Lunch tickets came in steady and relentless, the rhythm unforgiving. Marco barely had time to think. He moved where he was told, hands flying, body lagging just half a second behind the room. He caught himself before mistakes became disasters. His only goal for tonight was survive.
"Behind."
"Yes."
"Fire two bass."
"Now."
The kitchen was heat and metal and breath. Élodie's station gleamed under pressure. Mathieu worked like nothing could touch him. Luca was everywhere at once, sharp-eyed, unflappable.
The others, who he hadn't been properly introduced to yet, flowed like a well oiled machine.
Henri said very little. His trust in Luca's ability to run his kitchen was unquestionable.
When he did speak the kitchen responded accordingly.
Marco felt him pass more than he saw him, his presence sliding in at his shoulder, pausing just long enough to register what Marco was doing. Once, Henri adjusted the flame on Marco's pan without a word. Another time, he replaced a plate Marco hadn't even realised was wrong.
No commentary. Minimal correction spoken aloud. The silence wasn't comforting.
By the time the last ticket was called and cleared, and the last of the nightly cleaning roster was completed, Marco's legs trembled with exhaustion. How long had he been here? Six, maybe, seven hours? That was nothing compared to the shifts he'd been doing for the last six months straight. The adrenaline drained fast, leaving him hollowed out and buzzing.
"Service terminé," someone said. (Service is over)
A collective exhale followed.
The kitchen loosened. Jackets appeared. Someone laughed, loud, relieved.
"Drinks?" a voice called.
A chorus of yeses answered immediately.
Marco wiped down his station, slower now. He didn't expect the invitation. Didn't look for it. First nights didn't earn that kind of inclusion.
Luca came up beside him. "We're going."
Marco nodded. "Yeah. I figured."
Luca hesitated, then smiled. "You're coming."
Marco blinked. "I am?"
"You already agreed last night," Luca said. "You don't get out of it."
Marco laughed softly, surprised at the warmth blooming in his chest. "Okay."
Someone near the lockers called out, "Chef?"
Henri looked up from where he was finishing paperwork, jacket already on.
"Drink with us?" Mathieu asked.
Henri shook his head. "Another time."
"Oh come on," someone pressed.
"I need to feed my cat," Henri said evenly.
That earned a few groans.
"You always need to feed your cat."
"And she always expects me to be on time," Henri replied.
The staff laughed, easy, familiar. Marco clocked it immediately. This was not the Henri he'd seen all day. Still controlled. Still distant. But human.
Outside, the night air hit cool and sharp.
Henri stepped out with them, cigarette already between his fingers. He lit it, then offered the pack to Luca.
Luca took one gratefully.
Henri's gaze shifted to Marco.
Marco lifted his hands. "I quit."
Henri paused, then nodded once, tucking the pack into his pocket. "Good."
He took a drag, exhaled slowly, smoke curling up into the streetlight.
"You did fine tonight," Henri said, not looking at Marco as he spoke.
Marco's chest tightened. "Thank you, Chef."
Henri glanced at Luca. "You're taking him out."
"Yes."
"Make sure he eats something."
"Yes, Chef."
"And," Henri added, eyes cutting briefly to Marco now, "make sure he's not late tomorrow."
Luca smirked. "I'll personally drag him out of bed."
Henri nodded, satisfied, sucking in a breath of nicotine, precise as always.
"Bonne nuit," he said.
"Bonne nuit, Chef," they answered.
Henri walked away alone, coat collar turned up, disappearing down the street in the opposite direction.
Marco watched him go longer than necessary.
Luca nudged his shoulder. "Don't stare."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
Marco smiled, tired and quiet and full in a way he hadn't expected.
"Well," Luca said, clapping his hands once. "Enough responsibility. Let's go."
They just walked.
The air was cool, carrying smoke and music and the faint smell of food from somewhere still open. People spilled onto the pavements, laughing, drifting between bars. Paris felt loose tonight, like it wasn't in a hurry.
Marco followed half a step behind while Luca talked, hands moving as he went.
"Clubbing here's strange," Luca said. "You don't plan it. You just keep moving until something pulls you in."
Marco smiled. He let Luca lead, the night opening up ahead of them. The first place they went they didn't leave so much as get pushed out of it.
The music cut suddenly, lights snapping bright, and someone groaned loudly like they'd been wronged. A woman spat angry French and pointed towards the doors. Jackets were grabbed, half-finished drinks abandoned on ledges, the group spilling back onto the pavement in a tangle of limbs and noise.
Cold air slapped Marco awake.
He laughed, breath fogging as he stumbled a step, Luca's hand catching his elbow automatically.
"Come on, let's go to the next one," They walked fast, like the night might leave without them. Down narrow streets slick with old rain, past kebab shops still glowing, past people sitting on curbs smoking and arguing in three languages at once. Someone ahead of them started singing, badly, and loudly in slurred French and no one told them to stop.
The next bar was smaller. Lower ceilings. Sweat already clinging to the walls. A DJ crammed into a corner played something with too much bass.
They squeezed in sideways. Marco lost his footing for a second when someone bumped him, drink sloshing dangerously close to disaster.
"Hey—" he started, then laughed when the stranger grinned and raised their glass in apology.
They drank standing up, pressed hip to hip with people they didn't know, the floor vibrating under Marco's boots. Luca leaned in close to say something Marco couldn't hear, so he nodded anyway.
At some point, Élodie appeared, hair loose now, eyes bright. She grabbed Marco's wrist.
"Dance," she ordered.
"I don't—"
Too late.
She dragged him into the crush, the music swallowing protest whole. Marco let himself be pulled, moving awkwardly at first, then less so, the beat doing most of the work. Someone shouted encouragement. Someone else spilled a drink on his sleeve.
He didn't care.
In a blink, he felt the press of Elodie's lips on his drunkenly and then in another blink and they spilled back outside again, laughing too hard, someone complaining loudly about the music, someone else insisting it had been perfect. Marco's legs burned. His shirt clung to him unpleasantly.
"Water," he said weakly.
Luca handed him a bottle like he'd been waiting for it.
They walked again. Longer this time. Marco noticed how Paris changed block by block, bright to dark, loud to intimate, then loud again. Every doorway promised something different. Every street felt like a choice.
The third place was underground.
Literally.
They descended a narrow staircase, bass thudding up through the steps. The air was heavier down here, darker, lights strobing slow and red. Marco felt it settle into his chest, into his bones.
"This one," Luca said, satisfied.
They danced harder here. Less talking. More movement. Marco lost track of who was around him, except Luca — always there when he opened his eyes, always grinning, always solid.
At the bar, Marco leaned forward, forearms braced, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down his spine.
"You holding up?" Luca asked.
Marco nodded. "I think I've crossed into another dimension."
"Excellent. That means it's working."
They stayed until Marco's legs started to shake for real. Until the music felt like it was echoing inside his skull. Until the night blurred at the edges.
When they finally surfaced again, the street felt too quiet. Too wide.
Marco stood there, hands on his knees, dizzy, laughing breathlessly. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this. I have to work tomorrow."
Luca clapped him on the back. "You'll be fine."
Marco straightened slowly, city lights smeared soft around him.
He wasn't sure if that was true.
With the night still buzzing in his ears and Luca beside him it felt close enough to believe.
Marco laughed, tipping his head back, letting the lights wash over him. He caught sight of himself in a mirror behind the bar, flushed, loose, alive in a way he hadn't been in a long time.
The group fractured and reformed again. Élodie vanished into the crowd. Mathieu reappeared long enough to shout something Marco didn't catch before disappearing again.
Marco stayed with Luca.
They danced harder now, less self-conscious, sweat slicking Marco's neck, the bass rattling his bones. He closed his eyes and let it take him, just for a while.
Later, he wasn't sure how much later, they ended up back at the bar, breathing hard, elbows braced against sticky wood.
Marco took the drink, fingers tight around it. Somewhere, uninvited, Henri crossed his mind, the quiet control, the measured distance.
Here, everything was the opposite.
Noise. Heat. Chaos.
Marco took a long sip and let the music pull him back in.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
Tonight, Paris had him.