by the end of your first week at wick & bone, the burns on your forearms had started to scar. the aches in your feet had become familiar, expected, almost comforting. the kitchen was still a minefield of pressure, sweat, and orders shouted like battle cries, but something had shifted.
you knew where the backup microgreens were kept now. you knew that the fryer shorted if you overloaded it. you knew not to stack glassware near the far sink because brenna would throw a fit about “visual clutter.” you even knew which line cook was secretly vegan (who would kill you if you told anyone).
but more than that, you had started to belong. not loudly, not completely. but the way people nodded to you when you clocked in, or handed you a shift drink without asking- it said more than words ever could.
head server. unofficial captain of the floor. cool, confident, quick.
the kind of person who could carry three trays, remember eight modifications, and still find time to call out, “corner!” before you ran into her at the pass. tall, toned, with white hair always tied back in a thick ponytail and gold hoops that flashed like she was always in motion. she had this presence- like she’d been running restaurants since she was twelve and dared anyone to question it.
we started talking during a lull on a rainy tuesday. a weird, slow shift. just four tickets on the board. brenna was reorganizing the liquor shelf, and you were restocking the garnish tray when rumi came behind the bar like she owned it.
“you always that serious when you cut lemons?” she asked, leaning one elbow on the bar.
you glanced up. “you always hover over someone else’s mise like it’s your own?”
you had intended it to be playful- only hoped that she received it that way.
a pause. then she plucked a lemon wedge from the tray, popped it into her mouth, and said around it, “you’ve got good hands.”
you attempt to keep your mind away from the potential innuendo that could come from that- you needed to get laid.
“no, I mean it. clean cuts, fast pours. brenna doesn’t let just anyone work point with her.”
you clearly don’t know how to take compliments. still don’t. so you just shrugged and said, “i show up. try not to suck.”
rumi grinned. “that’s the job in a nutshell.”
from then on, you started talking between rushes. not about anything deep- not at first. it was surface-level stuff: how the city smelled better after it rained, which regulars tipped like shit, who kept stealing the barback’s sharpies. but her energy was magnetic- always moving, but never rushed.
one night, after closing, we sat on the curb outside the restaurant, both of us nursing shift drinks- yours a cheap beer, hers some neon pink thing from the back of the fridge.
“you from here?” she asked, looking up at the sky like she could actually see stars between the streetlamps.
“no,” you said. “moved here a couple weeks ago. didn’t know anyone.”
she looked at me for a second. “you do now.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you offering friendship, or just warning me?”
she laughed, hard and real. “both.”
rumi was the kind of person who could flip from sarcasm to sincerity without missing a beat. and when she said, “you do now,” you felt it settle into your chest like warmth- like a small ember catching.
by the end of the second week, people had started calling you by name without checking the schedule first. shouta tossed you extra fries during staff meal. brenna trusted you to lock the bar. rumi texted you memes about customer horror stories and always included a reminder to hydrate.
you were still new. still learning the heartbeat of this place. but you had a job, a rhythm, and apparently, a friend.
that still didn’t stop your eyes from searching for a certain pair of turquoise ones.
it was nearly the dinner rush when touya clocked in- two hours late, as usual.
apparently the day you caught him a before his shift started last week had been a once in a lifetime opportunity, according to rumi that man had never came in early in his life.
the swing door slammed shut behind him with a clatter. no apology, no explanation. just the usual: cigarette tucked behind his ear, the sleeves of his black chef’s coat rolled up to the elbows, exposing the patchwork of dark, tattooed skin that crawled up his arms. he didn’t speak. he didn’t smile. he just moved.
on a regular night, when the kitchen was already drowning. tickets flying in. servers shouting over one another. a rookie panicked at the fry station, dropping fries too early, too cold.
touya wouldn’t even blink. he stepped in like smoke slipping through a crack in the wall. one hand reached for the sauté pan, the other already dropping duck breast skin-side down, flame flaring up in a dramatic hiss. he liked it hot. real hot. said the flame helped him think.
“about time,” growled shouta, wiping sweat off his face with his sleeve.
touyai just grunted and nudged him aside with a shoulder, already seasoning two steaks one-handed while flipping the duck with the other. within seconds, the line had recalibrated around him, the chaos shifting into something sharper. focused.
“three ribeyes, mid. two duck confits. table twelve has allergies- no nuts, no dairy,” a server barked.
touya’s eyes flicked up for half a second- just long enough to make the poor guy stumble back a step.
“i heard you,” he said, voice dry and cool like smoke drifting off hot coals.
the thing about touya was- apparently no one knew why he worked here.
he didn’t laugh at the dumb banter. didn’t drink with the crew after hours. didn’t even eat staff meal. he’d show up, cook like a storm bottled in a man’s body, then vanish before the floors were even mopped. no social media. no past restaurants anyone could verify. just a name- “touya” and that goddamn stare.
the rumors ran wild, of course, mostly from servers.
“he used to torch michelin kitchens until one of ‘em caught fire.”
“ex-yakuza chef. knives are just the legal ones.”
“he doesn’t sweat- too dead inside.”
the only consistent truth was this: he could cook.
and when service went sideways- when the oven glitched or the sous lost control of the pass or some influencer wanted an off-menu abomination- touya held the line together with seared meat, silent glares, and the unshakable stillness of a man who’d seen far worse than a double fire on a saturday night.
you don’t dwell on it for long, more so that you aren’t allowed to dwell it on it for long, because it’s a thursday night in wick and bone, and something seemed to be different about tonight
not because of the crowd- it was the usual chaos: bachelorette parties with bottomless sangria, tech bros trying to impress dates with raw oysters they didn’t know how to eat, and a live dj spinning lo-fi remixes from the far corner of the bar. not because of the food either. you’d already nailed the signature cocktails by now, and the kitchen was running like a half-oiled but stubbornly functional machine.
no- tonight felt different because rumi was grinning at you from across the floor.
that was probably dangerous.
it doesn’t take long for her to be in your space, taking the chance while brenna heads into the back to refill a syrup to swoop in and distract you.
she leaned over the bar, resting her forearms against the edge, golden hoop earrings catching the low light like exclamation points.
you talk about regular things- some weird guy that she had to serve, this huge tip some clearly married guy left you with his number attached.
“you haven’t met keigo yet, have you?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye.
“don’t think so,” you said, shaking the tin on a mezcal sour and pouring it out smooth. “why?”
“oh,” she said, pushing her tongue into her cheek like she was holding back a laugh. “you’ll see.”
it was almost at though he had heard you, or worse (and definitely more likely) that he and rumi had planned his entrance, because as though on cue. keigo takami.
he strolled around the corner from the patio doors like he wasn’t fifteen minutes late, tray balanced casually on one hand, the other tucking a few wayward strands of golden-blond hair behind one ear. slim build, easy smile, and that energy- like he’d flirt with you and your mother at the same time just to see who cracked first.
he takes his place next to the girl infront of you, wrapping an arm around her shoulder-
“rumi~” he drawled, voice low and smooth. “tell me you missed me.”
rumi gave him a slow once-over before shrugging the man’s weight of her. “i missed the quiet we had before you showed up.”
he clutched his chest dramatically, then turned that smooth smile on you.
“and you,” he said, eyes scanning me like you was the next item on his order sheet. “you must be the new bartender rumi won’t shut up about.”
“exaggeration,” rumi muttered. “mostly.”
you offered a nod. “and you’re keigo.”
he put his hands up in defense, “guilty. and you are dangerously stoic.”
he takes a second to look over you, and your suddenly wishing you had reapplied your powder before he came over.
“you always this quiet behind the bar, or is it just because I’m devastatingly handsome?”
you blinked- deciding to play his game, just a little. “mostly the second one.”
rumi cackled, nearly spilling the soda water she was pouring.
keigo only grinned wider, clearly delighted. “a dry wit. i like it. dangerous and charming. watch out rumi, i think i’ve found my new favorite bartender.”
“hands off,” she said, wagging a finger. “she’s still adjusting. don’t break her yet.”
keigo leaned on the bar with both elbows, chin resting on his hands like he was posing for a headshot. “i would never. i’m just here to make everyone’s shift a little more tolerable- and look good doing it.”
and the thing was? he did.
in between running orders and charming the hell out of the dining room, keigo kept swinging back to the bar, throwing winks, sharing dumb gossip, and occasionally stealing a cherry from the garnish tray like it was a ritual. it was impossible not to like him- he had that balance of charm and sincerity that made even the most jaded guest leave a tip with a smile.
you couldn’t help but watch him all night- the way he spoke to people, how he seemed to dance between tables, and also, maybe, how he kept catching your eyes back, exchanging a few seconds of eye contact before either one of you were dragged back in to your responsibilities.
half way through the night, your face hurt from smirking too much.
as you wiped down the bar, rumi slid up next to you and elbowed your side, seemingly knowing what you were thinking.
“he’s insane-“ she said, “but he’s our crazy guy, you know?”
“yeah,” you said, glancing over as keigo spun a tray on one finger like a bored circus act. “i can see that.”
she bumped me with her shoulder. “welcome to the inner circle.”
and just like that, another thread stitched itself into place.
you hardly got a chance to speak to either of them on the floor tonight, all three of you too busy to interact with the others.
it didn’t stop you from stealing glances at keigo however, letting yourself giggle at him when he nearly tripped when he thought no one was looking, or letting yourself blush a little when he would catch you looking and send you a little wave.
or even worse, when you would catch him looking first.
you were behind the bar, halfway through shaking two espresso martinis and mentally praying no one ordered another round of flaming absinthe shots. your hands moved on muscle memory now—grab, measure, pour, shake. spin the bottles. slide the garnish. smile just enough to get the tip, not enough to be mistaken for friendly.
not a shout. not a ticket.
you don’t survive behind a bar without developing a sixth sense for when someone’s watching you. it’s part instinct, part paranoia.
he was standing by table nine, half-turned toward his section but not really looking at it. his tray rested on one palm, held effortlessly like always, but his eyes- warm amber, sharp at the corners were fixed on you.
not just watching. studying.
like you were more interesting than the packed dining room behind him. like he was reading something only he could see.
he didn’t flinch. just tilted his head slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting into that lopsided smirk he wore like it was part of the uniform.
you rolled my eyes, turned back to your work, and tried not to smile. failed- just a little. just enough to feel the heat rise beneath your collar, not from the kitchen, not from the crowd- from him.
moments later, he slid up to the bar like nothing happened, leaning casually on his elbows. “you always shake like that, or are you just trying to impress me?”
you didn’t look at him. just reached for the bottle of vermouth and poured slowly.
“you’ve got a full section. why are you here?”
“hydrating,” he said, lifting a glass of water he definitely hadn’t poured. “and enjoying the view.”
you glanced at him then, just for a heartbeat. “you’re subtle.”
he grinned wider. “i’m a server. i’m not paid to be subtle. i’m paid to notice things.”
“and what exactly are you noticing?”
keigo’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “just that you already look like you belong here.”
be said it easily, like it was a compliment buried in flirtation- or flirtation buried in something that ran deeper.
before you could answer, rumi called his name from across the floor.
“break’s over, pretty boy!”
keigo gave you a lazy salute, pushed off the bar, and walked back into the fray, tray balanced, charm loaded, full strut in motion.
you stood there for a second, letting the noise fill in where his presence had just been.
then you could only exhale and get back to work.
you could still feel his eyes.
by 2:17am the lights at wick and bone dimmed down to their soft, golden hush. the last of the bar glassware had been racked, the floor was still drying in streaks, and the kitchen crew had long since ghosted out the back, leaving behind only the faint smell of charred rosemary and burnt cheese.
you were sitting on the counter, shoulders aching, sipping the flat half of a ginger beer you’d meant to drink five hours earlier. rumi sat on a low barstool across from you, tying her sneakers with one hand and texting furiously with the other.
“you held it down tonight,” she said, not even looking up. “two-week vet status unlocked.”
you let out a quiet laugh. “is that before or after getting inducted into the cult?”
“cult initiation comes after your first double shift with a broken dishwasher,” she said without missing a beat. “you’ll cry, scream, accept your fate, and then eat cold fries off a speed rack like a real line dog.”
“and that’s when i get the robe?”
she grinned. “black apron with the secret pocket. we’ll talk.”
footsteps padded up behind you- keigo, smelling faintly like citrus bitters and his cologne that somehow survived a ten-hour shift.
“well, if it isn’t my favorite pair of exhausted beautiful ladies” he said, slinging his apron onto the counter beside me. he looked entirely too alive for someone who had just worked a packed dinner service. “i vote post-shift celebration.”
“nope,” rumi said, grabbing her hoodie and standing. “i vote horizontal and unconscious within fifteen minutes.”
keigo turned his full attention to you. “you, however,” he said, eyes warm and playful, “look like someone who deserves a walk home, accompanied by a charming, underpaid waiter who moonlights as a bodyguard.”
you raised an eyebrow. “you offering?”
he gave me a half-bow, all theatrical grace and mischief. “only if you promise not to fall in love with me halfway there.”
rumi snorted. “you’re exhausting.”
she shoved him lightly on her way toward the door. “text me when you both stop flirting.”
keigo leaned against the bar as the door closed behind her. “seriously though. i’m headed that way. no pressure, no weirdness. just- company.”
you looked at him for a beat, long enough to see he meant it. no games. just keigo. the charm still present, but softer at this hour. quieter.
but you shook my head, gently.
“thanks,” you said, standing and grabbing my jacket, “but i’m good. i kind of like walking alone. clears my head.”
he didn’t push. just smiled- less smirk, more genuine this time.
he opened the back door for you, held it with two fingers and a look that lingered just a little too long.
you stepped out into the cool hum of early morning. the air smelled like wet brick and freedom. behind you, the kitchen lights flickered off.
you stood next to the door behind the restaurant,, jacket pulled tight, the end of a cigarette glowing dim red in my fingers. the drag burned slow, the smoke curling up into the night with something almost meditative. it was the only part of the shift that was yours- no orders, no tickets, no shouting over the fryers. just you, the silence, and the ache in your shoulders.
keigo had left ten minutes ago. bright smile, subtle compliment, a half-joking offer to walk me home that you declined gently. he took it in stride, but there was always that look when he left. the kind of look that waited for an opening.
you didn’t want to let him know, but the reason you had declined his offer was due to this little ritual you’ve adopted after your trail shift.
you’d taken to having a smoke at the back door at the end of everynight, just as you had done with touya.
it didn’t really have anything to do with him, you had just found that you rather enjoyed this way of calming down after a loud night in the bar.
you let the thought drift off with the smoke.
then you heard the door click open behind you.
didn’t even have to turn.
the only line cook who didn’t talk during service unless it was necessary, and even then it came out like it pained him. you’’d spoken once- a week ago after your trial shift. he was the first one to say anything real to me.
he stepped out into the alley, hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, one hand in his pocket, the other already pulling out a pack of smokes.
“you always smoke like that,” his voice said, low and rough, like fire caught in gravel, “or are you just trying to look cool?”
you turned your head slightly.
same dark hoodie. same deadpan stare. same aura of quiet combustion.
he was leaning against the dumpster a few feet away, arms crossed, half in shadow. you hadn’t heard the door open. he just appeared, like smoke finding a crack in the wall.
“i think the looking cool part’s a lost cause,” you said, taking another drag.
he gave the ghost of a smirk. “not entirely.”
we stood there in silence for a while. not awkward. just muted. like we both understood that speaking wasn’t always the point.
“you always out here right after you finish ?” he muttered, his voice low and frayed at the edges.
you smirked without looking at him. “timing’s a coincidence.”
“mm.” be lit his cigarette with a crooked flame, cupping it like a secret. the tip flared in the dark.
for a while, we just stood there. not talking. not needing to. the buzz from the light overhead mixed with the sound of our breathing, of fire catching tobacco and burning it down.
you glanced over. “keigo?”
touya exhaled smoke through his nose. “yeah.”
he didn’t say anything else at first. just stared down the alley like he expected something worse than rats to come crawling out of it.
“too smooth,” he said eventually. “like he’s got a script ready for everyone.”
“he’s not that bad,” you offered, more out of instinct than certainty.
you didn’t know either men particularly well, but you’d be lying if you said that the game of eye-tag you played with keigo tonight didn’t give you an urge to defend him.
touya’s eyes cut to yours- sharp, blue, and barely lit beneath the hoodie. “he wants something. he’s always looking at people like they’re mirrors. trying to see himself in their reaction.”
that stopped you. not because you agreed- not fully. it was because there was a weird truth to it. something you hadn’t quite admitted to yourself.
“he’s good at his job,” you said.
“so are a lot of people,” touya replied. “doesn’t mean i’d trust them to walk me home.”
you let the silence settle again, this time heavier. the cherry of my cigarette burned dangerously close to the filter.
“you think i need protecting?” you asked, almost teasing.
touya shook his head slowly. “no. you don’t strike me as soft.”
he looked at me you- really looked.
“but i think you’re still figuring out who’s real in this place,” he added.
the last drag burned my throat a little.
“what? and you’re real?” you asked.
“most days,” he said. then, after a pause, “when i want to be.”
he flicked his cigarette into the puddle with a hiss, the ember dying instantly.
then he turned, heading back toward the door, pulling his hood back up.
at the doorframe, he stopped, looking over his shoulder.
“If he ever gets annoying, tell him that touya said back off.”
you blinked. “is that your way of saying you’ve got my back?”
“no- or- maybe.,” he said, opening the door. “that’s my way of saying i hate repeating myself.”
and with that, he disappeared back into the warmth of the kitchen, leaving me alone again—but the air felt different now. not quite so heavy.
the kind of quiet where someone had stood next to you, and the space still remembered
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