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mapofsouthdakota · 10 days ago

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Plated

The LADS kitchen AU

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7700ish words. An AU (check the link for my initial ramble) where you suddenly find yourself working as a chef alongside the LIs from LADS. Non MC! Reader. Heavy inspiration from The Bear (the series). Anything can happen in this kitchen, so I’m marking this as an 18+ series—just to be safe. This chapter includes: banter, fluff, drama, stress, and flirting coming at you from all directions. Potential harem drama? The heat is on, peepz, and we’re just getting started!

Tags: @gavin3469

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two

Entrée | Pilot

“Behind! Corner! Hot pan!—Chef, the risotto—”

The kitchen is alive. Screaming, sizzling, blistering alive. Steam curls up from every pan, mixing with the staccato beat of knives and the shout of orders as the Friday dinner service slams into full throttle. The ticket printer hasn’t stopped squealing since 5:57 PM. Now it’s past 6:30, and the air is thick with garlic, heat, and suppressed rage.

You’re locked in on sauté—flames licking your wrists, sweat sliding down your spine. Your risotto’s clinging too hard to the pan, the duck breast needs one more minute, and someone moved your goddamn ladle again.

“Two risottos—truffle on one, mushroom pulled from the other, one duck rare, fire it now,” Caleb calls from expo, voice like tempered steel. The kind of voice people move for without question.

Meanwhile, from pastry, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Puh-lease, someone get this plate out of my sight before I commit artistic homicide,” Rafayel croons, holding up a dessert that looks more like sculpture than food. He’s already halfway draped across his workstation like a model mid-photoshoot.

“You’re not plating anything until it’s on a ticket,” Zayne says, not even looking up.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware you were in charge of my inspiration,” Rafayel purrs, eyes gleaming as he turns to you. “What do you think, Flame? Should I plate with edible flowers or the blood of my enemies?”

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. “Try plating on time.”

Rafayel gasps, full offense. “You wound me.”

“You wound my sanity.”

A beat. Then you actually laugh—shaky, stressed, but real.

Rafayel winks at you. Zayne sighs and returns to his tickets like nothing happened.

Across the kitchen, Xavier appears beside you like a silent blessing. He slides a bowl of diced shallots next to your elbow, then disappears again, back into the whirl of motion—organizing the fridge, grabbing fresh herbs, restacking the clean pans. He doesn’t speak unless necessary. Doesn’t cook, thank god. But the second you need something, he’s already holding it.

You murmur, “Thanks,” but he’s already moving again.

And then—Caleb’s there.

His presence brushes your back like static—always too close, always too calm. “You’re burning your sauce,” he says, voice pitched low just for you.

You clench your jaw. “I’m not.”

He steps closer, hand brushing yours as he takes the handle. His fingers move with infuriating grace—just a subtle shift of the heat, a flick of the wrist, and the sauce settles.

His arm brushes yours. His breath ghosts against your cheek. You can feel him smirking without even looking.

“Careful, chef,” he says. “Pride doesn’t plate well.”

You shoulder him—not hard, but enough.

“Neither does micromanaging.”

His voice drops, warm and smug. “If you want me to stop watching…” He leans just close enough for you to feel it. “Stop being so interesting to watch.”

Then he’s gone. Just like that. Back to the pass, calling out new orders like nothing happened.

You want to hurl the sauté pan at his head. Or drag him into the walk-in and slam the door behind you.

You haven’t decided yet.

“Chef,” Xavier says gently, pointing at the pan.

You snap back into motion.

“Five-top incoming,” Caleb calls.

A full table—five guests, five entrées, five chances to mess it up. You hear the bell ring. Another ticket prints. And then—

The back door swings open.

The entire kitchen tenses.

Sylus.

Pressed shirt, open collar, no apron. Clean shoes. Cool air follows him in, like he’s above the heat. He surveys the room, eyes drifting past the boiling pots, the flames, the staff running on fumes. When he lands on you, he lingers.

“Smells… intense,” he says with a small, amused smile. “Like ambition. And panic.”

“Out of the kitchen,” Caleb says without turning.

Sylus walks in anyway. Straight past the flames, toward the shelf of wine bottles. He picks one up. Sniffs. Frowns. He opens a drawer—your drawer, the one with the backup wine list—and pulls out a slim black leather notebook.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask, wiping sweat from your forehead.

He doesn’t look up. “Fixing the mistake someone made by serving the Zind-Humbrecht Pinot Gris with duck confit.”

“Who even pairs the wine here?” Rafayel asks, licking sugar from his knuckles.

No answer.

Sylus smiles faintly and slips the notebook back. You catch a glimpse of neat handwriting. You’ve seen it before—on the wine map pinned to the walk-in, the one everyone quietly agrees is weirdly perfect.

No one ever said who wrote it.

Sylus pours himself a half-glass of something expensive—definitely not meant for staff—and takes a small sip, eyes closing in faint approval.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says to no one in particular. Then, with a final glance toward you: “Let me know if anyone wants to learn how to taste properly.”

And then he’s gone. Smooth. Untouchable.

Leaving behind a sudden silence that feels like a storm just passed through.

Caleb exhales through his nose.

Zayne mutters something about poisoning the wine.

Rafayel fans himself dramatically.

And you?

You pick up your pan. Xavier slides in beside you without a word, sets down a pat of butter and a fresh sprig of rosemary at your station—already prepped, already perfect. He’s gone again before the heat even rises. Everything you need is in place.

Now it’s just you, the fire, and the five who know how to burn beside you.

——————————————————————————

It’s past midnight.

You’re perched on an overturned milk crate near the deep sink, your back pressed against cold steel. One boot taps softly against the tile, the rhythm inconsistent—residual adrenaline bleeding out through movement. In your hand, a plastic deli container filled halfway with cheap red wine. It’s warm. You don’t care.

Across from you, the remnants of staff dinner: a tray of sad, over-salted fries, scattered with a few slumped sprigs of rosemary someone got fancy with. Grease pooled at the edges. Nobody’s throwing it out. It’s communal now.

Leaning against the prep table, arms folded, is Zayne. Shirt sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing old burn scars, healed nicks, the quiet story of a man who works with his hands and doesn’t complain. He hasn’t touched the wine. Hasn’t sat down. He watches the room like it might get up and move again.

“You missed a fold on the duck,” he says without looking directly at you. His eyes stay focused on the tray of fries, like he’s just stating fact.

You let out a soft scoff. “You’re seriously giving me notes after midnight?”

He shrugs. One shoulder, subtle. “If you’re awake, you’re learning.”

The stainless lowboy fridges clack slightly as Rafayel drapes himself over them like they’re his fainting couch. He’s half-melted against the surface, one leg kicked up, the toe of his shoe idly circling in the air. There’s a smear of chocolate on his cheek. He doesn’t care.

“Puh-lease, could we not do the critique hour? I’m emotionally brittle and overworked. I need to be coddled.”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “No one coddles you.”

Rafayel flicks a cold fry into his mouth, chewing slowly, then points the next one at Zayne like it’s a wand. “You coddle me. In your cold, clinical way. Admit it.”

“I’ve never coddled anything in my life.”

“Tragic,” Raf says, mournful. “Explains so much...”

You let the grin spread before you stop it. It’s crooked, half-buried behind the rim of your ad hoc drinking glass. The tension in your shoulders starts to melt, fraction by fraction.

Against the wall, a quiet shift of movement—Xavier, sitting on a stack of flour sacks like it’s a throne made of clouds. His back’s slouched against the wall, knees up, arms resting on them. He looks half-asleep, but you know better. His eyes track every flicker of motion in the room.

He reaches into the pocket of his apron, pulling out a hard candy wrapped in glossy plastic. He peels it slowly, the crinkle unusually loud in the quiet.

“You want one?” he asks, voice gentle as always.

You glance at him. His hand is open, the candy resting in the center of his palm like an offering.

You take it. It’s stupid sweet. Artificial cherry. A kid’s candy in an adult’s world. Still, it makes the wine taste better.

Across the room, Caleb finally moves.

He’s been standing—always the last to drop his guard. His black jacket is still on, sleeves pushed up, the collar stained with the sweat and heat of ten hours behind the pass. He lowers himself slowly onto an empty stool, spine straight, arms braced on his knees.

His expression doesn’t change. But the way he exhales, long and slow, says enough.

“Good service,” he says, voice low and even. “No one dropped. No one quit.”

“Low bar,” you mutter, taking another sip.

Caleb’s mouth twitches. The almost-smile lives in his eyes for a second before it disappears again. “Barely still counts.”

A creak.

The back door swings open on squeaky hinges.

Every head turns.

Sylus.

He steps inside like the air belongs to him, sleeves rolled just once at the forearms. No sweat. No mess. No apron. Just that quiet calm, the smell of leather and wine and some expensive cologne none of you can place but all of you recognize. He carries a bottle of something dark under one arm.

He surveys the room slowly, his gaze moving from Zayne to Rafayel to you—pausing, slightly, when it lands on you—then finally Caleb.

“You’re all still alive,” he says, tone dry but almost… pleased. “Charming.”

“No thanks to you,” Caleb mutters, not lifting his head.

Sylus uncorks the bottle with practiced ease, plucks a wine glass from the drying rack without asking, and pours a half-glass. Deep red. Rich. Nothing from the line. This is his stock.

He lifts the glass. Sips. Eyes closed briefly. A subtle appreciation.

Then, eyes open—straight at you.

“You’re still standing,” he says. “Which is impressive. Tonight was chaos.”

You roll the candy against your tongue. “Chaos is part of the job.”

“No,” Sylus says smoothly. “Chaos is part of your job. Mine is keeping it bankable.”

Rafayel raises his hand in a languid gesture. “You’re welcome for all the emotional gravitas. And the soufflé.”

“I didn’t see your soufflé on the pass,” Caleb says flatly.

Rafayel leans back like he’s been struck. “It was evocative, Caleb. Too powerful for the plate.”

Zayne doesn’t look up. “You forgot the timer again.”

“I’m a visionary, not a timekeeper.”

“You’re a liability,” Zayne says, his voice as precise as his blade.

“And yet here I am. Unfired. Uncaged.” Raf gestures vaguely at the kitchen. “Mystery.”

Xavier shifts his weight slightly, shoulder brushing the wall. “You forgot to turn off the oven.”

Raf doesn’t miss a beat. He lifts his chin, all faux-grace. “…I meant to.”

Sylus, still watching, drains the rest of his glass, then walks to the back wall—toward the small wine rack no one’s supposed to touch. He runs a finger down the labels. Adjusts one slightly. Opens a drawer.

You tense.

It’s your drawer. Again. Where the backup wine list is kept. Where the slim, black leather notebook lives.

Sylus opens it. A flick of Sylus’s pen. A line drawn. A note added.

“You’re the wine guy,” you murmur.

Sylus doesn’t look up. “I am a guy with wine.”

Caleb straightens just slightly, voice sharp. “You never told me.”

Sylus looks at him then, one brow raised. “You never asked.”

A silence stretches over the room.

Thick.

Sylus corks the bottle, tucks it under one arm with a smooth movement, and turns to leave.

“I’ll be in the front,” he says. “Trying to find a glass that deserves this vintage.”

Then, as he reaches the door, he pauses and looks at you.

“If you’re not doing anything, chef, feel free to join me. Always more honest conversation once the pans are cold.”

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind him and room exhales.

Caleb tips back his wine, downs the rest in one long pull.

Zayne moves to the counter, starts wiping it clean. His cloth is precise. Efficient. Methodical.

Xavier offers you another candy, not saying anything. He doesn’t need to.

Rafayel lies flat on his back and sighs like a Shakespearean tragedy.

You sit there. Candy melting on your tongue. Wine staining your throat.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen hums with the dull ache of a shift survived. No more shouting, no more sizzling pans. Just the whisper of the overhead vents and the occasional clink of glass on steel.

Zayne wipes down his station like another ticket’s about to drop. Every motion is sharp, practiced—chef-first, human-second. He folds the towel with crisp corners and sets it just so. You can tell by the slight tilt of his head, the slower breath, that he’s beginning to wind down—but he still can’t let go entirely.

“That’s me,” he says, finally. His voice is calm, quiet, but final.

You glance over your shoulder. “Clocking out already?”

He nods once. “Clean line. No reason to linger.”

He grabs his coat off the hook—creased, folded exactly how he left it at the start of the shift.

From across the room, a dramatic groan echoes off the tiles.

“Already?” Rafayel lifts his head from where he’s sprawled across two prep stools like a wilted orchid. “You’re leaving me in my hour of need?”

Zayne gives him a blank look. “It’s been forty-five minutes since service ended.”

“That’s forty-three minutes too long for me to be denied attention.” Raf flops to his feet with exaggerated grace, twirling one glove lazily in his hand. “Come, Icebox, at least walk me to the door. I might collapse from artistic exhaustion.”

“You’re standing,” Zayne says dryly.

“Barely,” Raf sighs, wobbling on purpose as he collects his coat. He tosses a wink your way. “Say goodbye to your favorite dessert.”

“You mean yourself?” you mutter.

“Obviously.” Rafayel leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, feather-light but undeniable. Pulls back with a grin like he didn’t just set your pulse spinning.

Then he twirls dramatically toward the door. “I’ll return reborn, little flame.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything, but you swear the corner of his mouth twitches before he heads toward the door, Raf trailing beside him like a spark orbiting a sharp edge.

Just before they disappear, Raf glances back over his shoulder. “Try not to set anything on fire while I’m gone, Flame. And if you do—make it meaningful.”

The door closes with a soft click, and you’re left in the quiet again. The kitchen feels bigger without Raf’s voice bouncing around the walls.

You finish what’s left of your wine, set the empty container beside the sink, and stretch your back until it pops.

Then you move through the double doors into the front of house—

And step into an entirely different world.

——————————————————————————

The restaurant is immaculate.

Warm light glows low from the sconces, casting shadows across the marble floors and polished wood. Tables are set, untouched, crystal glasses lined up like sentries. Everything gleams. It smells faintly of lemon and linen and something floral, soft in the vents. The kind of scent no one notices until it’s gone.

Sylus is the only soul in the room.

He sits near the windows, one arm draped along the back of his chair, the other holding a half-full wine glass with casual elegance. The bottle is resting in a carved metal cradle on the table. The label is vintage. Expensive.

He looks up as you approach, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly.

“You made it.”

“Thought about going home,” you say.

“But didn’t.”

He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

You do. The velvet cushion is cool against your legs. Too soft. Unfairly comfortable. Of course he’d pick this table.

He picks up the bottle and tips it toward your glass. “You’re already drinking something terrible. Let’s fix that.”

You slide your glass toward him. “You always this generous after service?”

“I’m always generous to people who survive fire.” He pours carefully, not spilling a drop.

The wine is deep, smooth, the color of garnets and smoke. You sip. It tastes like money and secrets and something slow on the finish—something almost like regret.

You set the glass down. “This place looks untouched. Like service didn’t even happen.”

He smiles faintly, watching the candlelight flicker against your glass. “That’s the point. You build a kitchen to burn. You build a dining room to hide the burn.”

You glance around. “You care about this place.”

His eyes shift back to you. “Of course I do. My design. My money. My bones, in some ways.”

You study him a moment. He doesn’t look away.

“You built it to impress?” you ask.

“I built it to last.”

You nod slowly. “It’s beautiful.”

Sylus leans forward slightly, one elbow on the table, glass poised. “It’s survival. Beautiful survival, yes—but still survival. You know what I mean.”

You do. You don’t say it.

He looks at you differently now—quieter, more curious. His voice drops a notch. “You’re not like the others.”

You raise a brow. “Because I drink expensive wine when offered?”

“No.” He smiles. “Because you understand why it matters. You care about the fire. And about what survives it.”

Before you can answer, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

Once.

You pull it out.

Caleb: Need you back here. Xavier’s down again.

You look up. Sylus already knows.

“Another time?” he asks. His tone is soft, but there’s something behind it—like he already sees the future version of this moment repeating.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He watches you stand, glass half-finished on the table.

“If you ever want something that doesn’t burn,” he says, eyes sharp but warm, “you know where to find me, chef.”

You don’t answer.

Back in the kitchen, the lights are lower, quieter. The heartbeat of the space has slowed. Caleb is crouched near the dry storage, elbow braced on one knee. Xavier is curled up on the flour sacks again, arms folded under his head like a cat settling into the quiet.

“He’s out,” Caleb says, voice low, glancing over his shoulder—not irritated, not worried, just watching him with that quiet kind of care he never names.

You kneel beside them, brushing Xavier’s shoulder gently. “Hey. Wake up.”

His eyes crack open just a little.

“You good?” you whisper.

He nods, slow and soft. “…I’m fine, Second set.”

Your chest squeezes just a little.

Caleb is already lifting him with practiced ease, one hand under his arm. He doesn’t say anything, but you can tell by the way his fingers grip Xavier’s jacket that he’s done this before. But when you reach to help, he shifts to make space. Without looking at you, he makes room. Always does.

Together, the three of you leave.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the cool air of the city wraps around your skin. The sidewalks shine with old rain. Streetlights glaze the pavement with soft gold. Your shoes scuff against cracked cement as you fall into step—Caleb on one side, Xavier tucked into the quiet middle, blinking slowly.

The three of you walk in rhythm, quiet, boots echoing soft against the street. Caleb says nothing at first. But then—

He leans slightly toward you, voice low, warm in the stillness.

“Hey… good job today.”

Not performative. Not for show. Just soft. Real. Like it matters to him more than he lets anyone else see.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

Then he looks down at Xavier, who’s barely keeping his eyes open, head dipping forward as he walks.

Caleb reaches out with one hand and gently ruffles Xavier’s pale bangs—an affectionate sweep—before tugging up the hood of his jacket like he’s tucking him in.

“And you too, Ghost,” he says, quiet.

Xavier hums, a little nod. Doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t need to.

Caleb’s shoulder brushes yours—once when you slip on uneven pavement, and again when Xavier starts to lean too hard to one side. He shifts his weight easily, like it’s natural to hold both of you steady.

Behind you, the restaurant glows. Through the front windows, you can still see Sylus, alone at the table, wine swirling in his glass, elbow resting just so on the white linen. He doesn’t look tired. He looks… exactly where he belongs.

And then—

He looks up.

He sees you.

Not glances—sees. Like you’re a chapter he’s already reading ahead in.

And just before you turn the corner, before the street swallows you, he lifts his glass. A toast. To you? To the night? To what comes next?

You don’t know.

But something shifts in your chest—just slightly.

Not fear. Not heat.

Something else.

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks like a familiar rhythm as you push the door open and step into the kitchen.

It’s technically a closed day—no service, no tickets. But the kitchen never really rests. Not here. There’s always something to prep, to refine, to fix.

Cool air hits your skin first—the prep station lights still off, only the early sun pouring through the back windows. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge compressors and the soft thunk-thunk-thunk of a knife on wood.

Zayne.

Already in place, sleeves rolled up, black strands brushing his forehead. He doesn’t glance up as you enter—just adjusts his grip on the cleaver and continues trimming down a mountain of bright spring onions. The scent of them—clean, sharp—hangs in the air like a warning.

You walk in slower, letting the door swing shut behind you, and start walking toward your station when—

“Morning.”

His voice is low, unbothered. No shift in pace, no dramatics.

“Morning,” you say, setting your bag down.

There’s a pause, just a breath too long to be casual. Then—

“Good call on the tangerine oil yesterday,” Zayne murmurs, slicing through a stalk with surgical precision. “I didn’t say it then.”

You glance over, a little surprised. “You mean you noticed?”

“I notice everything.” He looks up, just briefly. And for the shortest beat, he smiles.

Small. Barely there. But real.

And only for you.

Then it’s gone. His knife resumes its rhythm. The rest of the kitchen hasn’t even started breathing yet.

And just as you turn toward your station—

“You’re late,” a voice drawls from behind a stack of flour bags.

You freeze mid-step.

You know that voice.

“…Raf?”

Rafayel pops up from behind the counter like a devil in a drama. He’s wearing his apron inside out, sleeves rolled and pinned with two glittering clips. His eyes catch the light like a prism.

“I know, I know,” he says, holding up his hands before you can speak. “Don’t ask why I’m here before noon. I’m as shocked as you are.”

You blink. “Why are you here before noon?”

He leans in, eyes wide like he’s about to tell you something salacious.

“Food critic,” he whispers, as if invoking a spirit.

Your stomach tightens.

“Wait—” Raf straightens suddenly. “Didn’t Caleb text all of us to show up early?” He looks between you and Zayne. “Right? He texted you two too?”

“No,” you and Zayne answer in unison.

Raf stares.

Zayne slices clean through a fennel bulb and slides it aside with absolute precision.

“He doesn’t need to.” A pause. “We’re always early.”

Raf gasps, clutching his chest like it’s a personal attack.“God, you’re such A-types. How exhausting.”

You raise a brow. “And you’re what, exactly?”

“Obviously B-type,” Raf says, flicking flour off his sleeve with flair. “The artistic kind. The ones who dream. The ones who show up when the muses say ‘now.’”

Zayne doesn’t look up.

“Your muse needs a schedule.”

“My muse needs espresso and validation,” Raf says primly. “Neither of which I’m getting fast enough.”

You can’t help the smirk tugging at your mouth as Raf grabs a mixing bowl with the drama of someone accepting an award.

Rafayel waggles his fingers. “Aaanyways…Not that I care about some starch-shirted, no-palate having, bland-gutted fork collector. But Caleb? Oh, he cares.”

He hops off the counter, landing with a bounce. “And Sylus?” Raf makes a low whistle, spinning one finger through the air. “He hears the word ‘Michelin’ and suddenly it’s ‘revamp the wine list’ and ‘triple the foie gras.’” He mimics Sylus’s voice perfectly. “It’s all very dramatic.”

“You’re the dramatic one,” Zayne mutters from the cutting board.

Raf ignores him. “I suggested we go to the beach instead. Cleanse the palate. Feel something. Maybe get arrested. You know, real inspiration.”

You smile.

The kitchen is still cool, still half-asleep, but slowly beginning to hum.

And then—

The back door opens with a thud.

Caleb.

He’s dressed in a dark shirt with cuffed sleeves, casual but still precise. In each arm, grocery bags—paper, heavy, full of weight. You spot the edge of imported cheese, the glint of glass bottles, long sprigs of fresh herbs still dripping with condensation. He steps in like he’s walked five blocks uphill.

Rafayel eyes the bags, unimpressed. “Let me guess—three kinds of truffle and one single blood orange?”

Caleb drops the bags on the prep table with a thunk. “Brigade,” he says, eyeing the room. “Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He turns to you, nodding once. “We’re doing something special today. Want your hands on it.”

You blink. “For the critic?”

“For the team,” he says simply. Then: “Critic’s just an excuse.”

Rafayel dramatically presses his palm to his chest. “Are you suggesting I create something for someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

Caleb tosses him a bundle of herbs. “I’m suggesting you create. Period.”

Zayne steps forward, inspecting the bags. “This is… high-end.”

“Expensive,” Caleb confirms. “Sylus gave me the green light.”

That tracks. Sylus isn’t in yet—a night creature, as he once called himself. “We work the day,” he’d said once, swirling wine. “I own the night.” Xavier’s late too, of course. But that’s just Xavier. Like Raf, he moves on his own time.

You pull out your phone and tap a quick message:

YOU: You coming in soon? The crew misses your ghost routine.

You set it down again.

Caleb glances over, catching the motion.

“Let him sleepwalk his way in,” he says, a dry twist in his tone. Then, a beat—softer now: “We’ll try to keep order until our fifth remembers time exists.”

Caleb’s already unpacking. Hands sure. Focus locked.

“Let’s build something new. You. Me. The four of us. Five, when Ghost floats in.”

You meet his eyes. There’s no pressure there, no edge. Just invitation.

“Bring me ideas. Or at least good bread,” he adds.

Rafayel claps his hands. “I knew this day would come, Maestro. A collaboration! Shall we open with edible orchids or existential dread?”

Raf’s already reaching for the nearest fruit like it’s a paintbrush. “I want bitterness. I want longing. I want something that tastes like a last confession whispered into a velvet napkin—”

Caleb glances at him, the corner of his mouth twitching—just barely. Amused. But not swayed.

“Start with flour,” he says, dry. “Then spiral from there.”

Raf gasps softly. “Ouh—Daddy Discipline has spoken.” Then, with a wink: “Should I kneel? Or just sift dramatically?”

Your phone buzzes softly.

You check the screen.

XAVIER: On my way. Dreaming of fennel. Don’t burn without me ��🎀

And just like that, it begins.

The morning stretches with warm light on your shoulders. Dough starts rising. Butter softens. You smell lavender. Blood orange. Scorched sugar.

Rafayel hums as he works. Zayne corrects your knife grip once, but with quiet patience. Caleb doesn’t hover—but he passes close, every so often, to taste. To glance. To quietly trust.

And for once, the kitchen doesn’t feel like a battlefield.

It feels like something else.

Something good.

Steam from reduced vinegar curls into the air alongside delicate floral notes from the elderflower syrup Raf’s been coaxing out of thin patience and sugar. The room is warm now, alive—but without the chaos. For once, the burners are lit, but the tension isn’t.

The prep table is a soft mess of bowls and plates, slashed parchment paper, flour scattered like stardust. A plate of cooling tart shells rests near the edge, and someone—probably Zayne—has already lined up mise in exact rows: black garlic paste, candied fennel, crushed pink peppercorns.

A jazz track loops quietly from someone’s phone—the compromise after Rafayel insisted on opera. You all vetoed it. Jazz didn’t demand attention. It just filled the space, soft and steady, giving the kitchen rhythm without stealing the scene.

Caleb paces slowly along the line—not correcting, just hovering. Tracking movements like he’s syncing them to something internal. He passes behind you, the warmth of him brushing your shoulder, deliberate but unhurried.

He leans in, barely a breath from your ear.

“You’re two steps ahead of everyone this morning, Hotshot.” He murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. Then, with the smallest curve of a smile—

“It’s irritating.” Caleb moves on before you can respond.

Zayne is all precision beside you, his knife a metronome. He’s slicing roasted fennel into paper-thin arcs and assembling them into soft folds like petals. Every motion is practiced. Economic. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, impressed at how little he ever wastes—motion, energy, time.

He must notice.

Because without breaking pace, he flicks a glance toward your station—eyes scanning your hands, then your face. Just once. A small nod. A subtle tug at the corner of his mouth—barely there. But it’s yours.

And then he’s back to his work like nothing happened

Across the table, Rafayel leans over a set of tart bases, bare-handed, his fingertips pressing custard into each shell like he’s painting emotion into a canvas. He hums something under his breath—minor key, off tempo. Sweet but a little strange.

He licks a smear of citrus glaze off his wrist and suddenly sighs, loud enough to catch your attention.

“Has anyone ever told you that custard is a lie?” he says dramatically, not looking up. “It pretends to be simple. Wholesome. Comforting. But it’s fickle. Clingy. It breaks the second you look at it wrong.”

You glance over. “Having a moment?”

“I’m having an awakening, Flame.”

Zayne doesn’t even pause in his slicing. “You’re having a meltdown.”

“Don’t mock my process,” Rafayel huffs. “You weren’t there when the egg curdled. You didn’t see what it became. It looked at me like it knew I was doubting myself.”

You hold back a smile.

“Also,” Raf continues, spooning another slick of custard into a shell with excessive flourish, “if anyone asks, I invented emotional citrus. It’s soft. It’s devastating. It haunts your childhood.”

“I’m going to haunt you,” Zayne mutters.

“And that’s what I call team spirit.” Caleb, still watching, glances your way. Just once. Noticing. Measuring.

This is what the kitchen feels like when it isn’t drowning.

And then—

The door creaks open.

Xavier steps through like dusk itself: quiet, soft-shouldered, pale blond bangs falling over his forehead as he shrugs out of a light coat. He’s holding a paper bag of herbs tucked under one arm, and a clean stack of towels clutched to his chest like a warm offering.

His shoes barely make a sound on the tile.

His eyes move through the room—Zayne, Rafayel, Caleb—then finally you.

He blinks once. “Need hands?” His voice is calm, but there’s something gentle behind it. Like he already knows the answer.

You smile, automatically. “Always.”

He moves with almost no sound, setting the bag down at your station before you’ve even shifted. You glance sideways and catch him silently organizing your tools—towel folded, knife turned blade-in, a fresh set of herb sprigs unwrapped and waiting.

“Nice to see you in the light,” you murmur.

Xavier smiles, barely. “Too bright. Feels like cheating.”

You’re about to ask what that means when—

The back door swings open hard enough to stir the air.

Sylus steps in like a gust of something colder, crisper. Pressed shirt, sleeves rolled once. No jacket today, just cufflinks catching the morning sun in a glint. In one hand, a thin black folder. In the other? A single, perfect baguette wrapped in wax paper and twine.

He doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t have to.

The room slows.

Rafayel, of course, is the first to fill the silence. “Ah. The Night King arrives.”

Sylus pauses, just enough to give him a glance. “And here I thought I was early.”

“You are, for you,” Zayne mutters, not looking up from his slicing.

Caleb steps out from behind the counter, arms folded across his chest. Not tense—just reading the air.

“You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re creating.”

Sylus raises a brow. “Creating?”

He walks forward slowly, glancing at the plates—at the ingredients still strewn across the prep line. His eyes pass over the orange custards, the chilled tart shells, the unfinished sketch next to your station.

He lingers for a second. Then: “Is this… for them?”

“The critic?” Caleb says. “It’s for us.”

You nod, echoing. “But they’ll eat it.”

Sylus hums—a sound of faint amusement—and steps closer. He sets the baguette down neatly near the center of the table. Then flips open the black folder with one hand.

Inside, a printed wine list. Notes. Names scribbled in Sylus’s handwriting.

He studies it for a beat, then reaches for the paper again, scanning the rows.

“I’ll pull the Tempranillo,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Zayne, without looking up: “Critic prefers white.”

Sylus doesn’t lift his head. “Then the critic lacks imagination.”

Rafayel lets out a small snicker. “See? This is the kind of reckless elegance I live for.”

You almost laugh. You don’t.

Sylus disappears to the back, sliding into the cellar like it’s his second home.

Xavier slides a plate your way without a word—a tasting spoon laid neatly beside it. You didn’t ask. You needed it. He knew.

Rafayel leans closer to you, whispering, “We should form a splinter kitchen, Flame. You, me, The Whisperer, and the king of wine aka Daddy Deep Pockets. No rules. No menus. Just vibes.”

“I think we already have that,” you murmur back.

He grins, then pops a sugared fennel into his mouth. “Ugh. Still too grounded. I want transcendence.”

Caleb has started prepping again, head bowed, brow furrowed—but he’s smiling.

You glance at the team—present, steady, maybe even happy—and you feel something click into place.

The critic’s coming. The pressure will return.

But right now?

The kitchen is whole.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—so are you.

——————————————————————————

Only the light above the prep table is on, casting long shadows against steel and tile. The others have gone for the night—Raf babbled about “moonlight gelato dreams,” Sylus vanished in a trail of cologne and cryptic wine notes, and Xavier? Somewhere between the pantry and a nap in the dry storage.

You’re still here.

And so is Caleb.

He’s standing at the counter, arms braced on the steel, sleeves pushed up, steam still curling faintly from the forgotten pot beside him. There’s tension in his jaw. A tightness to his stillness.

You finish wiping down your side station and wander over to the prep board, eyes scanning the half-finished layout for tomorrow’s service. You don’t hear him move, but you feel it when he’s suddenly close.

Too close.

He leans in behind you, not touching—but you feel the heat of him along your back, the slow press of his voice by your ear.

“Don’t tell me you’re still second-guessing the placement of the tartlets,” he murmurs.

You don’t look at him. “They’re not centered.”

“They’re fine.” He exhales a soft chuckle. “If you stare at it any longer, it’s going to combust. Though I’d enjoy watching that.”

You try to ignore the way his voice dips on that last part. “Your definition of helpful needs work.”

Caleb leans in a little more, eyes scanning over your shoulder, breath warm on your temple.

“I am being helpful,” Caleb murmurs, voice low and easy, close enough that his breath stirs the air by your ear. “I’m giving you a second opinion. Up close.”

You glance sideways.

He’s right there.

Calm. Still.

A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His arms relaxed at his sides, and his ash-brown bangs fall low across his eyes—teasing the edge of his gaze like they’re trying to soften what’s already too sharp.

And he’s watching you. Not the plate.

You.

“This reminds me of school,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Late nights. Just us. You, me, four dozen plates, no time, no sleep.”

His voice sinks deeper, warmer. “You always worked like you were chasing something. Like every plate had to prove something.” A beat. “Maybe it did.”

You don’t answer—not right away.

The kitchen hums around you, distant now. You’re aware of the shape of him beside you, the weight of memory folding in like steam.

He tilts his head, hair shifting as his eyes flick down—first to your hands, then to the line, then back again.

“I used to stay later than I needed to,” he murmurs. “Just to watch you finish.”

The words land soft but heavy. Measured, like he’s waited years to say them without it sounding like too much.

Your breath catches.

“Back off or I’ll start moving your mise around,” you mutter.

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Cruel.”

But he’s still smiling as he steps back, just enough to let the air cool again. Then:

“Do you trust him?”

You glance up. “Who?”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “Sylus.”

The weight in his voice isn’t jealousy. It’s strategy. Tension.

You tilt your head. “I trust him to protect his own interests.”

Caleb nods once. Not agreement. Just recognition. He shifts slightly, drawing in a slow breath through his nose.

“I’ve seen how he looks at you,” he says, voice low. “How he acts like you’re already part of his portfolio.” His fingers flex on the table’s edge.

You blink, heart ticking faster. You don’t answer. You can feel the air shifting around him. Not heated—but heavy. Pressurized.

“And I know it’s none of my business,” he continues, stepping just close enough to lower his voice further. “But I also know I’m not the only one who notices.”

There’s a silence.

Then he adds, quieter: “I care about you. More than I should. And I’m not proud of how long I tried to ignore it.”

You stare at him, throat tight. There’s no performative heat in his words. No desperation. Just truth—terrifying in its clarity.

And then—

A voice, cool as glass:

“You done?”

You both turn.

Zayne. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, prep notes in one hand. His expression is unreadable.

“I came back for my folder,” he says, tone neutral. “Didn’t expect to walk in on… this.”

Caleb doesn’t move.

Zayne straightens slightly. “You want to have feelings, do it off the clock. Because if this is going to interfere with service, then someone else needs to be running the pass.”

He doesn’t raise his voice, but the line is drawn.

You open your mouth, but Caleb holds up a hand—not to you. To Zayne.

And when he speaks, it’s not loud. It’s final.

“I built this kitchen.” His voice is steel. “I run it. I trained every person on this line to breathe in rhythm because I commanded it. So if you think you’re going to walk in here and take my place because I had the audacity to feel something human for five seconds—think again, Sous.”

Zayne’s face doesn’t change. “I’m talking about focus.”

“I’m always focused,” Caleb replies. Calm. Deadly. “That’s the difference between you and me. You cut to fix. I cut to lead.”

You feel your chest tighten. You’ve heard Caleb take control before—calm, commanding, in total charge. But this isn’t that. This is quieter. Sharper. Like he’s sealing something off with every word.

Zayne looks at you briefly. Then, with no more to say, he turns, collects his notes, and walks out the door.

No dramatics. No parting shot.

But the room is different now.

You don’t realize your shoulders have tensed until you release them. Caleb doesn’t speak—just stares down at the table, knuckles pale against the steel.

Then, slowly, his head lifts.

His eyes meet yours.

And the sharp edge he showed a moment ago is gone—replaced by something quieter. Something that slips out in the way his gaze lingers on you, like he’s still trying to hold onto whatever thread just snapped.

Not anger. Not regret. Just… want. Steady and unsaid. Heavy in his chest. The kind that’s been there for too long.

He exhales once through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s trying to steady something breaking apart beneath the surface. His mouth parts—he’s just about to say something.

And you cut in, too soft:

“I’m gonna—step out.”

That breath never finishes. Whatever he was going to say dissolves on it. He just watches you go.

You slip out of the kitchen, shoes quiet against the floor, and walk the familiar path to dry storage—where Xavier tends to hide.

Sure enough, he’s there. Sitting on a sack of rice like it’s a lounge chair, head tilted against the shelf, fingers absently stirring through a bowl of dried lavender.

He glances up as you step in. The light overhead flickers once, then steadies.

“You okay?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Then you sink down beside him, legs folding slow, spine rounding. You let the quiet sit for a moment.

“I think something just cracked,” you murmur. “Between Caleb and Zayne. I didn’t mean to cause it, but… I was there. And it happened.”

Xavier doesn’t say anything right away. He lets your words hang there, like he’s waiting to see what shape they’ll settle into.

Then he blinks, slowly, and slides the bowl toward you. “Want to stir it?”

You frown a little, but reach for the dried lavender, fingers trailing through the soft buds and stems. The scent rises—herbal, calming, sweet.

You hear his voice again, quieter this time.

“I’ve seen cracks before,” he says. “In people. Places. Pressure doesn’t cause them. It just shows where they already were.”

You stare at the lavender. “So this was inevitable?”

He shrugs, shoulder grazing yours. “Maybe. Or maybe Zayne needed to hear something he didn’t want to.”

You exhale through your nose. It’s not relief, but it’s something close.

“I just didn’t expect Caleb to talk like that,” you say. “He didn’t yell. He just… cut.”

Xavier nods. Then, without warning, he lifts a hand and places it gently on top of your head.

Not ruffling. Not patronizing. Just… there.

His palm is warm. His fingers soft. His expression is still mostly neutral—but his eyes, when you glance up at him, are smiling.

Awake. Present.

“You’re not a crack,” he says softly. “You’re an anchor. That scares people sometimes.”

Your throat tightens.

He drops his hand back to his lap and unwraps a piece of hard candy from his pocket. He doesn’t even ask—just places it in your palm, like always.

You stare at it for a moment, then pocket it instead of eating it.

“I need fresh air,” you whisper.

He nods once, head tipping forward. “Take your time. I’ll stay here.”

You rise slowly and leave him in the stillness.

The hallway echoes under your feet.

And the moment the back door opens, night air rushes in like a wave, cool enough to sting a little when you breathe too deep.

You sit on the back curb of the restaurant, knees drawn up, elbows resting on them, hands clasped together like you’re holding something breakable between them. The light from inside spills out in a narrow triangle behind you. The rest of the alley is dark, still, wide with silence.

Your breath comes slow, but your thoughts move fast—Caleb’s voice, low and clipped. Zayne’s stillness before the exit. Xavier’s palm resting gently on your head like a safety switch flipped just in time.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to find something still inside yourself.

Then—

The sound of boots. Slow. Steady. Confident.

You open your eyes.

Emerging like he was made of shadow and tailored cashmere. His coat flares slightly as he walks, hands deep in his pockets, no rush to the way he moves. Just inevitability.

Sylus stops a few feet away from you, eyes catching in the spill of light.

“You look like someone just canceled your favorite dessert.”

You don’t even look at him. “Not in the mood, Sylus.”

“I know,” he says. There’s no teasing in it. Just fact. “That’s why I came.”

He steps closer, crouches down beside you—not too close. Just near enough to let you feel that Sylus weight, that presence like gravity in a dark suit.

“I’m not asking what happened,” he says after a moment. “I’m just saying—you don’t have to sit in it alone.”

You don’t answer. You look away instead, at the empty street. The way the lamplight pools on the asphalt like melted gold.

Sylus lets the silence breathe between you before he straightens again.

“I was going to take the bike home,” he says, casual now, light. “Wind’s good for shaking off unnecessary emotions. Or at least rearranging them.”

You glance sideways. “Your bike?”

He smirks. “Black Ducati. Impractical. Loud. Disrespectful. You’d hate it.”

You pause. “Maybe...”

He tilts his head. “Want a ride?”

There’s a long, suspended moment.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Exactly why I asked.” He holds out a hand. Not pushy. Just there.

You hesitate only a second longer—then you take it.

Ten minutes later, you’re flying through the city.

You’re pressed to Sylus’s back, arms snug around his waist, helmet a little too tight, and the wind feels real. Not just cold—but electric. Like it’s moving through your ribs, threading out all the things you can’t say.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t show off. He just moves.

Smooth through corners. Confident at every red light. Leaning into the road like it’s his stage and you’re the only audience. The buildings blur. Headlights trail like comets. Your hands stay still at his middle, but your heart is starting to beat in rhythm with the engine.

The night smells like spice and exhaust and the faint trace of whatever cologne Sylus wears that defies logic.

For a little while, you’re nobody’s anchor. Nobody’s pressure point.

Just a passenger.

Sylus slows in front of your building with a soft rumble and kills the engine. The world gets quiet again. Too quiet.

You swing your leg off, pull the helmet off with fingers a little numb, and shake your hair loose into the night air. You’re flushed. Alive.

Sylus dismounts after you, smooth and effortless. Helmet tucked under one arm.

He glances over. “Better?”

You nod. “Yeah. That was…”

“A terrible idea,” he says, with a small grin.

You huff a breath of a laugh. “Exactly.”

He steps a little closer, gaze steady now. No smirk. Then he cups your face—just barely. Fingers warm against your jaw, thumb resting gently near your cheekbone.

“You’re not just talent,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant for your bones, not your ears. “You’re the reason this place works. The critic won’t change that.” A pause—long enough to carry weight.

“Neither will what happened tonight.”

Red eyes soften. His jaw eases—just enough to blur the sharp edge of his profile. He’s close. Closer than you meant to let him be. And then—just for a breath—he bites his lower lip. Like he’s tasting the moment before it breaks.

You blink—throat suddenly dry, like your body realized something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

You don’t know what to say to that.

So he hands you the helmet instead. “Keep it. You might need it again, chef.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by night, like the moment was never real to begin with.

You make it up to your apartment, lights low, boots kicked off, helmet set gently on the counter. You exhale—but it’s not release. Sylus’s still there. Not in the room, but in the shape of your breath, in the echo of his fingers on your face.

His presence clings—low in your spine, high in your throat. It curls behind your thoughts, quiet and hungry. You lean into the counter, eyes closed, trying to shake the heat from your skin. But it’s not leaving. He’s not leaving.

Then your phone buzzes.

RAFAYEL: Did you die??? I had a dream you were kidnapped and made to eat under-seasoned risotto. I woke up crying. Text me back or I’m calling the police.

Then another buzz.

RAFAYEL: Also. You looked hot today. That’s not related. Just wanted you to know.

You snort, flopping down on the couch, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

God bless the chaos.

And god help the critic.

——————————————————————————

Chapter one

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: First off, a massive thank you to everyone who left such lovely comments, reblogged, and liked the draft—it truly means the world! I was considering color-coding their dialogue, but honestly, it just pulls me out of the flow when I read it myself. That said, if it’s something you’d prefer, let me know—I’m always open to your thoughts and where you think this story could go. The next chapter is ofc already cooking in my brain, and I can’t wait to dive deeper into the flames of this kitchen AU!

(And finally—finally—I have a real use for all my wine-and-dine knowledge beyond just obsessing over a perfectly cooked scallop, pickled Hokkaido pumpkin, paired with a beautiful Furmint (and binge watching Masterchef AU). I’m not a snob, I swear—just passionately invested in the finer things… like good wine, a perfect cup of coffee, soft lighting, and Caleb being the most heart-stealing man to ever exist. HEH.) And you better believe New Noise as been on repeat. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

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