s a decision she’s made on her own volition and has nothing to do with the hot Restaurateur who seems like he might have some kind of staying power—the same one that’s giving her the big bang of orgasms, but that’s besides the point.

No, it most certainly has nothing to do with that.

With Chef Cuadros officially out on paternity leave, The Restaurateur somehow still manages to find the time to help her move in between running two restaurants while developing the concept for a third.

It’s the first night he spends the night and they sleep—just sleep—since she started seeing him, though they christen the place in the morning.

“We’ve been talking about a full nixtamalization program. For the new spot,” The Restaurateur explains over breakfast tacos one morning—ones he made for her in her new apartment because, of course, they had to christen the place in more ways than one.

“Shit. That’d be dope,” Sydney replies, as they continue to bounce ideas back and forth. “Do you think you could pull it off in that small of a space?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” The Restaurateur grins, before going into a near-monologue about the handful of creative solutions he’s come up with, eager to soundboard a few ideas off of her.

But Sydney finds herself a little distracted.

It’s not that she’s not listening… but she’s got something else on the tip of her tongue that she’s been holding back. The Restaurateur is in the middle of breaking down the logistics, contemplating whether or not they could pull off what he’s labeled, Idea B, when Sydney finally musters up the courage to blurt out:

“I want to cook something for you. Like not in a restaurant, or anything. I mean. Here. I want to cook something for you here.”

“Yeah?”

A beat.

“Yeah, I mean. It doesn’t have to be like-, I don’t know, this big thing or anything. But. You’re always cooking for me,” she explains, unsure of why she feels so nervous as she continues. “I kinda want to return the favor.”

He only smiles.

“Then it’s a date.”

It started as the best sex of her life, but it’s as if he’s carved out a place in her life without her noticing, seamlessly woven himself into her life, and she, his, in a way that she can’t imagine what it was like before.

It simultaneously excites her and makes her feel uneasy.

Fuck.

She doesn’t really even know what she should call ‘it’ anyway.

They haven’t really talked about it—haven’t given it a label—but with shifts at The Bear for her, running two restaurants for him, and fleeting nights spent at each others’ places before it was time to do it all over again, it’s not like they’ve had the time.

She finds herself in late Fall, almost Winter, all dressed with a newly-done silk press at yet another James Beard fundraiser. Her coat was checked in long ago as she bares her shoulders in the near-off the shoulder, gingham-printed dress, with The Restaurateur by her side. He wears thick-framed glasses, his white-collared shirt unbuttoned low enough that she’s more than ready to head back to her place to undo the rest.

It practically gives her deja vu—the two finding themselves in an all-too-familiar place—as they stand across from Carmy and The Pastry Chef, sipping on their fancy champagne and making small talk to the best of anyone’s ability.

“Hope you guys don’t mind. Can we get a few pictures?” the event photographer asks as he approaches, noting that a picture of this year’s Rising Star award recipient is a must on his shot list.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Sydney replies, a kindness in her voice even through her discomfort.

It’s not lost on her that Carmy’s more than relieved that he doesn’t have to be in the spotlight anymore, eager to step out of the way.

She poses for a few photos solo before both Carmy and The Pastry Chef are encouraged to join in, taking a few more shots with her.

“And then can we get one of the two of you?” the photographer asks, this time gesturing towards The Restaurateur.

Sydney opens her mouth to protest, to let him off the hook, because what would that mean? Before she can say anything, The Restaurateur has happily agreed, wrapping an arm around her, his hand on the small of her back.

She exchanges a look with him, something that says, ‘are you sure?’

He only nods in response, a supportive smile and a softness in his eyes that puts her at ease as if to say, ‘of course.’

Instinctively, she reaches for him, his right hand landing softly against his midsection. She feels the warmth of his palm as his hand slides up, landing somewhere above her wrist, making another point of contact. Well, now they certainly look like a couple.

“Great! That’s great, you two,” the photographer grins after taking a few more shots, his eyes fixed to the screen on his DSLR as he plays back the last few photos. “Thanks so much.”

What could this mean?

What could this be?

She doesn’t have all the answers.

Not yet, at least.

But she’ll take a wild guess—one that fills her with a certainty that she can feel in her bones.

Because tonight, he stood proudly by her side—his hands all over her as if she were his, in a photo she’s sure will make it out of Adobe Photoshop—meaning maybe, just maybe, The Restaurateur could be here to stay.

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