“Breakfast,” I say finally, motioning to the bowl I’ve assembled. “You need something with real fiber in it, not just shakes.”
He glances up briefly, and for half a second, I catch something soft in his eyes — apology, maybe — before it shutters closed. “Appreciate it,” he says, quiet, then adds, “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I push the bowl toward him anyway. “But I did.”
He takes it, and for the briefest moment, our fingers brush. It’s nothing — a second, maybe less — but the spark that runs up my arm is instant, traitorous. I pull back fast, pretending to adjust a towel.
He doesn’t notice. Or he pretends not to.
The blender base is still on the counter. I stare at it, the faint trace of protein powder dusting the edge, and realize that’s whatwe’ve become — noise filling the quiet, until neither of us has to say what we actually mean.
The day drags like molasses.
Every movement at the restaurant feels one beat off, like I’m running a second behind everyone else. I drop a knife twice before service even starts, and Maya gives me a look that could cut through steel.
“You good?” she asks, arching a brow. “Because you look like you’re thinking about someone’s abs instead of your mise.”
Heat rushes up my neck. “I’m fine.” I chop faster, louder, the knife’s rhythm a distraction. “Just tired.”
“Tired.” Maya snorts. “Right. Sure.” She leans closer, lowering her voice. “If this is about your mystery roommate, blink twice.”
I don’t blink. I focus on the cutting board, slicing perfect ribbons of basil like my reputation depends on it. “It’s not,” I mutter. “And he’s not—” The words catch. I almost saymine.“He’s not anything.”
Maya hums in that way that says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Mmhmm. Just remember, chefs burn out faster when they’re distracted. And heartbreak counts as an open flame.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse won’t slow down. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
She grins, smug. “Anytime, sweetheart.” Then she’s gone, off to yell at the dishwasher for leaving streaks on glassware.
When she’s out of sight, I stop pretending the knot in my chest doesn’t exist. Every time I blink, I see Leo in that kitchen — bare skin, clenched jaw, that flash of regret when he said my name like it hurt. It’s ridiculous. It was a mistake.
Instead, all I can think about is how silence feels worse.
By lunch rush, I’ve cut through three sets of lemons and most of my patience. My body’s on autopilot — sauté, plate, garnish, repeat — but my mind keeps replaying the way he saidYou’re theonly thing keeping me together right now.Like I’m something he needs.
But I’m not. I can’t be.
A shout from the front jolts me back. Someone’s turned up the bar TV again — hockey highlights. The Surge logo flashes across the screen. Leo’s face fills the frame, shoulders tense, mouth pressed in a thin line. The segment is about last night’s loss, about how their captain “seems distracted, off his usual game.”
The reporter’s voice cuts sharp through the air:“Sources say stress from his off-ice situation could be bleeding into his performance.”
Off-ice situation. The words twist in my gut like a warning. I can feel Maya watching me from the other side of the kitchen, arms crossed, but I can’t look away.
Leo’s picture stays frozen on-screen for a beat too long, like the universe wants to make sure I see it. Then it cuts to Grayson Locke — smirking, flawless, the perfect villain to Leo’s unraveling.
I shove the remote into the nearest waiter’s hand. “Turn it off.”
He blinks. “Uh, sure.”
When the noise dies, I realize my hands are shaking. I grab a towel, wiping the counter clean even though it’s already spotless. Control. I need control.
Because the more the world talks about Leo, the more I feel like the ground under me is starting to crack.
By the time service ends, my body feels hollow. My hands ache from gripping knives too tightly, my cheeks sting from the heat of the kitchen. The lull after the dinner rush feels like standing in the eye of a storm — quiet, but charged.
I sit on the prep counter in the back, scrolling through my phone while the dishwasher hums in the distance. I shouldn’t. Iknow better. But curiosity’s a dangerous habit — and tonight, it wins.
The first thing that pops up on my feed is a headline:“Leo Voss: Playing Sloppy Off the Ice Too?”
