Marco woke before his alarm.
His mouth was dry, head dull but intact, the echo of bass still humming somewhere behind his eyes. For a moment, he lay there, staring at the ceiling, cataloguing himself.
Hungover? Unfortunately.
Tired? Deeply.
Late? Absolutely not.
He sat up.
By the time he stepped out into the early morning, the city felt rinsed clean. The streets were quieter now, pale with first light. Cafés setting out chairs. Deliveries unloading crates with practiced ease. Morning air filled his lungs as he walked along the foot paths.
Marco arrived at the restaurant at 6:30 on the dot.
The service entrance was unlocked.
Inside, the kitchen was dim, almost reverent in its stillness. No music. No voices. Just the low hum of refrigeration and the faint scent of yesterday's service still clinging to the air.
Henri stood at the prep counter.
Jacket already on. Sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. A coffee sat untouched beside him as he checked a clipboard, pen moving in clean, decisive strokes.
Marco stopped short.
For a split second, Henri didn't look up. Marco took him in anyway, composed, unhurried, fully himself in a way that felt different without witnesses.
"Morning, Chef," Marco said.
Henri looked up then.
His gaze flicked to the clock. Back to Marco.
"Morning," he said. A pause. "You're early."
"Yes, Chef."
Henri studied him, eyes sharp but unreadable. "You were out late."
Marco didn't flinch. "Yes, Chef."
Another pause. Longer this time.
Henri nodded once towards the coffee simmering on the stovetop. "Coffee's fresh."
Marco blinked, glanced at Henri's black coffee in a mug that had a picture of a meme cat on it. "Thank you...nice cup."
Henri glanced down at it. "D'accord."
He set his bag down quietly, washed his hands, moved with deliberate care. No rushing. No floating. Just present.
Henri watched him from the corner of his eye.
"You drink often?" Henri asked casually, already turning back to his clipboard.
"Not anymore," Marco said. "Last night was an exception. Catching up with Luca."
Henri hummed softly, neither approving nor disapproving. "Discipline is not the absence of indulgence," he said. "It's knowing when it ends."
Marco glanced at him. "Yes, Chef."
Henri finally took a sip of his coffee. "You live far?"
"Fifth floor on Canal Saint Martin," Marco said. Then, without thinking, "No lift."
Henri's mouth twitched, and he didn't respond immediately. He finished his notes, set the clipboard aside.
"Did you eat last night?" he said.
Marco hesitated. "I had fries."
Henri turned fully now, folding his arms. He considered him for a moment, then reached into the lowboy and pulled out a small paper bag, folded tight at the top. He set it on the counter between them.
"Eat," he said.
Marco opened it.
Inside was a jambon–beurre. A baguette loaf still soft and crisp, butter just beginning to soften, ham folded thick and neat. From the bakery on the corner, the good one.
"Eat," he said. "Before the others arrive. I don't need you fainting on your second day, too."
Marco stared at it, felt his stomach gurgle at the emptiness. Then up at Henri.
"Thank you, Chef."
Henri checked his watch. "Mhm. They'll be here in fifteen minutes. I need a cigarette." He took his coffee, pressed his clipboard to his side and wordlessly disappeared into the back.
Marco unwrapped it carefully, the paper crackling softly in the quiet kitchen. The smell hit first, warm bread, butter, clean salt.
He took a bite.
The crust softly crackled, the inside still dense and warm. The butter had softened just enough to melt against the ham, rich without being heavy. Simple. Perfect.
Marco closed his eyes for half a second. "Fuck. That's good." he muttered.
He chewed slowly, aware of the weight settling in his stomach, the steadiness it brought with it.
When he opened his eyes again, the kitchen felt sharper, clearer. His hands steadied around the bread.
He wiped his fingers on the paper, folded it neatly, and took another bite.. Outside, the city began to wake for real. Somewhere down the street, a truck rumbled past.
Henri returned to his work, but the space between them had shifted. He felt acknowledged.
When the first footsteps echoed in the corridor, Marco was already at his station.
The first of the morning crew filtered in, jackets shrugged on, tired greetings murmured, the kitchen slowly filling with movement again. Marco kept his head down, hands busy. Ready. "Morning," Luca said cheerfully, sliding in beside him like the night before hadn't happened at all.
Marco snorted. "You're awake."
"I thrive on bad decisions and caffeine." Luca leaned closer. "You alive?"
"Barely."
"Henri didn't kill you."
"Yet."
Luca grinned. "Then you're winning. And early. Wanted to make a good impression?"
"Wanted to fix the bad one."
Luca clapped his shoulder. "I'm sure it didn't go unnoticed. You look bright for someone who drank more than me."
"I'm feeling it."
A call rang out. The kitchen shifted. Marco turned back to his board, knife settling into his hand like it belonged there.
Service tightened like a wire pulled too far.
Tickets began to stack and heat scaled through the kitchen. Everyone moved faster now. Marco felt good in it, hands sure, timing finally syncing with the room.
Then it happened again.
Mathieu sent a plate.
Henri stopped it mid-pass.
He didn't touch it, he just looked at it and the silence was immediate.
"Mathieu."
No heat in the tone. Which made it worse.
Mathieu stepped forward. "Oui, Chef."
Henri gestured once, precise. "C'est quoi, ça?" (What is this?)
Mathieu glanced down. The fish was cooked correctly, just barely, but the garnish was wrong. Careless. Rushed. The same correction Henri had made earlier.
"I, Chef, the timing--"
Henri cut him off. "Non. Je t'ai corrigé tout à l'heure." (I corrected you earlier.)
Mathieu swallowed. "Oui, Chef."
Henri's voice stayed level, but something cold slid under it. "Une fois, c'est une erreur." (Once is a mistake.) He leaned in slightly, not aggressive, but unmistakable. "Deux fois, c'est un choix." (Twice is a choice.)
The kitchen didn't breathe.
Henri lifted the plate, held it up just long enough for everyone to see.
"Tu sers ça à ma salle?" (You'd serve this to my dining room?)
Mathieu's jaw tightened. "Non, Chef."
Henri set the plate down, firmly this time.
"Alors recommence. Maintenant." (Then do it again. Now.)
Mathieu nodded once. "Oui."
Henri didn't move out of the way. He stood there, arms crossed, watching the redo happen in real time.
Marco's knife slowed despite himself. He didn't need to understand the language to understand what was being said.
Henri did not tolerate repeated failure.
When the corrected plate came back, Henri inspected it in silence. One long second. Two.
Then he nodded. "Merci." and walked away.
The kitchen exhaled as one.
Marco realised his shoulders were tight, breath shallow. He forced himself back into rhythm, heart pounding but not with fear, with relief.
That wasn't me.
Yesterday, he'd been late. Today, Mathieu had been sloppy. Tomorrow, it could be anyone.
That seemed to be the rule. Henri didn't single people out.
He corrected them until they were right or until they learned.
Marco straightened, announced his movement clearly, and sent his next item without hesitation.
For the first time, he wasn't bracing for impact, he was just working.
Marco was wiping down his station when Élodie appeared at his shoulder.
She looked...normal again. Hair tied back. Face sharp and almost bird-like, blue eyes like daggers.
She cleared her throat. "About last night," she said quietly.
Marco glanced up, already bracing himself. "Yeah?"
"I kissed you," she said. Flat. To the point. "I was drunk."
Marco blinked. "You were very drunk."
"Yes." She nodded once. "That's why I'm apologising."
He smiled despite himself. "You don't need to. It wasn't--"
"It wasn't appropriate," she finished. "And I don't mix work with that." A beat. "Usually."
Marco lifted his hands. "All good. Truly."
She studied his face for a moment, then seemed satisfied. "Good. You're very handsome, don't get me wrong, but uh..." She turned to leave, then paused. "You're..." she dropped flicked her hand down, "Right?"
Marco clocked it instantly, "Is it that obvious?"
"No, no," she said, then smirked as if thinking of something, "I just could've sworn you said something about Henri last night."
Marco flushed hot, "I did not." though he couldn't be one hundred percent sure.
"Something about his eyes being like jade, I don't know."
"I was also very drunk..." Marco surreptitiously found Henri far enough across the kitchen that he wouldn't have heard but Henri glanced it was as if he'd heard every word.
"Hm, interesting." Élodie gave a smug grin and moved back to her station, already tasting a sauce like nothing personal had ever occurred.
Marco shook his head faintly, amused.
The night before already felt distant, folded away, contained.
Here, everything made sense again and somehow, that made the quiet between him and Henri feel louder than ever.
The shift ended without ceremony.
Stations were wiped down, towels tossed into bins, jackets pulled on with the collective relief of people who'd earned their fatigue. Someone called out a lazy à demain. Another answered it. The kitchen emptied in fragments.
"Good night," Élodie said, already halfway out the door.
"Don't be late," Mathieu added dryly.
Marco smiled. "I won't."
Outside, the air was colder than he expected. He zipped his jacket and leaned against the brick wall by the service entrance, phone in hand, waiting for Luca to finish inside. The street was quiet now, late enough that the city felt tucked in on itself.
A door opened behind him.
Henri stepped out.
He'd changed, heavier coat, scarf tucked neatly at his throat. He lit a cigarette with practiced ease, took one drag, then moved to stand beside Marco without comment. Not crowding. Just... there.
They stood in silence for a moment, smoke curling between them.
Henri held the pack out.
Marco hesitated.
Then took one, sticking it between his teeth.
Henri raised an eyebrow as he leaned in and held up his lighter for him. "Thought you said you quit."
"I did," Marco said, inhaling. The smoke burned, sharp and grounding. Marco hated the instant relief he felt.
Henri hummed, amused.
They stood like that, two silhouettes under a streetlamp, the night humming softly around them.
Marco exhaled, then glanced over. "What's your cat's name?"
Henri paused.
Then he laughed, a real one, brief and surprised, smoke breaking unevenly from his mouth.
Marco frowned slightly. "What?"
Henri shook his head, still smiling faintly. "Nothing. People don't usually ask."
"Oh." Marco shrugged. "You mentioned her."
"Yes," Henri said. "You listened."
Another beat.
"Her name is Yves."
Marco blinked. "Yves?"
Henri nodded, utterly straight-faced. "Saint Laurent."
Marco stared at him, then laughed quietly. "Of course it is."
Henri's smile lingered longer this time, softer at the edges. "She suits it."
They stood like that for a beat, smoke curling up into the lamplight.
Marco glanced sideways. "What kind of cat?"
Henri stilled.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he looked at Marco, really looked at him this time, and something in his expression softened, surprised and curious all at once.
"She's a Russian Blue," Henri said. "And she owns my apartment. I'm just her roommate."
Marco laughed. It slipped out before he could stop it, warm, genuine, a little tired.
Henri blinked then, to Marco's surprise, he chuckled too. The sound settled between them, unfamiliar and oddly intimate.
"She tolerates me," Henri added, blowing out a plume of smoke, almost absently. "On her terms."
Marco grinned. "They say cats take after their owners."
Henri shook his head, still faintly smiling, as if he hadn't quite realised how much he'd said until it was already out in the air.
They finished their cigarettes in companionable silence.
From inside, Luca's voice rang out. "Marco!"
Henri blew out another breath. "I'm off. Bonne nuit, Marco. Enjoy your day off."
"Bonne nuit, Chef."
Henri nodded once and turned away, coat collar lifted against the cold, disappearing down the street.
Marco watched him go, the echo of that shared laugh lingering longer than the smoke.
When Luca finally burst outside, still talking, Marco barely heard him.
Something had shifted, but he wasn't sure what.
That night, after Luca dropped him off, Marco made his apartment feel like it belonged to him.
He stripped the bed first, the old sheets stiff with that anonymous, pre-lived feeling. He shoved them into the washing machine in the basement, wiped down the surfaces while they ran - the counters, sink, the little table by the window. Everything got a once-over, then another.
The shower came next. Hot enough to sting. He stood under it longer than necessary, letting the day rinse off him, the heat of the kitchen, the smell of fish and oil, the tension still caught in his shoulders. He breathed until his body stopped bracing.
Clean sheets went on while his hair was still damp. He opened the window just enough to let the night air in.
At the small table, he sat with a pen and a folded receipt and wrote a list.
Coffee.
Salt.
Olive oil.
Dish towel.
Plants?
He stared at that last one for a second, then underlined it.
His phone buzzed. A message from Luca, a thumbs-up, nothing else. Marco smiled faintly and set it aside.
He crawled into bed, sheets cool and crisp against his skin, and propped himself up with a pillow. Duolingo chirped cheerfully when he opened it.
Bonjour.
He repeated it softly to the empty room. "Bonjour."
The exercises were basic: colors, numbers and simple phrases. His mouth shaped the words carefully, trying to feel them rather than rush them.
Je suis fatigué.
He laughed quietly at that one.
Halfway through, his mind wandered, not in sharp thoughts, just impressions. The kitchen at dawn. Henri's quiet authority. The way he'd looked when he smiled, like it had surprised him too. God, and it didn't help he looked good when he did it.
He's your boss. It'll never happen. A voice in the back of his mind whispered.
Marco sighed, completed the lesson, earned his little green checkmark, and locked his phone.
The city outside hummed faintly, distant and constant. Somewhere below, a door slammed. A motorbike passed.
Marco rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
For the first time since arriving, his body felt settled.
Tomorrow would come quickly. There would be orders and prep and expectations again.
But tonight, in clean sheets, with new words still warm on his tongue, Marco closed his eyes and let himself sleep.