Alicia has spent her life in kitchens, using the heat and chaos as both an escape and a proving ground. Known in the culinary world as Lloris, a rising star with an elusive identity, she built her reputation through relentless work, never allowing the spotlight to fall on herâonly on her food. But the past has a way of catching up, and after one catastrophic night in the kitchenâone mistake, one outburstâeverything she built comes crashing down.
With nothing but impulse and desperation driving her, Alicia abandons her life overnight. She erases Lloris, sells everything, and takes the next flight outâlanding in Chicago, a city she knows nothing about. Reinventing herself under a new name, she manages to secure a job at The Bear, an up-and-coming restaurant with a chaotic energy all its own. Determined to keep her past buried, Alicia throws herself into this fresh start, unaware that the very things sheâs running fromâpressure, talent, and a stubbornly persistent famous chefâmight make it impossible to stay hidden.
Ships: Carmy x Fem!oc, other The Bear x Fem!oc
Warning: Yelling, cursing, death, grieving Carmy being not so good of a person, English is not my first language so I apologize for my spelling and grammar, story doesnât fully follow cannon.
Things to know:
-Placed in season two
-Clair and Camry are on and off in their relationship
Alicia arrived in Chicago two days early and told no one.
She didnât reach out to anyone there. Instead, she checked into a quiet boutique hotel in the West Loop, one with soft lighting, blackout curtains, and the kind of lobby that smelled faintly of cedarwood and money.
She didnât unpack much.
She wasnât sure if she deserved to.
The city felt colder than she remembered. Maybe it wasnât the weather.
Every time she looked out at the skyline, something inside her clenched. Not quite regretful. Not quite nostalgic. Just⊠the ache of unfinished business.
She tried walking off the nerves. Hit her usual spots. The bridge near Kinzie. The coffee shop where they all used to go after service, back when things felt easy. The corner by the river where she and Marcus once stood laughing so hard she dropped a croissant.
The streets hadnât changed. She had.
Her phone buzzed a few times over those days-chefs from New York, a message from David checking in. But nothing from the people she missed most.
And why would they? She vanished. She ghosted. She stood on a stage in front of the world and said nothing while they watched her secrets play like a film reel they werenât invited to star in.
She let herself feel like a ghost because maybe she earned it.
Still, guilt wasnât going to plate service or fix the mess she left behind. Sheâd promised Jimmie sheâd try. So she would. Carefully.
The first person she wanted to talk to was Tina.
Not Carmy. Not Sydney. Tina.
She texted her early that morning.
You free for coffee today? My treat.
Tina responded in five minutes.
Ok
They met at a quiet bakery in Pilsen, the kind of place with pan dulce in bright cases and coffee that could burn through your soul if brewed wrong. Tina was already seated when Alicia walked in-hoop earrings on, hair pulled back tight, with that same unreadable stare she used to give green line cooks who didnât salt water for pasta.
Tina raised an eyebrow. âI wasnât sure you would.â
Fair.
âI wanted to say sorry,â Alicia began. âFor how I left. For not saying anything. For barely calling. It was⊠I thought it was easier. But it wasnât. It just made me a coward.â
Tina didnât interrupt. She let Alicia speak.
âI hurt people. I know that. I didnât mean to, but I did. And the truth is, I really cared about you guys. I still do.â
There was a long pause. Tina sipped her coffee. Then finally: âYou left like we didnât matter.â
Alicia looked down. âI know.â
âYou know what that did to some of them?â
âI didnât-â Alicia stopped herself. âI wasnât trying to punish anyone. I was just⊠trying to breathe.â
Tina studied her. âYou still breathing now?â
Alicia gave a small laugh. âBarely.â
They sat in that for a moment. A silence that wasnât angry-just worn-in. Familiar.
âIâm coming back,â Alicia said softly. âNot full-time. Iâm staging. Jimmie asked. Said things werenât going great.â
Tina nodded slowly. âTheyâre not.â
Alicia swallowed. âI donât know how Iâll be received. I just want to help. But I wanted to tell you first.â
That made Tina soften just a little. She reached for a concha, tore it in half, and pushed the larger piece across the table.
âYou coming backâs gonna stir shit up. No way around it.â
âI know.â
âBut⊠some of us missed you.â
Alicia blinked. âSome?â
Tina tilted her head. âRichie ran his mouth. Carmy went full Carmy. Nat tried to smooth it over but you know her plateâs full. Marcus⊠he looked like someone kicked his puppy. SydneyâŠâ
That name hit different. Alicia leaned in.
âWhat about Sydney?â
Tina hesitated, then said, âShe didnât say much. Just⊠pulled back. Focused on the food. And-â
âAnd?â
Tina gave her a look. âYou really wanna know?â
Alicia nodded, nervous.
âClaire.â
Aliciaâs stomach dropped. âWhat about her?â
âShe and Carmy were seeing each other. Around the time you and Carmy⊠were a thing. Richie knew. So did Sydney. They didnât say anything.â
Alicia froze.
âYouâre kidding.â
âNope. Not sure if it overlapped exactly. But it was close enough. Maybe they thought it was none of their business. Maybe they figured Carmy would make a choice eventually. But yeah. They knew.â
Alicia sat back, stunned. Hurt, sure-but more than that, something brittle cracked open inside her.
âI didnât even know they were still talking.â
Tina shrugged. âItâs the Bear. Everyone talks. No one listens.â
A beat.
âWhy are you telling me?â Alicia asked, voice smaller.
âBecause if youâre coming back, you deserve to come back with both eyes open. And because I think youâre owed a little honesty after all the secrets you were carrying.â
Alicia swallowed. âThanks.â
Tina smiled. âAnd because Iâm tired of being the only woman with common sense in that place.â
That got a laugh.
A real one.
âYouâre gonna be okay, mija,â Tina added. âYou got that scary kind of talent. And youâve got a backbone. Come back. Show them what it means to really care about food. About people.â
Alicia nodded, still absorbing everything.
She wasnât sure what she was walking into.
But she wasnât going to run anymore.
The morning air in Chicago was the kind that could punch through your coat if you werenât paying attention. Alicia hadnât slept much. She kept going over what Tina had said, what she had said, how it had felt to sit across from someone she used to see every day and have to reintroduce herself like a stranger.
Still, it had gone better than she expected.
Now she just had to do that ten more times.
She tugged her beanie lower, hands shoved into her coat pockets as she turned the corner onto the block where The Bear lived-still half-eaten by scaffolding and half-held-together by dreams.
She wasnât due in until tomorrow, but muscle memory had brought her here early. Maybe just to see if the building still felt like something. Maybe to prove to herself that she wasnât going to sprint the other way.
But before she could cross the street, the door swung open. A familiar figure stepped out, hoodie sleeves pushed up, carrying two crates of herbs.
Marcus.
He didnât see her at first. His brow was furrowed, lips moving like he was going over a recipe or talking to himself. He had a smear of flour on his neck.
Alicia froze.
Then, as if he could feel her staring, he looked up.
And stopped.
Crate in his arms, caught mid-step, like someone had hit pause on both of them.
A second passed.
Then two.
âHey,â Alicia said softly.
Marcus blinked. ââŠHey.â
She gave a hesitant smile. âYou look-uh. Busy.â
âYeah. Yeah, I-uh, delivery came early,â he said. âI was just-â He lifted the crate slightly like it explained everything. âStuff.â
They both stared again. A bird somewhere chirped too cheerfully. A car honked a block away.
Alicia shifted her weight. âI wasnât trying to run into anyone. I was just walking.â
He nodded slowly. âYouâre⊠back?â
âFor a little while,â she said. âStaging. Helping out. Kind of⊠cleaning up my own mess, I guess.â
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh-not mean, but not exactly soft either.
âDidnât realize you were the mess type.â
âNeither did I,â Alicia admitted. âTurns out Iâm full of surprises.â
He didnât say anything to that. Just looked at her with those calm, patient eyes that had once made her feel seen in a way that wasnât about fame or persona or skill. Just Alicia.
And now they kind of made her want to cry.
âI should let you get back,â she said, starting to back away.
But he surprised her. âYou wanna walk with me?â
She looked up.
âJust around the block,â he added. âGotta air out my brain before prep.â
Alicia blinked. âYeah. Okay.â
They walked side by side down the sidewalk. The early city sounds surrounded them-trash trucks, coffee shop doors swinging open, a dog barking at nothing.
âSo,â he said after a moment. âIs it weird being back?â
âNot yet,â she said. âI think itâll get weirder tomorrow.â
He nodded, smiling a little. âYou gonna do the ghost thing again or actually talk to people this time?â
âIâm trying,â she said. âI started with Tina.â
âThatâs a good call. Sheâd forgive a serial killer if they cried right.â
âDid you just call me a serial killer?â
âDid you disappear without saying goodbye?â
She winced. âOkay, fair.â
Another beat passed.
Marcus slowed a little. âI was mad.â
âI know.â
âBut mostly⊠I was confused. You made us all feel like we had something really good here. Then you left. Then you won.â
She looked at him sharply.
ââI watched that video, Alicia.â
He didnât say Lloris.
Didnât have to.
She opened her mouth, but he added, almost like an afterthought, âAlso-Lucaâs here. Just joined the team for a bit. Staging.â
Aliciaâs breath caught.
Marcus didnât seem to notice her reaction, or maybe he did and was giving her space. âCarmy asked him. Said we could use the extra hands while we reset the kitchen.â
âOh,â she said, trying to sound casual, but her voice tilted too high.
âYeah,â Marcus said, eyeing her for a beat. âSmall world.â
âI didnât know how to explain what I was going through,â she said quietly. âSo I didnât. And thatâs on me. But I never stopped caring. About you. About this place.â
They stopped walking. He set the crate down.
âI missed you,â he said, voice low but steady.
Alicia looked at him. âI missed you too.â
âGood,â he said, then squinted. âBut Iâm still making you do pastry grunt work first.â
She laughed, relief rushing through her. âFine. I deserve it.â
âYeah, you do.â
They stood there for a moment-still full of things unsaid, but no longer stuck in silence.
âIâll see you tomorrow,â she said finally.
He bent down, picked up his crate. âIâll save you a whisk.â
The door chimed overhead as Alicia stepped into the coffee shop, the warm smell of espresso and baked goods hitting her like a wave. She hadnât meant to come here specifically-it had just looked quiet, tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, a little haven where she could think.
She ordered a black coffee, trying not to fidget as she waited, eyes scanning the seating area. Mismatched chairs. Exposed brick. It reminded her of early mornings at The Bear before service, back when things felt like they were clicking, when everyone believed they were building something together.
The barista slid her cup across the counter with a nod. Alicia turned-then froze.
There, tucked in a corner with a notebook and half-finished iced drink, was Sydney.
Aliciaâs heart sank to her shoes. For a second, she considered turning around and leaving. But it was too late. Sydney had already looked up.
A flicker of disbelief. Then tension, sharp as a blade.
ââŠHey,â Alicia said, trying for neutral.
âYouâre here? At this coffee shop?â Sydney asked, sitting up straighter.
âI didnât know it was yours.â
âItâs not mine,â Sydney snapped. âItâs Chicago. Itâs not your city anymore. Why are you even here?â
Alicia took a slow breath. âJust for a bit. Iâm actually staging and helping with The Bear again.â
Sydney scoffed. âThatâs what you call it.â
âCâmon, Syd, donât be like that. I get youâre still mad-â
âPissed doesnât even cover it,â Sydney said, rising to her feet. Her voice wasnât loud, but it was sharp enough to cut. âYou left us. After all that time we spent building something. Acting like this meant something.â
âBut it did mean something-â
âYou donât get it, though. Because it wasnât just about the kitchen. It was us, Alicia. We let you in. And you used us to what? Sharpen your knives and bounce.â
âThatâs not fair,â Alicia said, low and tight, her fingers clenching around the warm paper cup.
âIsnât it?â Sydneyâs mouth twisted.
âI was drowning.â
âSo you pulled the fire alarm and walked away while the rest of us choked on the smoke?â
âYou couldâve said that,â Sydney snapped, eyes flashing. âI wouldâve had your back. But instead, you just⊠left. And then we find out youâre Lloris? Are you kidding me?â
âI didnât plan that-â
âDonât say it wasnât about ego,â Sydney cut in. âBecause it was. You played the mystery chef long enough to win, and when it suited you, you dropped the curtain. That wasnât survival. That was theater.â
Alicia stared at her, heart pounding, throat dry. âYou think I wanted it like this?â
âI think you wanted control. And when things got messy, you made your own stage and starred in it. Alone.â
âSyd, you have to see it from my side-â
âWell I canât.â
The silence after that wasnât soft. It was jagged, and hot, and pulsed with all the things neither of them had said months ago.
Sydney didnât sit back down. She didnât storm out either. She just stood there, like she didnât trust herself to stay or leave.
Alicia nodded slowly, swallowing down every apology sheâd rehearsed. âOkay,â she said finally, her voice small but steady. âOkay.â
She turned, walked out the door, and didnât look back.
The Bear was quiet in the way kitchens get when theyâre in between wavesâtoo late for lunch, too early for dinner. The kind of quiet that let you hear the buzz of the overhead lights and the existential dread in your marrow.
And then the door opened.
âShit,â Richie muttered, wiping his hands on his apron as the dreaded duo entered: Uncle Jimmy and the goddamn computer guy, laptop in hand like he was about to execute a hostile takeover of a Panera Bread.
Carmy appeared from the walk-in like heâd just taken a breath for the first time in twenty minutes. Natalie followed him with a clipboard. The three of them convened at the counter just in time for Jimmy to slap a giant red digital timer down on the pass.
âWhaâwhat is this, Saw?â Richie asked.
Jimmy didnât laugh.
âThis,â Jimmy said, tapping the glowing countdown, âis how much time you have before this place goes under if you donât figure your shit out.â
The number blinked: 89 days, 14 hours, 26 minutes.
âGenerous, considering,â the tech guy muttered. He opened his laptop and turned the screen toward them. Charts. Numbers. An aggressive PowerPoint titled: âWhy Youâre Screwedâ.
Jimmy pointed at a bar graph. âSee that spike? Right before the awards? Right before you nose-dived back into chaos and cardiac arrest?â
Carmy stared at the numbers. The spike was undeniable. High revenue. High foot traffic. High ratings.
âYeah,â Jimmy said. âThat was her. That was Lloris.â
The name hit like a kitchen pan dropped wrong. Heavy. Sharp. Unavoidable.
âShouldâve held onto her,â Jimmy added, shaking his head like heâd just watched someone throw away a winning lotto ticket.
Carmyâs jaw twitched. âThat wasnât exactly up to us.â
âOh, boo-hoo,â Richie said, arms folded. âForgive me for not weeping over the culinary ghostwriter who gave us trust issues and smoked out like Batman.â
âStill,â Natalie said quietly, looking at the numbers. âItâs not wrong. We were better then.â
âJust say it,â Richie said. âShe made the place better.â
âShe made the timing better,â Carmy muttered, staring down at the timer.
Sydney hadnât said a word. She stared at the screen, unreadable. Her silence did more damage than a whole speech would have.
âWhatever,â Richie said, turning away. âWe got through her once. Weâll get through without her again.â
âYeah,â Fak added from the corner, holding a screwdriver like it might help. âBut like⊠maybe if she wants to, like, email us a vibe or something? Thatâd be cool.â
There was a brief, awkward silence.
Then Marcus said quietly, âI just miss her.â
No one responded.
The countdown blinked again.
Later, after close.
Ebra was scrubbing down his station, arms aching. Tina was half-leaning on a prep table, still sulking about the pasta timing.
âShe was over by ten seconds,â Tina muttered. âIt ruined the plate.â
âNo one noticed,â Ebra said, her voice even. âYouâre being a diva.â
âItâs principle,â Tina said, gesturing wildly with a dish towel like it owed him money.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Tina said, âYou know⊠when she was here, that never happened.â
Ebra glanced up.
âShe had this way of knowing when something was off before anyone even felt it. Like⊠her nose twitched or something.â
âLike a rat?â
âLike a chef, Ebra,â Tina snapped. Then she laughed. âBut yeah, kind of a rat. A psychic rat.â
They were quiet again, slower now, more thoughtful.
âYou remember how Mikey was?â Tina asked.
Ebra nodded. âBig voice. Big heart. Always in the way.â
âYeah,â she said. âShe wasnât him. But⊠I donât know. She gave me that same feeling. Like if Alicia was in the kitchen, it wasnât gonna fall apart. Even if it already had.â
Ebra swallowed hard and nodded.
âShe made things feel okay,â he said.
Elsewhere in the kitchen, Marcus and Sydney sat near the coffee machine.
A tray of test doughnuts sat untouched between them. Sydney poked at one, then looked up.
âThink itâs possible to miss someone and still be mad they existed?â she asked.
Marcus snorted. âYeah. Itâs called family.â
Sydney smiled. âShe drove me crazy. You know? All that âmysteryâ shit. The games. The quiet genius thing.â
âShe was intense,â Marcus agreed.
They both looked down at the tray of doughnuts.
Sydney picked one up, bit it, and made a face.
âWhat the fuck is in this?â
âMatcha. And⊠regret.â
Sydney coughed. âIt tastes like tea and depression.â
Marcus shrugged. âSeemed like the mood.â
They both laughed. Quiet, tired.
Then Sydney said, âDo you think sheâs really gone?â
Marcus paused. Then looked toward the timer on the wall.
âNot yet,â he said.
2 months later
New York moved at a rhythm Alicia was learning to match. She liked the anonymity here, the relative calm, the comfort in drifting between kitchens. No one expected Lloris to scrub mussels or chiffonade herbs. No one looked at her like they knew something she hadnât told them.
She staged at small places mostlyârestaurants with warmth and grit, sometimes still on the rise. The kind of places where no one cared about her face as long as her mise was clean and her sauces didnât break. A few chefs recognized her from the awards, sure, but she kept her head down and stayed quiet. It felt good. Honest.
And yet⊠that gnawing little hollow remained.
The one where connection used to sit. The one that still flinched every time she thought of Carmyâs face in that hallway. The weight in Marcusâ voice. Sydneyâs silence.
They hadnât called. She hadnât expected them to.
Still, the quiet was louder than she thought it would be.
She was behind the line at a moody, downtown spotâa seafood-forward place with too much black tile and a playlist that alternated between Sade and A Tribe Called Questâwhen a sous tapped her shoulder mid-service.
âHey. Chef wants you in the office. Says someoneâs calling for you?â
Alicia blinked. âMe?â
âYeah. Said itâs some guy named âJimmieâ? Sounded like⊠business-casual mobster vibes?â
Oh no.
She wiped her hands and made her way to the back office, apron still on, sleeves pushed up. When she picked up the phone, there was a familiar raspy chuckle on the other end.
âWell, well. If it isnât the prodigal daughter of gastronomy.â
Alicia pinched the bridge of her nose. âCicero.â
âThatâs me. Howâs the Big Apple? You eating a proper meal or just subsisting on espresso and unpaid labor?â
âIâm staging, not starving.â
âRight, right. Howâs fame?â
She rolled her eyes. âDistracting.â
âI imagine so. Listen, I wonât take too much of your time, but I figured youâd want to hear it from me first. The Bearâs on a timer.â
She paused. âWhat do you mean?â
âI mean I showed up, brought a little screen, and slapped a countdown on the pass. Theyâve got weeks, maybe, unless something gives. Moneyâs drying up. Menuâs finally consistent. Leadershipâs frayed.â
âSounds familiar,â Alicia muttered.
âMhm. You should know⊠they ran the numbers. Guess when they were doing best? Right around the time you were on the line. Numbers donât lie, sweetheart.â
She exhaled, leaning back in the creaky office chair. âWhat do you want, Jimmy?â
âA favor.â
âNo.â
âYou didnât even hear it.â
âI already know itâs gonna end with me getting burned alive.â
âI need you to come back. Not permanently. Just⊠a couple weeks. Help them course correct. Teach some, work a little. Whisper wisdom in that chaos crew you used to run with.â
Alicia didnât say anything. Her heart was already racing.
âI kept your secret,â Jimmie added, quieter now. âI didnât even tell Sugar. You owe me.â
âThatâs low.â
âYup. I know. Iâm okay with it.â
She stared at the desk. There was a smudge of old olive oil on the edge. Someone had forgotten to clean up. She traced it with her nail.
âYou know what youâre asking,â she said.
âI do.â
âThey donât want me there.â
âThey donât know what they want. But I know they need someone who can handle the fire and still plate a dish worth paying for. And I know you love them. Even if they donât know how to love you back.â
Jimmieâs grin was practically audible. âLooking forward to seeing you back where you belong.â
She hung up.
For a while, she just sat there. Letting the buzz of the fridge hum against the walls. Her reflection stared back from the dark computer monitorâhair pulled back, chef whites speckled with clam liquor and shallot skins, eyes just a little tired.
The air in the hallway was thick. Carmy stood frozen, his chest heaving. The confrontation with David had left him rattledâmore than heâd expected. His shoulders were trembling, hands clenched, laughter breaking through the sting of tears he didnât want to shed.
Luca was there in a second.
âHey,â Luca said gently, his voice soft but firm. âBreathe, man.â
Carmy just shook his head, wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, and laughed again. âHeâs such a fucking asshole.â
âYeah,â Luca nodded, his hand on Carmyâs back. âYeah, he is. He always has been. You did good though. You said what you needed to.â
Carmy didnât answer. Not really. He just stood there, emotionally frayed and unraveling by the second.
And thenâ
Voices. Footsteps.
Down the hallway.
âAlright, relax, Alicia,â Davidâs voice said, casual and smug as ever.
And thenâanother voice. A womanâs.
Familiar. Too familiar.
âI actually exclusively only go by Lloris now since you know I'm such a big deal.â
Carmy blinked, lifting his head. He and Luca turned in unison, like theyâd rehearsed it.
And there she was.
Alicia- Lloris.
In all her fucking glory.
Looking composed, elegant, like a completely different personâand yet unmistakably herself. Same sharp eyes. Same goddamn presence.
âWhat,â they both said at the same time.
David, of course, couldnât help himself.
âWell⊠this is convenient,â he said, hands shoved in his pockets like heâd just announced lunch.
He patted Alicia on the shoulder and walked off like this was nothingâlike he hadnât just worsened three peopleâs day in a single breath.
And so they were left there. In the quiet hum of the hallway. Luca, Carmy, and Alicia. No words yet. Just a revelation hanging in the air like smoke.
Lloris.
Her.
Alicia.
And everything was about to change.
Silence. Heavy and choking.
Carmy stared at her like she was a ghostâno, worse. Like she was a betrayal made flesh just delayed because it still didnât feel real. Alicia didnât move. Luca looked between the two, jaw slightly slack, trying to process the emotional fallout unfolding in front of him.
âIt really was you.â Carmyâs voice cracked low, like the question itself betrayed him.
Alicia didnât answer. She didnât have to.
âSay it,â he said, stepping forward. âFucking say it.â
Alicia exhaled slowly. âYeah,â she said. âIt was me.â
Carmy laughed. Harsh. Bitter. Like it hurt. âUn-fucking-believable.â
âCarmââ she started.
âNo. Donâtâdonât say my name like that. YouâJesus. All that time? The notes? The gifts? The fucking games?â He threw his hands up. âYou were in our heads for months. You sent Marcus stuff, Sydney. You sent me my own dish, Alicia. Are you fucking serious?â
âI was angry.â
âYeah. No shit.â
âYou donât get to be mad at me. Youâre the one who couldnât even talk to me when I went on a sabbatical or look me in the eye at opening night.â
He flinched. Visibly.
Luca stepped forward. âHey, maybe we should justââ
âDonât,â Carmy cut him off, sharp. âYou knew, didnât you?â
Luca blinked. âWhat? No. Not until just now. Christ.â
Carmy turned back to Alicia. âSo whatâwas this all just some kind of revenge tour? Fuck with everyone who made you feel small?â
Aliciaâs jaw tensed. âYou think I felt small because of you?â
âYou left, Alicia.â
âYou chose Claire, Carmy.â
Silence.
Carmy opened his mouth. Closed it. That hit landedâdeep.
âI didnât come here to fight,â Alicia said, voice low, tight. âBut Iâm not gonna stand here and apologize for doing what Iâm good at.â
Carmy snapped. âYou donât even use your name.â
âLloris was the only thing I had left after youâafter The Bear. I rebuilt myself from nothing. I got better. Stronger. You think you were the only one who broke?âAlicia said, stepping toward him now.
Carmy was quiet. Too quiet. Breathing like heâd run five miles.
Luca rubbed his face. âThis is insane.â
Alicia looked at Carmy, expression unreadable. âYou donât have to like it. But you saw the work. You know what I did.â
He shook his head. âI know what you took. You turned it into a fucking performance.â
A pause.
Then, Aliciaâquiet, almost softââAnd it was excellent. Donât be mad at something you have yet to achieve.â
That stung more than it should have.
He clenched his jaw. âNo. Iâm mad because I thought I lost you. Turns out, I never knew you at all.â
Aliciaâs face didnât change. Not right away. But something in her eyes flickeredâlike it hit.
She turned to walk away.
INT. STREET OUTSIDE EVER â NIGHT
Alicia walks down the sidewalk alone. Her heels are loud nowânot from nerves, but finality. The cold air bites at her blazer collar. Sheâs halfway down the block when she pulls out her phone, thumbs out a quick message:
Going home. Thanks for everything. Donât follow. â A
She hits send.
Then pockets the phone.
Then breathes.
And thenâher thoughts, unspoken, start to form. Half-defensive. Half-liberating
Alicia POVâŠ
I didnât mean for it to go like that.
I didnât come here to start a war or light old wounds on fire.
But I also didnât come here to disappear for anyone elseâs comfort.
Not anymore.
I feel like a jerk.
I probably am a jerk.
But Iâve spent so many years shrinking myself to be digestibleâ
Softening the blow, hiding the sharp edges, apologizing for being too much or not enough or just⊠inconvenient.
And when I finally gave everything I hadâto kitchens, to people who said they saw meâ
they still walked away.
So what do I owe anyone now?
Nothing.
I chose me.
I chose to get better. To do the work.
To burn it all down and build something that could stand.
And yeahâmaybe I went too far. Maybe I got cold.
But I survived.
Iâm not proud of every move I made.
But Iâm not sorry for making them, either.
Itâs not about revenge. It never really was.
It was about proof.
Proof that I could exist without needing to be approved of.
That I could cook without their permission.
That I could be the ghost, and the name, and the girl who got leftâ
and still win.
I loved him in a way.
Maybe a little bit of me still did.
But I wonât set myself on fire to keep someone warm who never asked me to stay.
So yeah. Iâm walking away.
Not because Iâm weak.
Not because Iâm bitter.
But because Iâm free now.
And I think I like the sound of that.
She keeps walking, the restaurant now a memory behind her. A door closed. A page turned.
And ahead?
Whatever she wants.
No mask. No alias. Just Alicia.
And thatâs enough.
A/N
SO SORRY FOR THE LATE POST!! I recently got food poisoning and still in recovery.
It felt⊠sacred. Dim, reverent, touched by candlelight and the quiet clinking of glassware. The way a kitchen breathes its last â not with silence, but with whispers of legacy in every corner.
David and Alicia arrived early, both dressed in unrelenting black. She walked behind David, head down, her heels clicked on the stone floorâtoo loud, she thought. Too seen.
It was dumb.
Sheâd just taken the entire culinary world by storm, revealed herself as the long-rumored ghost of the line, and sent half the industry into an identity crisis. But here? At this table? With these people?
She felt twelve again.
Like sheâd snuck into a grown-up dinner party and someone was going to ask her to bus tables any second.
He chose a table in the back, near the bar, dim enough to cloak her but close enough for David to be seen. She sat with her back to the crowd, angled slightly toward the wall where she was least likely to be seen. The agreement was unspoken, but understood: She appreciated that more than she could say.
The room buzzed with low conversation, but not a single head turned her way.
Not yet. Not obviously.
But she felt it.
That prickle.
Like her nameâLlorisâwas being whispered in four different corners. Like forks paused mid-bite when she breathed too loud. Like she was being remembered, re-evaluated, re-judged.
She hated it.
âYou good?â David asked, sliding into his chair across from her, already scanning the room with that annoyingly smug expression of his.
âI feel like a zoo exhibit,â Alicia muttered.
âYou are a zoo exhibit. You just lit the entire safari on fire and told everyone to clap.â
She gave him a look. âNot helping.â
âLook,â he said, glancing over his shoulder. âYou donât have to talk to anyone. You donât have to do anything but sit here, look devastating, and eat the free food.â
âDevastating,â she repeated dryly. âNice.â
âItâs the vibe. Youâre mourning. Mysterious. Unapproachable. People love that shit.â
She exhaled, a sharp breath through the nose, trying not to fidget.
But it was hard.
She was used to kitchens. Chaos. Knives.
Not this. The performative quiet. The wine-glass clinking. The soft laughter of people who all knew each other.
People whoâd shared awards, stages, old beef, exes, entire careers.
And her? She was the myth who made it real.
Now that she was here in the flesh, no one quite knew what to do with her.
David leaned forward slightly. âWant me to stay?â
She shook her head too fast, too grateful. âNo. Go schmooze. Be a functioning adult or whatever.â
He gave her a once-over, deciding. âDonât start a food fight while Iâm gone.â
âNo promises.â
With that, he slipped away into the crowd, arms already opening for a dramatic greeting from some food critic Alicia only vaguely hated.
She stayed. Alone.
Back to the room. Chin up. Heart hammering.
Because bold didnât mean brave.
And even now, part of her still didnât believe she deserved to be here.
But she was.
And no one could take that from her now.
Alicia told herself she was just stretching her legs.
Just getting a better look at the wine table.
Just⊠avoiding the fact that David was now deep in conversation with a food magazine editor whose entire vibe screamed âinsufferable.â
So she wanderedâslow, inconspicuous, gliding between clusters of guests like smoke. Eyes forward. Ears open.
She passed a table near the service entrance and paused.
Not because she meant to eavesdropânever thatâbut because she heard something that made her ears perk up:
Luca.
ââtold him to pull the duck off mid-fire and the idiot basted it in sherry vinegar instead of jus,â he was saying, low and incredulous.
âOh my god,â came the voice of another chef. âWhat did you do?â
âWhat could I do?â Luca replied, dry. âI told him it tasted like foot and served it anyway. Call it rustic.â
The other chef barked a laugh.
Alicia, still half-tucked behind a decorative column, clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh of her own.
That accent. That particular flavor of ego-masked-as-honesty. She remembered it too well.
She leaned just slightly closer, amusement curling at the edge of her lips.
Untilâ
Another voice joined in. Familiar. Firm. All edge and observation.
âI donât know, Iâve had your duck. Itâs not that far off,â Sydney said coolly as she stepped into view.
Aliciaâs whole body snapped back like sheâd touched a burner.
Her pulse kicked up, fast. Not fearâjust⊠surprise. Just not ready.
Sydney was standing with a glass of wine and that calm, calculating look she always wore when something interested her more than she wanted to admit. Luca greeted her with a smirk, and the three of them fell into easy conversation.
And Alicia?
Gone.
She was already retreating. Fast. Smooth.
Back through the crowd, dodging eye contact, feeling her shoulders burn beneath the weight of being recognizedâeven when no one was looking directly at her.
By the time she slid back into her seat at the far table, her face was blank again. Her fingers steady.
But inside?
A churn.
Because for one second, sheâd let herself be part of the room.
And then she remembered exactly who she was to them now.
Cut to: Carmy
Carmy stared at his fork.
Not the plate. Not the food. Not even the person talking next to him. Just the fork. The tines caught the light a little too harshly.
He hadnât slept well. Hadnât really slept at all since New York.
Not since the award show.
Not since Lloris.
His tie was too tight. His shirt too crisp. Sydney had told him he looked good, but it felt like a costume. Like heâd borrowed someone elseâs clothes just to show up.
He didnât even know why he came.
He guessed it was out of respect. For Ever. For what it meant. For what it couldâve been if everything in him didnât fall apart every time he got close to something like this.
David had waved at him when he came in, that polite nod of acknowledgment across the room. Carmy had nodded back. But his eyes kept drifting.
Now, at the table, Sydney was in full swing talking to Luca, whoâd joined them. They were reminiscing about culinary school, something about lemon pith and a mold that refused to set.
Carmy tried to follow, really, but every few minutes his eyes slid away from them.
To the back of the room.
To the table where David sat.
To the woman across from him, her back turned.
Something in the shape of her shoulders felt familiar.
Carmy looked away.
Focus, he told himself.
Focus.
But the problem wasâhe hadnât stopped thinking about Lloris. About the dishes. The notes. The final message.
He hadnât stopped thinking about her being someone once in his life.
And maybe thatâs why everything tonight felt heavy. Why the tribute speeches sounded like background noise. Why every dish tasted over-seasoned, even though it wasnât.
He was zoning out again, and Sydney elbowed him gently.
âYou good?â she asked, low enough that only he could hear.
Carmy blinked, nodded. âYeah. Yeah, just tired.â
Sydney narrowed her eyes. âYou always say that when youâre spiraling.â
Luca gave him a curious look too, like he was trying to read between the lines. Carmy just took another bite, chewed slowly, and told himself to stay present.
But across the room, David laughed again, and the woman with her back turned adjusted her jacket.
And something about the shape of her movement tugged at the corner of his mind.
Alicia feels sick.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic wayâjust the slow drift that happens when you were surrounded by people who all know each other and all probably hate you even though they donât know you. Conversations blurred together into a low drone, laughter punctuating stories that had nothing to do with her.
She stared at her water glass, watching the condensation bead down to the linen. The flickering candle in the middle of the table kept catching her eye, a soft pulse of light like a metronome ticking just a little too slow.
Her head had started to tilt, her eyelids heavier than she realizedâuntil Davidâs sudden, smug grin cut across her line of sight.
He looked like someoneâs smug cat.
Alicia blinked, sitting up straighter. âOkay. Whatâs that face?â
David didnât answer. Just kept chewing on his food like it was nothing while his gaze stayed locked across the room.
âYouâre making your âIâm better than you and you know itâ face,â she said. âWho are you aiming it at?â
He still didnât say anything, just sipped his wine and gave her a very calm, very annoying little shrug.
Before she could smack the answer out of him with her napkin, the lights dimmed slightly and the voice of Chef Andrea Terry, the woman of the hour, rose over the room.
Everyone turned.
âThank you all for coming tonight,â Andrea said, her voice calm, confident, and laced with bittersweet warmth. âThis place meant a lot to me. It meant a lot to a lot of us. Not because of the stars or the lists or the accoladesâbut because it was the first place we all got to say, out loud, âthis is what we believe in.â And because we had each other while we tried to prove it.â
The room softened. Some people clapped. Some raised glasses. A few choked up.
David clapped too, eyes shining a little, even if he was still probably mid-grudge match across the room.
Alicia just nodded along, respectful but detached.
Then came the next courseâartful, delicate, something with nasturtium and foam that probably had six more components she didnât care to dissect.
It was fine.
She was over it.
âI need a break,â Alicia muttered, pushing back her chair. âSmoke.â
David looked up. âYou donât smoke.â
âExactly.â
She slipped out before he could follow up with a smartass remark, weaving through to make it to long hallway. It hit her face instantlyâcool and clean feeling in contrast to the warm, fragrant chaos of the dining room.
She took a deep breath, letting the coldness of the hallway burn her lungs a little. No cigarette. Just a habit she picked up during her worst kitchensâstep out the kitchen, stare at nothing, reset.
Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps.
âDonât say it,â she said without looking.
âI wasnât going to,â David replied smoothly.
They stood in silence for a moment, in the middle of the hallway leaning side by side against the brick wall. The muffled thrum of laughter and cutlery drifted through the walls.
Alicia tilted her head up to the sky, blinking at the streetlamp halo.
âI hate dinner parties like this,â she finally muttered. âEveryone knows each other and acts like Iâm despicable for coming.â
David smirked. âYouâll be fine. Youâre just allergic to pretension unless itâs your own.â
Alicia made a face. âThatâs fair.â
Alicia finally moved past the entrance door going outside before she added, âSo who were you making faces at?â
But when she turned her headâ
David was gone.
The door was still slightly ajar.
Alicia straightened, puzzled, stepping closer to peek through the doorway.
âDavid?â
Nothing.
But she hears a familiar voiceâŠ.
âChefâ
She froze.
And for the first time in a long time⊠she never thought she would hear it again.
Carmy wasnât listening.
Not to the laughter, the clinking of wine glasses, or the nostalgic ramblings of chefs drunk on memory and aged pinot. Everyone at the table was swapping storiesâfirst burns, worst bosses, most humiliating rushesâand he was just⊠staring.
Not at his plate. Not at Sydney. Not at Luca.
But across the room, at him.
Chef David.
Perfect posture, clean lines, same dead-eyed intensity heâd had back when Carmy worked under him. Nothing had changed. Not his suit, not the way he moved like he was already five steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Still gliding around like a phantom that could taste a mistake in the air before it happened.
He hadnât aged. Or maybe he had. But it didnât matterâhe still looked untouchable.
âYou good?â Sydney asked, nudging his elbow gently.
Carmy didnât answer.
Luca leaned in from the other side. âMate. Youâre burning a hole through him.â
Carmy exhaled, jaw twitching. âYou know who that is?â
Both of them looked across the room. David, talking to a small group, sipping wine like he didnât ruin people for sport.
Luca snorted. âYeah. Heâs a dickhead.â
Sydney frowned. âThatâs Chef David? The one we shall not names friend David?â
Carmy nodded. Then, after a pause:
âHeâs the fucking worst⊠and one of the best chefs in the world.â
âTotal prick.â
âFuck face.â
âBastard made me probably and very mentally ill.â
âDead inside. Cold. Never turns it off.â
âHe accomplishes more by 10 AM than most people do in a lifetime.â
âI donât think he eats. I donât think he sleeps. And itâs hard to believe he loves.â
ââŠAnd he is getting up.â
Carmy didnât even notice the familiar figure sitting in front of David. All he saw was David rising from his chair, effortless as always, excusing himself from the table like he owned the room.
Carmyâs chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.
âCarmyâwhat are you doing?â Sydney hissed, grabbing his sleeve.
âDonât,â Luca warned. âDonât go over there. Itâs not worth it.â
But Carmy was already walking.
Like muscle memory.
Like gravity.
Luca cursed and got up, following a few steps behind, blending into the edge of the hallway.
Carmy caught David by the entrance to the back corridor, just before he disappeared around the corner.
âChef?,â Carmy called, low and sharp.
David turned, not surprised.
Carmy stepped forward.
Luca stopped, halfway in shadow, not ready to interveneâyet.
The hallway dimmed behind them.
Alicia didnât know what else to do but listen.
The hallway was colder than it had any right to be. She had meant to sneak a cigarette and return before dessert was cleared, but now her back was to the wall, arms folded, listening.
âHi. How you doing, Bergazzo?â
Davidâs voice was dry, amused.
Carmy laughed. Not out of humorâdisbelief.
The moment swelled with something ugly and quiet.
âI always wondered what Iâd say to you if I got to see you again.â
His voice was steady, but he was already coming apart at the edges.
David nodded. âOkay. Letâs have it.â
âAfter âfuck youâ? I donât⊠I donât have much.â
David blinked, almost impressed. âFuck me?â
âYeah, thatâs right.â
âFor anything in particular?â
âNo. Just genuinely being you, I think. Yeah.â
David smirked. âGot it. Well, this has been nice.â He turned like he was about to leave. About to walk toward her.
Carmy cut in again.
âI think about you too much.â
David stopped. âI donât think about you.â
That hit something sharp in the center of Carmyâs chest.
âWhy are you such an asshole?â
David turned, leaned against the wall, almost relaxed. âHow am I an asshole?â
âDo you have half an hour?â
David tilted his head. âYouâre welcome.â
Carmy blinked. âFor what?â
âYou were an okay chef when you started with me. You left an excellent chef. So youâre welcome.â
Carmyâs body was tight. His jaw, clenched. His fingers were twitching like he needed something to hold onto.
âYou gave me ulcers. And attacks. And nightmares. Youâyou know that, right?â
David shrugged. âI made you who you are. And guess what? It worked.â
Carmy started shaking.
âMy life stopped.â
David just looked at him. âOkay.â
âOkay?!â
âYou wanted to be the best. So you let everything go. Got focused. Got excellent. It worked. Look where you are right now.â He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. âIâm gonna go take a smoke break.â
And with that, David turned and headed deeper into the hallway.
He didnât expect to see Alicia.
But there she was.
Leaning against the doorframe, unreadable.
He blinked. âEavesdropping?â
âDidnât have to. Youâre both loud.â
They walked side by side for a moment, the hallway narrowing around them.
âHeâs not wrong about everything,â Alicia said, quietly.
David scoffed. âHeâs also not exactly the picture of stability.â
âSure. But youâre wrong too.â
âHow generous of you.â
They reached the the middle of the hallway, closer to where David and carmy where before, the noise of the dining room echoing in the distance.
âAnyway,â David said, smirking as they walked, âI still think itâs hilarious how everyone here just whispers about what you did these last couple of weeks but still wont go up to you.â
Alicia rolled her eyes. âOh yes, DavidâI'm the talk of the town. Mysterious ghost came to lifeââ Her voice dripped with exaggeration.
David snorted. âAlright, relax, Alicia.â
Alicia shot him a look and spoke mockingly . âI actually exclusively only go by Lloris now since you know I'm such a big deal.â
Laughter erupted between the two, and thenâ
âWhat.â
Voices.
From behind them.
Both of them froze.
David turned slowly. Aliciaâs heart thudded.
Carmy and Luca.
Both Standing a few feet behind them, expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
A/N
Yâall im so sorry for the delay. I literally have refused to watch the new season until I finished.
ALSO pls let me know if you want to be included for the taglist!!!
Alicia stared at herself in the full-length mirror of a boutique that smelled aggressively of money and essential oils.
âOkay but⊠do I look like Iâm mourning a restaurant or seducing the ghost of Escoffier?â
David squinted, arms crossed like a fashion judge on a cooking show. âYou look like a haunted bottle of Amaro. Which⊠is actually the vibe.â
Alicia rolled her eyes and spun to face him. âI liked the first dress better.â
David scoffed. âNo. That one made you look like you were doing performance art about tax evasion.â
She groaned. âIt was comfortable, though.â
David stepped forward, tugging at the lapel of the structured black blazer she was wearing now. âNo. This is the one. This is mysterious. Elegant. Slightly threatening. My plus one has to look good, especially when sheâs been the evil bitch making the culinary world go haywire.â
Alicia narrowed her eyes. âWhy do I feel like youâve always secretly wanted to dress a Bond villain?â
âBecause I have,â David said. âAnd now Iâm living the dream.â
She turned back to the mirror, taking it in again. All black, tailored to hell, with sharp shoulders and soft lines that walked the edge of masculine and feminine. It was⊠strong. It felt like armor. The good kind.
âOkay,â she said, softer. âYeah. This is the one.â
David watched her for a moment, then nodded.
âYou know,â Alicia added, fiddling with one of the buttons. âMy style used to be⊠awful.â
âOh, I know,â he said immediately. âIâve seen the photos.â
She gave him a shove. âNo, like. Before I went to Chicago. I just didnât give a shit. I was always in frumpy clothes, bad sneakers, like I was trying to disappear into my walk-in fridge.â
âSounds emo.â
âIt was. Emotionally crunchy,â she said with a grin. âBut after everything blew upâwhen I dropped the name and started overâI guess I cared a little more. Not just about clothes, about⊠being seen.â
David nodded slowly. âAnd then you met Carmy.â
Alicia laughed, dry and quiet. âYeah. Then I met Carmy.â
âAh,â David said. âSo thatâs when you upgraded from âhaunted fridge goblinâ to âsexy knife cryptid.ââ
âI wouldnât say all that.â
She leaned against the mirror now, letting out a breath. âHe never said anything, but I think I started dressing better around him. Just a little. Not even for him, really. Just⊠around him, I started noticing myself more.â
Davidâs voice was lighter again. âAnd now look at you. High-fashion chef-ghost. Devourer of egos. Destroyer of Michelin dreams.â
Alicia smiled. âThanks, Dad.â
âIâm not old enough to be yourâokay, you know what? Fine. Yes. Iâm proud of you, sweetie.â
They both laughed again, and the tension melted away a little.
They paid for the outfitâDavid insisting on covering it as part of her âappearance feeââand left the boutique with two bags, an espresso each, and a level of petty energy that could crack the Michelin Guide in half.
âYou ready to bury Ever?â David asked as they walked back toward the hotel.
Alicia pulled on her sunglasses like a movie villain. âLetâs go mourn some fine dining.â
The ballroom was buzzing, filled with the weight of nerves and exhaustion. Every competitor sat at round tables, tuxedos rumpled, chef jackets loosened, hands fidgeting with napkins or glasses of water.
In a strange stroke of fateâor maybe just some producerâs twisted idea of dramaâThe Bear and Nomaâs teams had been seated together.
Luca caught Carmyâs eye across the table first, offering a small nod. Carmy nodded back, tight, but genuine.
Richie leaned over to Marcus, whispering, âShould we likeâŠstart shit or what?â
Marcus elbowed him, grinning. âShut up, man. Be cool.â
Tina, who had somehow ended up next to one of Lucaâs sous-chefs, broke the ice first. âYâall cook anything that didnât make you wanna cry?â
The Noma sous-chef barked a laugh. âMaybe. Cryingâs part of the game though, innit?â
Sydney cracked a small smile, sitting back, finally letting herself relax for half a second.
Luca leaned slightly toward Carmy and said, âYou pulled a fucking shift drink course?â
Carmy shrugged like it was obvious. âWe needed it. You?â
âOverthought it,â Luca admitted with a wry smile. âTwice.â
The Bear crew laughed, a low ripple of tension breaking.
âSame here, chef,â Marcus said, grinning. âWe had like six panic moments.â
Across the table, Lucaâs pastry chef nodded solemnly. âI cried in a walk-in. No shame.â
Tina raised her glass. âTo crying in the walk-in.â
They all clinked.
It wasâŠoddly peaceful.
These were supposed to be competitors. But tonight? After what theyâd all just pushed through?
They were all just survivors of the same war.
Sydney looked around and realized for the first timeâno one at this table cared who won in the way the media or the fans cared.
They knew what it took to even get here.
She let herself breathe.
For a second.
Untilâ
The lights dimmed.
The murmuring stopped.
A booming voice came over the speakers.
âAnd nowâŠthe results of this yearâs Culinary Vanguard AwardsâŠâ
Every muscle at that table tensed instantly.
Tina muttered under her breath, crossing herself.
Richie grinned wildly like he was about to fight someone.
Marcus closed his eyes.
Carmy leaned forward, elbows on the table, jaw tight.
Luca sat back, arms crossedâbut his knee was bouncing under the table.
They all waited. Breathless.
The whole room crackled with electricity.
Because no matter how much they joked, no matter how much they understood the bigger pictureâŠ
They wanted it.
Bad.
The voice continued.
âIn third place⊠Noma.â
Luca blinked, then exhaled softly. Around him, his team instantly straightened in surpriseâthen stood, applause breaking out. Luca gave a small, almost sheepish grin, shook his head, and led his crew to the stage.
There were claps, murmurs of respect. Carmy nodded up at him as Luca passed, and Luca gave a light pat on his shoulder in return.
They climbed the steps to accept their bronze award, standing tall under the lights.
Sydney whispered to Marcus, âIf thatâs thirdâŠâ
Marcus just shook his head, already breathless.
The announcer continued.
âIn second place⊠The Bear.â
The table exploded.
âLetâs fucking GO!â Richie yelled, nearly flipping his chair. Tina whooped loud enough to startle two tables over.
Carmy looked stunned for half a second before the adrenaline kicked in, and he stood with the others, clapping Sydney hard on the back.
They walked up together. One tight unit.
The applause followed themâmaybe louder than for third. Maybe just as loud as what was coming next. The industry had been watching them. And somehow, against all odds and chaos and breakdowns⊠theyâd made it.
Onstage, the Bear stood next to Noma, two worlds colliding in the spotlight.
But the air shifted.
The whole room leaned in.
The screen behind the stage flared to life with a clean, serif font.
âAnd the first place winner of the Culinary Vanguard Competition isâŠâ
Pause.
âLloris.â
The entire room erupted.
Except⊠no one moved.
The Bear and Noma crews looked around.
The stage stayed empty.
No one came forward.
UntilâDavid stepped out from the wings, dressed clean in black, envelope in hand. He approached the mic.
âSo sorry she couldnât be here tonight,â he said simply, voice steady. âBut I am sure this video will sufise.â
Behind him, the screen changed again.
And thenâŠ
The film began.
A plane kitchen background; the same one they worked in.
Delicate hands appeared on the screen moving violently fast yet seemingly graceful. This seemed familiar⊠too familiar. Then the camera zoomed out on who the hands belong to.
And like a universal thought almost like you can hear it. âFuckâ
Interviewer: âCan you tell us what this one means to you?â
Lloris:âFirst time I got screamed at on the line, I burned the onions. Though it meant I wasnât cut out for this. Turns outâI just needed to burn better.â
Course II: Family Meal
A refined arroz con pollo: crisp skin, saffron rice, chili, umami broth.
Lloris: âShe taught me to salt with my fingers. Said spoons donât know what food needs,â Alicia said, mostly to the dish, not the crew.
Interviewer: âAre you referring to a mentor?â
Lloris:âNo,my grandmother.â
Course III: Silence Service
Beet tartare, horseradish, black vinegar gel, seared T-bone.
Lloris: âSilence can be armor⊠Or it can be a weapon.â
Course IV: The Note
Interviewer:âDo you want to explain this one?â
Lloris:âYeah. Itâs not sorry about it, either.â
Course VII: Still Here
The last plate was a storm of movement. Nothing about it clean. Everything about it is intentional.
Interviewer:âFinal course, whatâs it called?â
Lloris:âStill Here.â
Each note she had sentâthe funny, the cruel, the sharp.
Every dish a part of a story.
Luca stared up at the screen, jaw tight.
Carmy had stopped breathing.
Sydney was leaning forward, her face unreadable.
The rest on stage just blinked, stunned.
The final course:
Still Here.
ThenâŠ
Like a cruel ending the camera moves to Aliciaâs face smiling.
Lloris: âThank you for playing.â
Applause broke out slowlyâawkward at first. Then louder.
Then, almost reluctantly, sincere.
They had all just been played.
But it was undeniable:
They had also just witnessed genius and betrayal.
The night bled out into soft murmurs and dazed laughter as the hall emptied.
The Bear and Noma crews lingered near the lobby, still stunned, still trying to make sense of what had just happened.
âI meanâŠâ Sydney started, pacing a little in front of Marcus and Tina, âwe thought we were feuding. We thought we were playing some kind of mind game.â
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. âTurns out, we were getting hustled the whole time by one of our own.â
Richie barked a laugh. âShe had us chasing our tails while she was stacking wins.â
Luca crossed his arms, nodding thoughtfully. âEvery move we made⊠she was already two ahead.â
âShe knew exactly what weâd focus on,â Carmy said, voice low, almost admiring and pissed all at once. âShe wanted us distracted. And it fucking worked.â
Tina chuckled, nudging Marcus. âShe even got you with that fancy plated âyou suckâ note.â
Marcus groaned. âMan, I thought I was doing something.â
They all shared a tired, grudging laugh.
For a moment, there was no competition between themâjust silence. Maybe it was the exhaustion bubbling over too much to give a genuine reaction.
Luca sighed and pushed off the wall. âWell. We got played.â
âHard,â Sydney muttered.
Everyone slowly peeled away, heading for the shuttles to their hotels, dragging their luggage behind them, the high of the competition bleeding into exhaustion.
The Bear crew got their keys, muttering goodnights as they stumbled to their designated rooms.
Carmy opened his door first.
And froze.
Sitting neatly on the hotel bed was a photo. A printed picture from the award show, glossy and crisp, showing him and the rest of the team standing on stage with their second-place plaques.
And across the bottom cornerâ
A perfect lipstick kiss mark.
He stared at it, jaw tightening.
Across the hall, Marcus swore out loud.
Sydneyâs door opened fast. âWHAT THE FUCK.â
Tina laughed from her room. âYo! Same!â
Richie stepped out, waving his copy. âSheâs taunting us now! Sheâs still playing the game!â
Ebra just shook his head, muttering something under his breath in Arabic about cursed women.
Down the hall, Luca opened his door tooâand sure enough, there it was. His teamâs photo. Kiss mark.
He smirked, exhausted and amused all at once.
âThat crazy woman,â he murmured.
The night settled into tired, baffled silence.
Everyone tucked their photos away, not sure whether to be flattered, pissed, or both.
The competition was over.
The game, though?
Who knows if itreally ended.
Somewhere elseâŠ
Alicia slammed the door of the cab shut and blinked up at the faded neon sign of the same shitty bar from her first New York trip.
âSeriously?â she muttered.
David was already leaning against the wall by the entrance, nursing a beer and looking way too smug.
âYou couldnât find a new depressing bar?â Alicia called out as she walked up.
David just grinned. âNostalgia, baby.â
They pushed through the door, and were immediately assaulted by the same sticky floor, questionable jukebox, and an old man at the bar who mightâve actually been fossilizing in real-time.
They snagged a booth in the back, same as last time.
The second Alicia sat down, she pointed at David. âYouâre paying. Iâm a celebrity now.â
David snorted into his beer. âYouâve been a celebrity. People just got to see your face.â
âStill kind of wish I waited a tad longer ,â she said, kicking her feet up onto the booth seat. âA couple have haunted people and avoided taxes.â
A server dropped two beers at their table without even asking. Apparently, they remembered Alicia.
David lifted his glass. âTo chaos.â
Alicia clinked her beer against his. âTo scaring chefs so bad they probably have a therapy group chat about it.â
They laughed, letting it roll out in the grimy, dim bar.
For a moment, it was good. Easy. Like it had been before everything had gottenâŠbig.
But eventually, David leaned back, growing a little quieter.
âSo, listen,â he said, tracing the rim of his glass. âYou know Ever, right?â
Alicia nodded. âThe fancy restaurant. Like, the fancy restaurant. Why?â
David exhaled. âTheyâre closing.â
She blinked. âWait, what? Why? That place was likeâŠthe Holy Grail.â
He nodded. âExactly. Which is why theyâre throwing a funeral for it. Like, a real one. Suits, speeches, the whole mourning-the-death-of-fine-dining bullshit.â
Alicia raised an eyebrow. âSo, naturally, youâre dragging me to this nightmare.â
âYouâre my plus one,â David said brightly. âMandatory. No backsies.â
âJesus,â Alicia groaned, banging her head lightly against the booth wall. âAre you at least gonna tell me whoâs gonna be there?â
âNope,â he said, looking obnoxiously pleased with himself. âYouâll find out when we get there.â
âDavid. DAVID.â
He grinned wider.
âYouâre an asshole,â she said, but she was already laughing.
âItâs in a couple days,â he said. âPack something black, dramatic, maybe slightly terrifying. Yâknow. Honor the occasion wait noâ Iâll just dress you myself.â
Alicia sighed dramatically. âIâm gonna get hate-crimed by Michelin chefs.â
âGood,â David said. âYou probably deserve it.â
They ordered more drinks, arguing loudly over who was more emotionally damaged (David, obviously), the barâs ancient jukebox played some tragic country song from the 80s, and for a few more hours, the world outsideâthe fame, the tension, the looming funeralâstayed blissfully out of reach.
A/n
So sorry for the late comeback. Like was hitting me hard.
Alicia didnât realize she was dreaming at first, it felt too familiar. The kind of memory you donât revisit on purpose. She stood inside it, watching herself move through all the in-between moments. No clear beginning. Just the middle of something that used to matter.
It was never loud between them.
Alicia had learned that early. This thing between her and Carmyâwhatever it wasâexisted in the quiet margins: in corners of walk-ins, in long silences after service, in texts left on read but still answered through action. They werenât new anymore. But they werenât steady either.
They moved through each otherâs lives like smokeâvisible, undeniable, but never something you could hold.
She came over without warning.
Carmy didnât say hi just slid the oven mitt off her hand when she reached for a pan and muttered, âToo hot.â
His fingers lingered on hers for a second too long.
She stayed until sunrise. Neither of them brought it up the next day.
Aliciaâdream Aliciaâwatched it like a film she knew the ending to. Like a woman sitting in the back row of her own past.
They had rhythm once. A kind of quiet language in the kitchen: half sentences, unfinished jokes, unspoken trust.
They lived in the hush of what couldnât be said out loud.
Then the shift.
Carmy started pulling away.
Stopped answering texts the same way.
Heâd still brush past her in the kitchen, sometimes still reach for her hand without thinking, but he didnât linger.
In the dream, Alicia felt that ache bloom again, but distant now. Like remembering pain through a window.
She saw herself biting into a lemon tart left anonymously in her locker.
No note. Just a soft crust, almond cream, and a silence that felt like an apology.
It had meant something once.
Now?
She couldnât remember why it ever made her cry.
Dream-Alicia watched the tension in the kitchen as she recalled a short memory from the day she came back from New York.
He slammed the fridge too hard.
She threw a spoonânot at him, but close enough.
Neither of them said sorry.
Later, he stocked her favorite tea in the pantry.
Quiet peace offering. Quiet surrender.
She used to think that was love.
But now?
Lying in bed, just barely surfacing from sleep, Alicia realized something she hadnât let herself think before:
She didnât feel like that anymore.
Not about him.
The softness she used to hold for Carmy had faded, dulled down by time and truth. There had to be a slight anger and bitterness. There was no way there wasnât because what else would be the reason for her actions after she found out he was in the competition.
The silence they built everything on?
It wasnât peace.
It was the sound of something dying too slowly to notice.
Summary: It's the final chapter of this love story!
A/N: I honestly donât even know where to start⊠Just thank you. Truly. If youâve made it all the way here, thank you for sticking with this story â itâs been such a ride, and Iâve loved every second of it. Your support, your messages, your excitement... itâs what kept me going. Iâve felt so inspired and so motivated to tell their story because of you. đ„ș I can only hope this final chapter gives you the closure you deserve â something soft, something full of love. Please let me know what you think; Iâd love to hear your thoughts. đ
Audio Recording â September 3rdÂ
âOkay. Itâs⊠September. Still warm out. Carmenâs in the kitchen, barefoot, making pancakes even though we were supposed to skip breakfast and go out. I think heâs doing it just because he knows I love how the apartment smells after he cooks. Iâm recording this becauseâwell, just in case. In case my brain decides to do something dumb again. So I can remind myself. Right now, Iâm happy. He makes me happy. I feel safe, and grounded, and weirdly new. But not empty-new. Like I get to be full again, just slowly. With him.âÂ
After that night in her apartment, they didnât go back. They didnât undo anything. Instead, they moved forwardâmessy, deliberate, hopeful.Â
They didnât talk about the âwhat ifsâ much. Carmen didnât ask if she remembered anything else, and Y/N stopped pretending she was supposed to. What mattered more were the new habits they built. Morning coffee with music instead of news. Her hands on his back as he cooked. His forehead kisses before she left for her culinary classesâbecause yeah, sheâd signed up for a few to step up her game. Quietly, determinedly. She didnât want to just remember how it used to beâshe wanted to live it.Â
And Carmen was learning too. Relearning, actually. Because Y/N wasnât exactly the same. There were pieces of her now that surprised himâquiet rebellions and subtle softnesses he didnât remember. Like how she started sleeping with the window cracked open, even in the cold, claiming she needed to hear the city breathing. Or how she suddenly got really into old vinyl records, letting entire albums play out as she cooked or showered, singing along off-key without shame. Or how she cried once, not out of sadness, but because someone gifted her a book she used to love and she didnât remember the storyâonly the way the cover felt in her hands.Â
It knocked the air out of him, all of it. The wonder. The strangeness. The tenderness. He knew her inside out once. And now he was falling in love all over againâwith someone familiar, and still completely new.Â
They kept building from there.Â
Within a month after their first night Y/N finally moved in with him. Living together settled into a rhythm surprisingly fast. Mornings meant Carmen pressing a coffee mug into her hand before either of them spoke. She liked to sit on the floor near the window, writing in her notebook, scribbling ideas, observations, questions. Heâd quietly start breakfast, sometimes asking her to taste a sauce or smell an herbâjust to keep her sharp, he said.Â
They went to the farmerâs market most weekends. Carmen made it a ritualâwalking beside her with canvas bags slung over his shoulder, letting her pick peaches and taste tomatoes off a stall. Sometimes, theyâd split a pastry and sit on a bench in silence. Other times, sheâd drag him into a deep dive about produce sourcing or seasonal menus, and heâd just listen, eyes on her mouth, nodding.Â
The nights that they didn't need to work were sacred. No phones, no talk about schedules unless necessary. Just books, movies, slow dinners. Sometimes they danced in the living room, more because she kind of forced him to. Sometimes they said nothing and just laid tangled up on the couch. Â
Carmen had made a vowâsilent but sureânot to miss a second. Not anymore.Â
Audio Recording â October 12thÂ
âWe moved in together last month. I didnât freak out. I thought I might. Thought it would feel too fast. But it doesnât. Not with him. We folded my clothes into his drawers and made fun of how many jeans he owns. I kept all of my spicesâeven the ones he says are redundant. Itâs ours now, this space. I can feel it.âÂ
----Â
It happened on a Wednesday. The kind of evening where the city felt hushed but not quietâhorns in the distance, someoneâs music echoing faintly through an open window, the clink of silverware against ceramic.Â
Their apartment was a mess. Half-unpacked boxes still lined the walls. There was a pile of clean laundry on the couch, not folded, just⊠there. Carmen had kicked off his shoes but left them in the middle of the hallway. A pan sat in the sink, soaking.Â
Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair up, wearing one of his old sweatshirts that hung off her shoulder. She was trying to light a candle but the lighter kept giving out. Carmen watched from the doorway, arms crossed, tired and full in the same breath.Â
âLighterâs dead,â she muttered.Â
He stepped forward, took it from her hand gently, flicked it twice until the flame caught, and lit the candle.Â
âThatâs because you donât talk to it nice,â he said.Â
She rolled her eyes. âYouâre such a dork.âÂ
They stood there for a second in the amber glow. She leaned back against the counter. He didnât move. Just looked at her. Hair frizzed from humidity. Eyes soft. Skin glowing like she'd absorbed the light.Â
âWhat?â she asked, tilting her head.Â
âNothing. JustâŠâ He reached up to push her hair behind her ear. âYou are really here.âÂ
She blinked. âThatâs a weird thing to say.âÂ
âYou know what I mean.âÂ
She did. The candle flickered. The apartment was still a mess. And yetâthere was this stillness between them, like theyâd finally landed somewhere that held.Â
Y/N let out a breath, almost a laugh. Then she said it. Like it had been sitting on her tongue for weeks, waiting for the right kind of quiet.Â
âI love you.âÂ
Carmenâs eyes flicked up fast, but he didnât speak. He just looked at her, and she could see itâall of itâin his expression. The rush. The ache. The relief.Â
âI donât know how many times I said it before,â she added, voice a little smaller now. âBefore the accident, I mean. I donât know if I ever got it right. But Iââ She exhaled. âI feel it now. More than ever.âÂ
Carmen stepped in close. His hand rested low on her back, thumb tracing lazy circles. âYouâve said it before. A thousand times.â He smiled, a little breathless. âStill never enough.âÂ
She smiled.Â
âSay it again.âÂ
âI love you, Carmen.âÂ
He kissed her like the words were a promise. Like hearing them now, in this new version of them, meant theyâd been found again. Even better.Â
And the crew got to know about them during their housewarming party.Â
It wasnât planned. They hadnât rehearsed a speech or anything. It just happenedâlike everything else had between them latelyâorganic, inevitable. The apartment smelled like roasted garlic and warm bread, the air buzzing with conversation and clinking bottles. The lights were dim, music low, and almost everyone from The Bear was there. Even Sydney.Â
She clocked it first. One look at the way Carmenâs hand settled low on Y/Nâs back, fingers curling in without hesitation, and she raised an eyebrow. Didnât say a wordâjust smirked like sheâd known since day one.Â
Richie, on the other hand, nearly dropped his beer. "Whoa, whoa, whoaâwhat the fuck is this?" he blurted, pointing between them. "You two? Seriously? Since when?"Â
Carmen slid a glance at Y/N before nodding. "Yeah. Weâre together... Since Milan."Â
Fak let out a triumphant cheer. âI knew it! You had that âIâm-seeing-God-dailyâ look, Carmy!âÂ
Laughter rippled through the room. Natalie smiled slowly, moving in to hug Y/N first, then Carmen. âItâs about time,â she said. âIâm happy for you. Both of you.âÂ
And just like that, it wasnât weird. It wasnât dramatic. Just one of those truths that had been waiting for everyone else to catch up to.Â
The apartment filled with warmth and clatter, Fak refilling drinks and Tina dancing in the kitchen with Sugar. At one point, Carmen leaned against the counter, beer in hand, watching Y/N laugh with Ebra and Tina, her face flushed, happy. His expression softened into something unguarded. Like heâd finally found the missing step in a dance heâd been doing blind.Â
She was at The Bear every day, stepped back into the kitchen as chef de cuisine. It wasnât easy. The instincts were still there, deep in her bones, but the memory gaps made certain things harderâtiming, sequencing, little tricks she used to pull off without thinking.Â
She didnât let it stop her.Â
Instead, she studied harder. Took night courses. Watched tutorials on her phone between prep and service. Asked questions, even when it embarrassed her. She was determined to earn her place againânot because anyone doubted her, but because she refused to coast on who she used to be.Â
Carmen helped without overstepping. Reviewed her notes with her at night, sent her old recipes theyâd developed together. Pulled her aside during service when she looked overwhelmed, just to ask, âYou good?â and give her a second to breathe. He didnât think she needed to improveâdidnât want her to chase some ghost version of herselfâbut he understood why she had to try.Â
And every time she held the line, ran a smooth service, or improvised something brilliant, it showed. She was building herself backânot into who she was, but into someone stronger.Â
----Â
Audio Recording â November 9th Â
âTodayâs the day. Big family party. Ciceroâs birthday. Which meansâyeahâIâm meeting Carmenâs mom. He didnât even want to go, honestly. Said itâd be loud, weird, ânot fun for anyone involved.â But I told him I wanted to meet her. That I could handle it. So now Iâm dressed like Iâm going to war with lasagna and emotional landmines. Heâs nervous. Keeps pretending heâs not, but heâs been pacing all morning. I think heâs scared sheâll say something cruel or⊠or just be her. But I want to see this part of his world. Even the hard parts. Especially the hard parts.âÂ
The Cicero house was packedâheat rolling off the oven and from the too-many bodies in the kitchen. Music played too loud in the background. Kids screamed in the hallway. Someone dropped a fork and it clattered like a gunshot.Â
Carmen stood stiff near the kitchen doorway, one hand around a sweating glass of club soda, the other resting on the small of Y/Nâs back. He hadnât let go since they arrived.Â
Y/N could feel how tight he was wound. Every muscle in him pulled taut like he expected the ceiling to cave in.Â
âRelax, Bear,â she whispered, nudging him gently. âItâs just family.âÂ
He didnât answer, just gave her a look like you donât know what that word means here.Â
And thenâher. Donna.Â
She moved through the dining room like she still owned it, cigarette smoke clinging to her perfume, eyes sharp even before the first glass of wine. Her gaze locked on Carmen instantly. Â
âMy baby boy,â Donna announced, arms open, voice already carrying a hint of performance. âLook at you.âÂ
Carmen managed a smileâbrief, tight. âHi, Ma.âÂ
She kissed his cheek, then turned to Y/N, giving her a slow once-over.Â
âAnd you must be the new girl.â Not her name. Not his girlfriend. Just the new girl.Â
Y/N didnât flinch. She smiled, polite but unbothered. âHi. Iâm Y/N.âÂ
Donnaâs expression didnât change. âWait, what happened to the doctor... What was her name again?âÂ
âClaire,â Y/N said evenly. âThat was the last one. Not in the picture anymore.âÂ
There was a flickerâjust a flickerâof surprise in Donnaâs eyes before she glanced her over.Â
âI hear you cook,â she said. âThat true?âÂ
âI do. Not like Carmen, but yeah.âÂ
Donnaâs smile curved in a way that didnât reach her eyes. âMmh. Just donât let him get too distracted, sweetheart. Restaurantâs hard enough without love lives dragging it down.âÂ
Natalie, standing by the drinks, went rigid.Â
Carmen glanced between them, jaw tight. âMa, donâtââÂ
âItâs a joke,â Donna said, waving him off with a too-casual flick of her hand. âJesus, donât be so sensitive, Carmen.âÂ
Y/N didnât blink. Instead, she reached for one of the dishes laid out on the buffetâa glass bowl of pasta salad, bright with lemon and red onion, clearly homemade.Â
âThis yours?â she asked, scooping a little onto her plate. âSmells amazing.âÂ
Donna blinked, caught off guard. âYeah.âÂ
Y/N took a bite, nodded thoughtfully. âCarmen actually showed me your recipe once. Iâve been dying to try it from the source.âÂ
Donna blinked again. âDid he?âÂ
âYeah, we even talked about maybeâif youâd be okay with itâincorporating it into a Sunday special at the restaurant. Something simple. Personal.âÂ
Donnaâs brows lifted, arms folding like she wasnât sure whether to be annoyed or pleased. âTo me you havenât said anything yet, Carmen.âÂ
Y/N glanced at him. His shoulders were drawn tight, like he was bracing for impact.Â
So she smiled again, turning back to Donna.Â
âWell, then maybe tonightâs the night,â she said lightly. âIâd love to hear what you think we should tweak. Honestly, Carmen thinks it needs less lemonâbut I say thatâs what makes it yours.âÂ
There was a pause. Not a silenceâpeople still moved around them, music played low, silver clinked against plates. But the air shifted.Â
Donnaâs face didnât soften exactly. But the sharp edge in her expression dulled just slightly. Her gaze dropped to Y/Nâs plate. Then back up.Â
âHmph,â she said. âWell, itâs not the real version unless you make it with that shitty old Pyrex I used. Glass gets too cold otherwise.âÂ
Y/N smiled. âGood to know. You still have it?âÂ
Donna narrowed her eyes. âOf course I do. What, you think I throw things out?âÂ
âIâd love to borrow it,â Y/N said, calm and sincere. âMight make all the difference.âÂ
For the first time, Donna let out something close to a laugh. Short, dry. But not cruel.Â
Carmen, still watching, exhaled slowlyâalmost silentlyâbut Y/N caught it. And so did Natalie, across the room, her shoulders finally dropping as she turned back toward the drinks.Â
Donna shook her head, muttering something under her breath that almost sounded like, Jesus, sheâs good. Then, louder, âWell. Letâs eat before everything dries out.âÂ
And just like that, she moved on, calling someoneâs name in the other room.Â
Carmen didnât move. Just stood there, watching like the air had shifted and he was still catching up to it.Â
Y/N leaned in slightly, voice low. âYou okay?âÂ
He nodded, once. Then again, slower. âYeah. JustâŠâ His eyes flicked to hers, like he couldnât quite believe what heâd just seen. âYouâre kind of unbelievable.âÂ
Y/N smiled, bumping his arm with her shoulder. âTold you I could handle it.âÂ
He let out a breath, finally. It sounded like the first real one in minutes.Â
âYeah,â he said quietly. âI think she likes you.âÂ
Y/N looked over to where Donna was now holding court with two distant cousins and a half-full glass of wine. âLetâs not go that far,â she said, grinning. âBut Iâll take ânot openly hostile.ââÂ
----Â
Later that night, the party was long behind them. The apartment was quiet, the hum of the city muted behind shut windows, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp across the street. Inside, all that could be heard were their ragged breaths, the creak of the bed, the wet sound of skin on skin.Â
Y/N lay flat on her stomach, hips lifted just enough to let him move, legs parted and trembling beneath him. Carmen hovered over her, his chest flush to her back, his thrusts deep, slow, intentional. One arm braced beside her head, the other working her clit in slow, devastating circles.Â
âFâfuck, babyâŠâ he gasped, his mouth at her shoulder. âSoâfuckâyouâre just⊠youâre perfect.âÂ
She whimpered, head turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow.Â
âYou didnât have to⊠I mean tonight, with my mom, youâshit.â He bit down gently at the base of her neck, breath caught. âThe way you just⊠handled it. Handled her.âÂ
Y/N moaned, the pressure building. âBear, pleaseâŠâÂ
âYeah, Iâm here,â he rasped, hips grinding deeper. âIâmâfuckâIâm here.âÂ
He broke off again as her breath hitched, her moan rising when his fingers stroked her just right.Â
âShitâshit, babyâdonâtâdonât do that, Iâmââ His voice cracked.Â
Then he stilled. Slid out of her with a breathless groan, hand caressing down her spine as she whimpered at the loss.Â
âNo,â she protested softly. âWhyâd youâ?âÂ
âJustâturn over, baby. Please. I gottaââ His voice broke. âWanna see you.âÂ
He flipped her gently, not letting go of her for a second. Her body was flushed and slick, eyes glassy with heat. Carmen guided her legs around his hips, slipped back inside with a low moan that sounded like it hurt.Â
âGodâCarmââ His forehead dropped to hers.Â
âI canâtââ His voice was strangled. âYouâat that party, the way you⊠I watched you, and Iâfuck. I couldnât breathe.âÂ
She clung to him, breath shaking. âBabeââÂ
âI love you,â he said, like it punched out of him. âI fucking love you, IâGod, I donât evenââ He kissed her, messy, urgent, barely breathing. âYouâre so good to me. Too good. I donâtâdonât deserve thisââÂ
His hips stuttered, losing rhythm, his forehead pressing tight to hers.Â
âTry so hard. Every fucking day. To be better. For you. With you.âÂ
She cupped his face, grounding him.Â
âYou are,â she whispered. âYou are, babe.âÂ
âI donât wanna fuck this up,â he choked out. âI donât wanna lose you again.âÂ
âYou wonât.â She reached up, fingers stroking his jaw, anchoring him. âI love you. Youâre everything.âÂ
That was it. His control shattered. He groaned, low and broken, and drove into her harder nowâdesperate, deep, each thrust wild and unfiltered, chasing her into the dark.Â
When she cameâshaking, gasping his nameâhe was right there with her, falling apart inside her, holding on like he could burn this moment into his skin.Â
And afterward, when their bodies slowed and softened, when he collapsed over her, still inside, still trembling, he didnât say anything else.Â
Didnât pull out. Didnât move away. Hands at her waist, lips on her shoulder, like maybe if he held on tight enough, he could keep the whole world still.Â
----Â
The apartment smelled like cinnamon and brown butter. Carmen was in the kitchen packing up the dessertâpear and frangipane tart, glossy and perfectâwhile Y/N sifted through a pile of wrapped gifts, mentally checking her list.Â
âFak, Richie, Nat, SugarâŠâ she murmured, nudging a red box into the bag. âCarmenâŠâÂ
He looked over. âYou keep checking mine like Iâm hard to shop for.âÂ
âYou are hard to shop for,â she shot back. âBut I nailed it this time. Youâll see.âÂ
He gave her a mock-suspicious look and zipped the pastry box shut.Â
Audio Recording â December 24thÂ
âOkay, Christmas Eve update: I might have gone overboard with the presents. Carmen says weâre gonna need a dolly to carry them all to Natâs. But everyoneâs getting something that made me think of them, so⊠worth it. Heâs in the kitchen now, humming some terrible version of âLet It SnowââI think on purpose. We made dessert together, an thereâs flour all over the counter. I kinda hope he cleans it before we leave. I donât know, itâs justâeverything feels good. Like⊠like Iâve got this little piece of happiness, and I want to freeze it. Iâm really happy. Iâm excited. And Iâm so, so in love with him. I want to remember this version of us. Just in case.âÂ
She stood in the bathroom now, finishing her eyeliner. The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and Carmâs cologneâheâd just passed behind her a few minutes ago, muttering something about finding a belt.Â
He came back in quietly, adjusting his sleeves.Â
âYou think this works?â he asked, looking down at his shirt. âNot too much?âÂ
She glanced up.Â
And then⊠stilled.Â
The shirt was light blue. Soft plaid. Familiar.Â
Her breath hitched.Â
âIâI know that shirt.âÂ
He paused.Â
âI gave it to you,â she said slowly, âlast Christmas. I rememberâI thought it brought out your eyes. I found it at that place by the bridge, the one with the weird windows and the bell over the door. We were walking home and you kept teasing me for being cold but didnât give me your jacket.âÂ
She laughed a little, shaky. âYou wore it the next morning. You made coffee. You burned your hand on the kettle.âÂ
Carmen looked at her like the floor had dropped out beneath him. âYeah,â he said. âThatâs right.âÂ
Y/Nâs hands gripped the edge of the sink. Her heart was racing now.Â
âIs it⊠is it all coming back?â she asked, barely above a whisper. Her voice cracked. âIs this it?âÂ
He reached for her hand gently, grounding her. âI donât know. But if it isâthis is a beginning.âÂ
She nodded, though her brows were pulled together. âAnd if itâs not? What if this is all I get?âÂ
He didnât hesitate. ââThen itâs still everything.âÂ
She looked up at him, vulnerable, unsure.Â
Carmen squeezed her hand. âYouâright nowâare enough. I loved who you were. I love who you are. If all I get is this version of us? Itâs still everything.âÂ
He paused, brushing a knuckle gently down her cheek.Â
âThereâs no recipe for remembering, babe,â he said softly. âNo steps. No perfect timing. It just⊠happens. Or it doesnât. But either way, Iâm not going anywhere.âÂ
Y/N blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. âItâs a spark,â she whispered. âThat momentâitâs blurry, but itâs there.âÂ
Carmen smiled, eyes glassy. âThen thatâs something.âÂ
She nodded again, and this time her smile reached her eyes. âIt is.âÂ
He pulled her into his arms, warm and steady, wrapping her tight against his chest. She sank into it, breathing him in, holding him like he was the only thing anchoring herâand maybe he was.Â
They stood there for a long moment, just holding on. Not speaking. Just feeling.Â
âMerry Christmas, Carm.âÂ
His voice cracked just slightly. âMerry Christmas, babe.âÂ
----Â
The living room glowed with soft yellow light, warm and a little chaotic in the best way. Nat moved from couch to armchair, passing around a tray of cookies shaped like stars and trees. Richie tried to sneak three at once, caught mid-grab by her sharp glare and swatted hand.Â
The Christmas tree blinked unevenly in the cornerâeach ornament different from the next. Some glittered, others were clumsily painted by tiny hands years ago, a few clearly handmade by a child with too much glue and not enough patience. It didnât match. But it told their story. Every crooked star and scratched bauble was part of this loud, loving, stitched-together family.Â
Donna sat on the floorâon the floorâlaughing as she tied a red velvet ribbon around her grandsonâs head like a crown. He squealed with joy, arms waving, and Donna actually let him smear a cookie across her sweater without flinching. Nat caught the moment from across the room, her eyes going soft.Â
And in the center of it all was the pile of wrapping paper, tissue, and ribbons, gifts opened and exclaimed over.Â
Everyone had loved theirsâY/N had made each by hand. A tiny spice box for Tina with labels in her handwriting. A painted frame for Sugar and Pete, with a picture she took of them at Ciceroâs party tucked inside. A silly mug for Richie that said âWorldâs Okayest Cousin.âÂ
But Carmenâs was the one that made the room go quiet.Â
There were photos from Milan â him holding a plate of saffron risotto with a proud, crooked smile; her seated at a tiny table outside, mid-laugh, a glass of white wine in hand. Some from Copenhagen â their bundled silhouettes reflected in the window of a bakery at dawn; Carmen kneeling to tie her boot in a snowy alley while she snapped a photo.Â
Then the more recent ones â The Bear, glowing behind them at night; her curled on their living room floor, laughing beside board game; a blurred selfie of the two of them, Carmen half-asleep on their couch, his hand tangled in her hair.Â
Some photos had little notes beside them in her handwriting â not full memories, just fragments. Guesses. Hopes.Â
âI think we were happy here.âÂ
âI hope you kissed me after this.âÂ
âYou look like you loved me.âÂ
At the back, blank pages waited. A folded card nestled in the pocket read:Â
To the boy who never stopped loving me. Thank you for staying. Fill the rest together?Â
Carmen didnât speak at first. He just sat there, the scrapbook open in his lap, thumb grazing the edge of the envelope like it might disappear if he moved too fast. His eyes traced over her notes, lingered on each Polaroid like he was trying to memorize the curve of her smile, the shape of their past.Â
When he finally looked up, his gaze was glassy but steady.Â
Y/N stood a few steps away, unsure, breath caught halfway in her chest.Â
He didnât say a word. Just reached for her hand and tugged gently â a silent question.Â
She came easily, settling into his lap, arms slipping around his shoulders.Â
He buried his face in her neck, exhaled slow and deep. Then, soft, against her skin: âThis is the best gift ever.âÂ
Her fingers threaded into his hair. âI tried my best, Carm. Hope you like it.âÂ
âI love it.â His voice caught. âI love you.â Â
Then he kissed her â not urgent, not claiming. Just there. Full of gratitude, of love that had waited and endured.Â
Now, she stood across the room, watching him talk quietly with Fak near the kitchen. His profile lit by the golden Christmas lights, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, that same light blue shirt she remembered.Â
He looked up.Â
Found her across the room.Â
And smiled.Â
Not the half-smile. Not the guarded one. The real one. The one that said I see you. Iâm right here.Â
She smiled back, a quiet breath escaping her. The memory still tingled at the back of her mindânot fully formed, but real. A piece of something that belonged to them.Â
They landed with the kind of quiet nervousness only Carmy could command. Sydney walked just behind him, flipping through notes she didnât need to read again. Marcus had his headphones in but wasnât actually listening to anything. Fak had been talking nonstop until they arrived, where even he now stood silent, his eyes wide.
As they entered the grand building, a concierge with a headset barely looked up. âName and affiliation?â
âThe Bear,â Carmy said.
That was all it took. A door opened to reveal a wide, high-ceilinged space filled with other chefs. Every kind of chef. Cocky pop-ups. Michelin-hardened lifers. Tattooed line cooks standing next to TV-famous culinary school prodigies. And all of them had the same expression: who the hell are you, and why are you here?
âHoly shit, itâs the Ego Room,â Fak muttered.
Cameras lined the cornersâsilent, unobtrusive, and everywhere.
A giant monitor at the front of the room lit up.
WELCOME COMPETITORS
YOUR KITCHEN STATIONS WILL BE READY SHORTLY.
DO NOTE THAT YOU'LL BE RECORDED THROUGH THIS WHOLE PROCESS.
ALL FINAL SUBMISSIONS DUE BY 6PM.
AWARD CEREMONY TONIGHT @ 9PM. DRESS CODE: FORMAL.
Sydney blinked. âTonight? That canât be right.â
Marcus looked up. âWait, wait. This whole thing is only one day?â
Even Carmy looked up from his pacing. âThatâs not how this usually goes.â
Whispers erupted. Then louder whispers. Then shit-talking.
NomaâŠ
Luca barely crossed the threshold before a group of young European chefs clapped him on the back.
âOi, the English are here!â
Luca offered his usual polite smirk, but his eyes were scanning the room. Not just for competitorsâbut for chaos.
âYou feel this?â he muttered to the sous chef beside him. âItâs like they locked us in a pressure cooker just to watch what blows up first.â
âFeels like a setup,â one of them muttered.
âFeels like reality TV,â another added.
Luca saw the cameras too. Dozens of them, tucked into corners, tracking motion. Subtle red lights blinking.
He caught sight of Carmy across the roomâtense as ever, shoulder blades practically trying to pierce his shirt. Their eyes didnât meet. Not yet.
Someone behind him said, âI heard Lloris isnât even here. They submitted everything already.â
âYeah? I heard Lloris hacked the competition. Probably doesnât even exist.â
âOr itâs some PR stunt. No way someone like that doesnât have an ego big enough to show up.â
Luca didnât say anything, but the back of his neck burned. He remembered the kiss-marked photo. The taste of one of the desserts that left him rattled for hours. Whoever Lloris was, they werenât an amateur. They were dangerous.
The BearâŠ
âYo,â Fak whispered, leaning toward Sydney, âwhy does it feel like everyone hereâs about to start a turf war?â
âBecause they are,â Sydney muttered. âThis isnât just a kitchen. Itâs a battlefield.â
âDo we even know what weâre making?â Marcus asked Carmy.
Carmy didnât answer. His jaw was locked. His mind somewhere else.
Somewhere between the ghosts of New York and the weight of Chicago.
NomaâŠ
Lucaâs team huddled around a table, ignoring the glances from others.
âPlan doesnât change,â he said. âWe make what we came here to make. Let them spin. Let them gossip.â
One sous chef leaned in. âYou think theyâll be here?â
Lucaâs face didnât move, but his voice did.
She was going to throw up. Or faint. Or both.
It was stupidâshe knew that. She wasnât a rookie. She wasnât a baby chef anymore. But still, standing just outside the doors to the competitionâs holding room, Alicia felt like a fraud in a stolen coat.
She was one of the last to arrive. On purpose.
Everyone inside was already mingling, networking, scanning the room like hawks. She saw chefs she recognized from articles, shows, and nightmares. People sheâd cooked beside and people sheâd actively avoided for years. She saw cameras. Too many. One in every corner, it seemed, like the whole thing was a set.
Her breathing quickened, palms sweating against the fabric of her coat. She pressed herself into a shadowed corner of the hallway.
âOkay,â she whispered, eyes closed. âOkay, youâre fine. Youâre literally insane but youâre fine. You once lit a duck on fire mid-service and laughed. You threw a cake at a wall in Copenhagen and got a standing ovation. This? This is just nerves. Just ego soup. Nothing new. Be the fucking storm.â
A beat.
She repeated: âBe the fuckingââ
âStorm?â a voice interrupted.
Her eyes snapped open.
He hadnât meant to sneak up. The chef had been mumbling something fierce in the shadows, and he thought they might be hyperventilating.
âHey, you alright?â he asked, hands up in a non-threatening way.
The woman looked caught. Mid-pep-talk. Mid-meltdown.
She blinked at him once. Then twice. âYeah, yeah. Just⊠breathing.â
âFair,â Luca said. âIâm Luca.â
She hesitated. âMary.â
He offered a half-smile. She didnât take his hand.
âI get it. Itâs a lot in there,â he said, gesturing to the big glass doors. âFeels more like a cage match than a culinary competition.â
âI wasnât expecting the camera crews,â she said.
âYeah, they usually keep things more⊠underground. This yearâs different. No idea why.â He gave a small shrug. âFirst comp?â
She looked him over like she wanted to laugh but didnât. âSomething like that.â
He caught a flicker in her eyes. A subtle shift in her attentionâdirected over his shoulder. He followed her gaze, just in time to spot a chef on the other end of the room making eye contact with her.
It was Marcus. From The Bear.
Before Luca could ask anythingâ
âCompetitors, please begin moving to your assigned stations. Kitchens are now open.â
The intercom crackled overhead. The doors swung open wider. People moved like water.
When Luca turned backâ
She was gone.
âWaitâwhat theâ?â he muttered.
She slipped into the crowd like a ghost.
Heart pounding, adrenaline fizzing in her ears. Seeing Marcusâof all peopleâhad knocked something loose in her chest. Luca hadnât recognized her, but Marcus?
Heâd looked at her. Really looked.
No time to panic. No time to ask herself why her knees were shaking.
She moved quickly, slipping into a group of chefs being directed toward the prep spaces. David had warned her about the chaos. Youâll want to disappear anyway, heâd said.
He had no idea how right heâd been.
âWhy were you talking to Alicia?â Marcus asked without preamble.
Luca turned. âWait that Alicia? She told me her name was Maryâ
âNo, that was definitely her. Iâd recognize her from anywhere. But why is she her if she wasnât listed as a competitorâ
âDonât know. Maybe subbing in for some kitchen. But she wasâuhânervous. Looked like she was going to crack any minute. She dipped as soon as the announcement came.â
Marcus squinted. âYeah. That tracks.â
He didnât explain, just nodded once and walked off, leaving Luca with a lingering sense of something not adding up.
He couldnât stop thinking about itâher face, her voice, the way she vanished like a damn ghost.
As the group moved toward the hallway that led to the kitchen spaces, Marcus caught up to Carmy, pulling at his sleeve just enough to slow him down.
âYo, Carmy,â he said under his breath. âI think Aliciaâs here.â
Carmy stopped walking.
Sydney and Richie, just ahead, turned at the sound.
âWhat?â Carmy asked, brows already furrowing.
âI saw her. Outside the prep room. She was talking to Luca, gave him a fake nameââMaryâ or something. Then dipped right before the announcement. But it was her, Iâm sure.â
Sydney blinked, mouth slightly open. Richie let out a low whistle.
âIs she competing?â Sydney asked, voice low and tense.
âNo clue. Luca thinks sheâs working under someone, maybe subbing for a kitchen.â
âJesus,â Richie muttered. âThis place just became the freakinâ Hunger Games.â
Carmy stayed quiet, staring down the hallway like it might offer answers. His jaw clenched onceâhard.
Marcus watched him for a second. âYou okay?â
Carmy blinked like heâd just been yanked back into his body. âYeah. Yeah, itâs fine.â
He glanced at all of them and took a breath.
âListen. Whatever sheâs doing hereâwhatever this isâitâs not our business right now. Okay? Not in there.â He pointed toward the kitchen doors. âWhen weâre cooking, itâs just the food. Nothing else. No whispers. No theories. None of that high school gossip shit.â
They all nodded, a little hesitant.
âIâm serious,â Carmy said, firmer now. âWeâre being filmed. Everythingâs being recorded for the show and the judges. Eyes everywhere. Focus.â
Sydney gave a quiet âGot it.â Richie zipped his lips with a pretend motion. Marcus gave a small nod.
Carmy paused, then added, quieter this time:
âWeâve worked too fucking hard to get here. Donât let anything pull you off the line. Especially not ghosts.â
He pushed open the doors, and the bright, stainless-steel chaos of the competition kitchen greeted them.
And just like that, they stepped inâchefs, not friends. Competitors, not people. The rest would have to wait.
IThey handed her a mic the moment she stepped in.
Not just any lightâthe kind that burned. Stage lighting. Camera lighting. The kind that made kitchens feel like operating rooms.
âLloris, right?â a crew member asked, holding out a waiver with one hand and adjusting a lens with the other.
She nodded.
He leaned in. âWeâll grab a few short bites as you move, but where we really want your voice is at plating. Take us through the story of the dish. Just a couple sentences. Doesnât have to be theatrical, but⊠you know, itâs good TV.â
Aliciaâs lips twitched. âSure. Good TV.â
He didnât hear the irony. He moved on.
Thenâ
The clock started.
She was already in motion.
Focused. Sharp. Silent.
Everything else dropped away. The soft hum of cameras, the shifting shadows of the crew, even the echo of Marcusâs eyes finding hers earlierâ
None of it mattered now.
Only the food mattered.
And today, she wasnât just cooking.
She was telling the story they were never supposed to hear.
The broth was hot, deep, blackened to the edge of bitterness. She poured it with precision, steam curling like smoke signals. The air filled with the scent of carbon and salt and something olderâmemory, maybe.
A voice beside the camera asked softly, âCan you tell us what this one means to you?â
Alicia didnât stop plating. Just murmured:
âFirst time I got screamed at on the line, I burned the onions. Thought it meant I wasnât cut out for this. Turns outâI just needed to burn better.â
The dish looked bruised.
But breathing.
Course II: Family Meal
A refined arroz con pollo: crisp skin, saffron rice, chili, umami broth.
This one came easier. Her hands slowed, just a touch, like reverence was built into the muscle memory.
âShe taught me to salt with my fingers. Said spoons donât know what food needs,â Alicia said, mostly to the dish, not the crew.
The plate shined under the lights.
âYou mean your mentor?â a voice asked.
âMy grandmother.â
A small smile ghosted across her lips. Then vanished.
Course III: Silence Service
Beet tartare, horseradish, black vinegar gel, seared T-bone.
Cold plate. Surgical movements. The camera hovered close to the pristine red against white porcelain.
Alicia didnât look up.
âSilence can be armor,â she said as she wiped the edges clean. âOr it can be a weapon.â
The dish looked like it had never been touched by human hands.
She didnât elaborate.
They didnât push.
Course IV: The Note
An anonymous dish, now public.
Same plating. Same proportions. The same sear mark she once used like a signature.
She breathed differently during this one. Deeper. Slower.
Her shoulders finally dropped.
Each component landed on the plate like a memory she didnât mind revisiting.
âItâs sweet,â someone whispered from production.
Alicia looked up, just briefly. âYeah. Itâs not sorry about it, either.â
Course VII: Still Here
Deconstructed chaosâbalanced, wild, whole.
The last plate was a storm of movement. Nothing about it clean. Everything about it intentional.
As she laid the final garnish, her hand didnât shake.
âFinal course,â someone prompted. âWhatâs it called?â
She stepped back. Eyes locked on the dish.
âStill Here.â
No one said anything for a long time.
She didnât wait.
When the last plate left her hands finished before time was up. As the dishes got taken away Alicia pulled her apron off like armor after battle. Her body was buzzing, high on adrenaline and memory and defiance. She scrubbed down her station like it owed her something.
The crew stayed quiet. No final interview. No dramatic music.
Just her.
Alone in the echo of what sheâd built.
She slipped out the back the same way she came inâ
Quiet. Sharp. Undefeated.
Tonight, theyâd hand someone a trophy.
But just them?
She told the truth.
And for onceâŠ
Everyone had to listen.
NomaâŠ
This wasnât his first high-stakes service.
But it was the first where everything felt⊠watched.
Luca adjusted his apron, checked the position of his brigadeâtight-knit, silent, ready. He didnât speak much before service. Didnât need to. Theyâd already been through hell together at Noma. They knew what this was.
Still, there was an edge today. And he knew exactly where it came from.
Lloris.
Whoever they were, theyâd managed to crawl into the bones of the competition. And into his head. The notes, the gifts, the goddamn pastry he couldnât stop thinking about.
This one punched. He plated it fast, preciseâhe wanted the dish to hit the judges with the same jarring force the duck hearts hit him as a young line cook in Copenhagen, forced to break down birds with his bare hands at 5 a.m.
âMessy beginnings,â Lucas sou muttered. âBut you learn to love the cut.â
Course III: Fermentation Studies
Carrot koji, aged beef fat, wild thyme.
This was his nerdy sideâexperimentation at its finest. A whole dish built around patience and decay.
âTime isnât just an ingredient,â another member of noma said under their breath as they drizzled the beef fat over the koji. âThat's the point.â
Course IV: Absence
An empty plateâfollowed by a covered cloche opened to reveal a single, tiny langoustine claw on a delicate bed of juniper ash and smoked cream.
A statement. A pause. An interruption.
The staff had hesitated when he first proposed it.
Now, he watched them carry it out.
âLoss,â Luca said simply. âSometimes flavor is just the echo.â
Course V: Heat Check
Roasted bone marrow, chili crisp, Icelandic rye crumble, charred leeks.
This one was boldâunapologetic, even arrogant.
It was his version of fuck around and find outâespecially for Lloris, who he knew would hear about it eventually.
âYou want to play?â Lucaâs sous chef muttered. âHereâs my shot.â
Course VI: Heritage Folded
Pasta ripiena filled with lamb shoulder, fermented mushroom, butter tea foam.
This was the heart of it all. Europe folded into him. Techniques learned on four different continents. A dish that made no sense except to him.
âWe carry where weâve been,â two members of Nomas team say this, watching as each plate was handed off. âYou donât get this overnight.â
Course VII: The Line
A deceptively simple dessertâjust a square of aerated chocolate, salted milk skin, fennel pollen dust.
Brutal. Minimal. Controlled chaos beneath glass.
A nod to the line. To service. To every second of pain it took to make it look easy.
As he plated the final dish, Luca exhaled slow. The hum in his bones easedâjust barely.
Heâd said what he needed to say.
Not with words.
With plates.
With precision.
When the last tray left the kitchen, he leaned back against the counter, pulled off his apron, and let himself feel the exhaustion.
Would it be enough?
Maybe. Maybe not.
But at least now, if Lloris had something to sayâthey knew theyâd answered.
On their own terms.
The BearâŠ
The cameras were already rolling when The Bear team stepped into the kitchen. No one said it, but they all felt the pressure settle over themâlike a second apron, tighter and heavier than usual. This wasnât just service. This was filmed service. Judged. Dissected. Broadcast.
Carmy stood still for a moment too long at his station. The lights were hot overhead. The film crew kept a careful distance, but their presence was unmistakableâhovering like ghosts around every movement. Sydney tapped her knuckles against the counter once. Tina tied her apron tighter. Richie muttered something no one caught.
They didnât speak much. Just made eye contact, nodded.
young carmen berzatto :) or at least my adaptation of him lolol
pairing: carmen x fem!reader
cw: language, fluff and angst
pasture child - dominic fike
summary: carmen finds solace in his classmate, dialing her number every night to escape reality. but as the weight of reality hits the reader, things donât fall into place as carmen wishes.
a/n: guysssss reader is highkey bad in this đ i sorry. also this was originally supposed to be really sweet and heartwarming but like idk things shifted while i was writing. i need to start taking my lexapro again. this is my first time ever publishing my writing so like SCARED but idk if it doesnât make sense then thats that, but please please pleaseeee give me feedback. this probably wonât reach a single person but like itâs still funn. i lub u guys đ€ also i think i might do a second part where itâs a timeskip bc thatâs how the song goes. idk. LEMME KNOW IF I SHOULD.
carmen hesitated before dialing your number. calling you was a routine for him, but it self like every time he had to talk himself up to talk to you.
the brunette hugged his knees up to his chest, socked feet gently pressing into a wrinkled, navy duvet.
high school for carmen feels a big blur. sure he has friends and hobbies, but everything seemed frayed at the edges and fleeting like the world was a rug being pulled right from under his feet, leaving him to float headfirst into an abyss of nothingness.
but you.
you were the quiet type. your wardrobe a concoction of frills and long skirts, the fabric never brushing higher than your ankle. something that should deter carmyâs teenage brain fogged hormones, but it doesnât. instead, it makes him sit next to you in culinary club.
it makes him remember that you hate sweets but cant resist brownies. or that you love fettuccini, but canât stand cheese.
his fingers tighten around his phone as it rang.
your parents were strict, he knew that.
youâd leaned over to him in ap statistics, a folded sheet of paper sandwiched between your pointer and middle fingers. âonly call this number after nine,â you demanded while smiling sweetly, the scent of your strawberry lipgloss wafting into his nose. âthatâs when my parents go downstairs to sleep,â he remembers nodding, running his thumb over your curly handwriting.
his blue eyes trailed over to the digital alarm clock on his night stand that read 9:01. carmen knew he looked desperate calling you first every night, but any care in the word melted away as the line clicked and your soft breath was audible.
âhi,â you said quietly. youâd been curled on on the floor, head pressed against a childhood teddy bear that was tattered but filled with love.
this is how it always started. carmen would listen to each puff of breath that left your lips and close his eyes, clutching a pillow to his chest. his fingers would trace each fold of cotton, imagining your pajamas bunched in his fingers. he even asked you what perfume you liked just so he could spray it on his bed when youâd call, pretending that you were humming in his arms. it was so pathetic. so, so pathetic. but he needed it.
after muttering quietly about your day,s you paused on the other line, causing carmen to huff to himself. âhello?â he whispered, head rolling back against drywall.
âwhy are you friends with me?â your words were concise as always, but this time there was a tinge of uncertainty laced in them.
carmen shifted, his hand stilling on the pillow. âwhat do you mean?â
âlike,â you paused. âiâm weird. i live on a farm. we canât hang out. i canât even talk to you outside of schoolââ
âweâre talking right now,â
âweâre whispering right now,â you retort.
carmen blinks to himself, lips parted slightly. âi just like you,â he wants to stop himself from talking, but thatâs just not what his brain allows. âyou donât tell me to shut up. you donât ask for anything more from me,â a dry laugh comes from his side of the line and you close your eyes, clutching the phone tighter in your hand.
âyouâre soâŠspecial. youâre way smarter than a you give yourself credit for, and just hearing you talk is so refreshing because your brain isnât fucking rotted,â carmen smiles, then turns onto his side. âand youâre not weird. at least not in a bad way,â
you smile, heat rising up the back of your neck. âthank you,â
carmen scoffs, running a hand through his floppy curls. âno, thank you,â his breath sounded raspy through the phone, a sign that he was getting sleepy. with a new flush on your skin, you stood up and slid into your bed, splaying your fingers onto your freshly washed sheets.
âcarmen,â
âwhat?â
âi like you too,â
on the other end, carmy silently kicks his feet against his sheets, phone pressed into his chest to muffle the rustling before he places it back next to his ear. âyeah?â
âyeah,â you parrot.
âwhy?â
thereâs a pause, then a long breath.
âwell,â
a beat.
âi like to think of life as a beach. i think⊠i think of you, carmen, as a boat. one super, super far from the coastline. like way out there. almost as tiny as an ant. and, iâd like to think of myself as a dock. one off the coast, probably belonging to some snobby millionaireâs beach house,â your voice is a soft lullaby to him, his breath slowing down.
carmy slips under the sheets himself, placing his phone on speaker before the curve of his nose brushes against linen.
âi feel stagnant. like, iâm not going anywhere at all. justâŠa landmark almost. not a big one that anyone cares about or anything. just kinda there,â you breathe. âcarmen. youâre just full of potential and youâre steady moving along. youâre enjoying your life and actually focused on making a name for yourself,â you try not to sniffle as hot tears brim your eyes.
carmen on the other hand furrows his eyebrows, eyes fluttering open to stare at your contact across the screen.
âbut for some reason that i canât put my finger on, you steer away from the big, blue ocean. youâŠstop at the dock. you sit at it, lay out a blanket and have a picnic. you tan on it. you find meaning in something so meaningless,â a hot tear sears down your cheek. âand you make me feel like iâm more than just a girl,â
carmen falls silent on the other line, biting the inside of his cheek as he hears you quietly cry through his dingy speaker. pain aches and gnaws at his chest, spreading through his lungs. âdonât do thatââ
âno, carmy, itâs true,â you croak.
âstop that. youâre not fucking meaningless. youâre not this little dingy dock,â he breathes, clutching the pillow tighter against his chest.
thereâs a few moments of quiet where words linger in the air, but too far fetched to grasp.
until.
âi cant sit here and listen to you rag on yourself when you are literally the air i breathe,â carmen says quietly. itâs stupidly telling. he knows itâs too much, but his lips part again and they whisper, âi love you,â
on the other end, your heart blooms, thrumming against your ribcage in a pattern too fast to comprehend. itâs dizzying.
but itâs impossible. youâŠyouâre not fit to match him. youâre a slow moving river and heâs a rapid. youâre heat and heâs fire. youâre a bicycle and heâs lightning-freaking-mcqueen.
âno,â you whisper, to yourself more than anything.
then the line clicks dead.
a scorching hot phone and damp cheeks. thatâs all carmen had that night, and the next, and the next. heâd, heâd gotten a haircut, a new phone, and a diploma.
well, barely a diploma.
it was nice, sure. school was fine. life was fine.
but every night he fell asleep to the smell of vanilla and strawberries, his fingers curled into a pillow.
*this chapter is set in two different set of times through the chapters. Sorry for the weird structure but it was needed for the upcoming chapters. (Iâll explain more in the end.**
Masterlist
Flashback 1 : Marcus and Luca in Copenhagen
The air in Copenhagen was crisp, carrying the scent of the sea and fresh bread from a nearby bakery. The kitchen was quiet now, the last of the eveningâs work done, but Marcus still stood at his station, carefully piping a delicate swirl of cream onto a tart. He wasnât sure if Luca was still watchingâhe usually was, thoughâbut the thought kept him steady, made him want to get it just right.
âYouâve improved,â Lucaâs voice came from behind him, smooth as ever. Marcus turned slightly, finding the chef leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not unkind.
âYeah?â Marcus asked, stepping back to look at his work.
Luca nodded. âMore control. More confidence. Not just in your hands, but in the way you move.â
Marcus let out a breath he hadnât realized he was holding. âBeen trying to really think about it, you know? Not just making something good, but⊠making something that matters.â
Luca hummed in approval, stepping forward to inspect the tart. âThatâs the key, yeah? Precision is one thing. But making something that people feelâthatâs what separates the great from the good.â
Marcus nodded, feeling the weight of those words settle deep in his chest. âThatâs what weâre trying to do back home. At The Bear.â
Luca glanced at him. âCarmyâs place.â
âYeah,â Marcus said. âItâsâman, itâs chaos. But in a good way. Or at least, weâre trying to make it a good way.â He hesitated. âYou ever think about checking it out?â
Luca smirked, shaking his head. âChicagoâs not really my scene.â
Marcus grinned. âThatâs fair. But youâd like the people.â
Luca raised an eyebrow. âYeah?â
Marcus nodded. âCarmyâs Carmy, you know how he is. But the rest? Theyâre real. Like, real real. Sydney? Sheâs sharp as hell. Tina, Ebraâtheyâve been around, theyâve seen it all. And then thereâsââ He stopped, debating for a second before deciding to say it. âThereâs Alicia.â
Luca didnât react at first, but there was the slightest shift in his expressionâsomething unreadable, something aware. âAlicia,â he repeated, testing the name.
Marcus nodded. âSheâs⊠sheâs got this way about her, man. Like sheâs been through some shit but still holds her own. Fast as hell on the line, smart, butââ He hesitated, trying to find the right words. âItâs like sheâs holding something back. Like she could be more, but she wonât let herself go there.â
Luca was quiet for a moment, then smirked. âSounds familiar.â
Marcus frowned. âWhat?â
Luca shook his head. âNothing. Justâpeople like that? They donât stay hidden forever.â
Marcus didnât know what to make of that, but before he could press, Luca turned the conversation back to the tart, and just like that, the moment passed.
Flashback 2 : On the phone (Around the time of The Article chapter: Marcus and Luca Talk About Lloris
The kitchen in Copenhagen was winding down for the night, the scent of caramelized sugar and yeast lingering in the air. Luca leaned against the counter, rolling a spoon between his fingers, perfecting a dish as usual. Then suddenly a ringing and vibrating sound was coming out of his pocket.
Luca took his phone out setting it up on something on a counter facing him. It was a FaceTime from Marcus.
âHey mate, howâv-
âHave you ever heard of Lloris?â Marcus interrupted , watching Lucaâs reaction carefully.
Lucaâs hands didnât stop moving, but his expression shiftedâjust slightly. He glanced up, giving Marcus a curious look. âWhereâd you hear that name?â
Marcus shrugged. âBeen hearinâ about âem more lately. Name keeps poppinâ up.â
Luca smirked, shaking his head. âYeah, I bet.â He set his towel down and leaned against the counter. âI never worked with them, but I know people who have.â
Marcus raised an eyebrow. âAnd?â
âTheyâre a ghost,â Luca said simply. âOne of those chefs who comes outta nowhere, shakes up the whole scene, then disappears before anyone can catch up.â
That caught Marcusâs attention. âSo, they were big?â
Luca huffed a laugh. âBig? Try massiveâat least in certain circles. South American influence, but with a technical style that made people pay attention. They had a run in the South, some serious heat behind their name, and then⊠nothing. Just up and vanished.â
Marcus frowned. âWhy?â
Luca shrugged. âDepends on who you ask. Some people think they burned out, others say they just walked away before the industry could chew âem up.â He gave Marcus a pointed look. âBut chefs like that? They donât just stop cooking.â
Marcus nodded, processing that. âMan⊠Iâd kill to see them work.â
Luca smirked, shaking his head. âIf you ever do, let me know.â
A/N
SO SORRY!! I know it has been a while but Iâve been very busy with school and last minute changes. Turns out all the chapters were done up until the last episode of season 3 but was not satisfied with them and so i eventually decided to rewrite the those chapters.
David scrolled through his phone, half-listening to the hum of the city outside his window. He wasnât expecting anything unusualâit had been a long day of prep, and all he wanted was ten minutes of silence and a drink.
But then he saw it.
âLloris Orchestrated Culinary Mind Games? Competitors Outraged.â
âDozens of Top Chefs Receive Anonymous Gifts, Stirring Panic and Praise.â
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the article, immediately recognizing the pattern. The notes. The emotional precision. The gifts.
It was all her.
He didnât even hesitate. Dialed.
It rang once.
Twice.
âYeah?â Aliciaâs voice answered, breathless, distant, like she was pacing.
âYou made national headlines,â David said, dry. âAgain.â
A pause.
Then a quiet laugh. âWhich article?â
âOh, I donât knowâmaybe the one where a dozen chefs are claiming psychological warfare?â He pinched the bridge of his nose. âJesus, Alicia.â
âWhat?â she replied, completely unbothered. âThey started it.â
David let the silence hang a second longer. âHow did you even have time to pull all this off? Between the prep, the menu, the stressâI mean, weâre basically living at the kitchen right now.â
Another pause.
âI hired people.â
David blinked. âYouâwhat?â
âI outsourced,â she said simply. âI made a list of targets. Then I hired a few freelancersâresearchers, errand runners, some culinary students looking for side work, and one very good investigator who specializes in online footprint tracing.â
David was silent.
Alicia continued, like she was explaining how she made soup. âI gave them profiles, places to look, connections to trace. I didnât need anything invasiveâjust patterns. Interviews theyâve done. Videos. Background. Stuff they posted ten years ago. Everything I needed to tailor each message.â
âYou built a network,â David said slowly. âTo spy on chefs.â
âTo personalize a strategic brand of psychological disruption,â she corrected.
David blinked again. âYouâre insane.â
âNo. Iâm organized.â A beat. âAnd they deserved it.â
He exhaled and sank into his couch. âYou sent someone a photo of their dead grandmotherâs kitchen.â
âAnd she loved it,â Alicia shot back. âShe literally cried on camera during a livestream. Said it reminded her why she started cooking in the first place.â
David groaned. âAnd the âsuck my balls, bitchâ note?â
âDifferent vibe,â Alicia admitted. âI can admit it wasnât my finest moment, but necessary. That one was personal.â
David let his head fall back against the cushion. âYouâre out of your mind.â
âYou love it.â
âI do,â he sighed, rubbing his temple. âBut this is a lot. The press is already crawling over the competition. Youâve made yourself the centerpiece of the story and no one even knows who you are.â
âExactly.â
âYou donât think this is going to blow up in your face?â
âIt might,â Alicia said, voice quieter now. âBut if it does, itâll be on my terms.â
David was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, more softly, âYouâre really doing this. Like really doing this.â
âI have to,â she replied. âItâs the only thing thatâs ever felt like mine.â
And for once, David didnât argue.
He just nodded to himself, even though she couldnât see.
âAlright,â he said. âThen burn it down.â
The Bear, ChicagoâŠ
It was barely 6 a.m., and the kitchen was already alive.
Not with serviceâbut with the kind of chaos only preparation could bring. The clatter of pans, the hiss of blowtorches, the low hum of focused tension.
Tomorrow was the competition.
Tonight, they had to fly out.
And no one was ready.
âWhereâs the lamb?â Sydney barked, flipping through her checklist with one hand and pointing toward the walk-in with the other.
âI told you itâs resting!â Richie yelled back from across the room. âItâs been resting like itâs on fucking vacation.â
âThen wake it up!â she snapped.
Marcus chuckled, calmly whisking his mousse as if the room wasnât on the verge of imploding. âItâs wild weâre doing this. Likeâweâre flying out for this.â
âItâs a damn food war,â Tina muttered, rolling dough with practiced efficiency. âAnd weâre going to war hungry.â
Carmy walked in from the back, already on his second espresso. His hair was messier than usual, his sleeves rolled, his eyes sharp. Focused. Tired.
He didnât say much.
Just surveyed the room.
Watched Sydney organize her files, Marcus meticulously pack his elements in cooling boxes, Tina double-check the travel equipment, and Richie pace like a boxer waiting for the bell.
They had all worked insane hours over the past week refining their menu. Each dish was selected to say somethingâabout them, about Chicago, about the spirit of The Bear. No gimmicks. Just pure identity through food.
Marcus was bringing a dessert heâd spent three months perfectingâdark chocolate, citrus, candied fennel. Bright, bold, and clean.
Sydneyâs main was a nod to her dad. A seafood stew with Southern roots but French backbone. Deep, comforting, smart.
Tina had the starterâa handmade pasta dish layered with memory and tradition.
Carmy?
He didnât say what his dish was. Just said theyâd know when it was plated.
They all pretended that didnât make them more anxious.
Richie, of course, wasnât competing, but he had dubbed himself the vibes manager. âEvery army needs a general,â he declared. âAnd I am General Get Shit Done.â
âIâm begging you not to talk to anyone from the press,â Sydney muttered.
âOh I will be talking,â Richie said, already practicing his soundbites.
Ebra and Natalie helped load boxes. Fak was nowhere to be foundâprobably off chasing down dry ice or a cooler that didnât exist.
The energy in the kitchen was electric. Nervous. Buzzing with possibility and dread. This wasnât just a cooking competition.
This was a stage.
And they werenât just chefs.
They were the underdogs with something to prove.
âFlightâs in five hours,â Carmy finally said, checking the time. âLetâs move.â
Sydney gathered her binders. Marcus sealed his cooler. Tina tied off her apron.
For a moment, no one said anything.
Then Richie clapped his hands. âAlright, Bears. Letâs go ruin someoneâs day.â
And with that, they left their kitchen behindâheading straight into the fire.
Noma, CopenhagenâŠ
The kitchen was quiet.
Not silentâbut quiet in a way that meant focus, not absence. There was no yelling, no chaos. Just the soft sounds of knives on boards, the hiss of reductions simmering low, the occasional tap of someone adjusting plating tweezers.
Luca stood at his station, gently brushing a glaze over the edge of a mushroom tartelette. His hands moved without thinking. Muscle memory. Years of repetition. But his mind?
Spinning.
Tomorrow was the competition.
And while everyone else buzzed with excitement or nerves, Luca felt⊠something else. A pressure that settled low in his chest and refused to leave.
Noma was already a name. A legacy. That carried weight. Expectations. Perfection was the bare minimum.
And this time, it wasnât just about technique. It was about narrative. About story. And, unfortunately, about drama.
He glanced at the stack of small wooden boxes piled in the corner of the prep areaâgifts from Lloris. Unrequested, unwanted, unforgettable.
Luca had received a worn French whisk he hadnât seen since culinary school, polished and wrapped in parchment. No note. Just an address scribbled on the bottom of the boxâthe apartment he lived in when he first moved to Paris.
One of his sous chefs got a perfectly replicated plate from their first fine dining job. Another found a rare spice blend theyâd mentioned in passing on a podcast years ago.
It was intimate. Invasive. Almost surgical in how precise the gifts were.
And unnerving.
âStill thinking about it?â his sous, Anja, asked from beside him, slicing wild leeks with terrifying speed.
Luca didnât look up. âWhich part? The gifts or the part where the entire world thinks weâre unraveling?â
Anja shrugged. âBit of both.â
âIâm not unraveling,â he muttered, brushing more glaze onto the tart.
âYou did scream âfuck Llorisâ into the walk-in yesterday,â she pointed out gently.
He paused. âThat was private.â
She smirked. âYou were micâd.â
Luca exhaled, finally letting himself smirk, too. âWeâre ready, right?â
âAs ready as we can be,â she said. âThe menuâs locked. Everyoneâs dialed in. And weâve got backup for the backup for the backup equipment.â
Luca nodded, stepping back to survey the finished tart.
Their concept was rooted in nostalgia and transformation. Dishes that looked like one thing but told a deeper story on the plate. Memory through illusion. Playfulness hiding mastery.
The centerpiece? A deceptively rustic root vegetable stew that, on closer inspection, used molecular techniques to mimic textures, reverse flavors, even shift temperatures halfway through the dish. It was humble in appearance, mind-blowing in execution.
Classic Noma.
Still, Luca couldnât shake it. That tension in the back of his neck. The knowledge that someone out thereâLlorisâhad gotten under his skin without ever showing their face.
And it wasnât just him.
Everyone on the team had been off-balance since the gifts started arriving. Not panicked. But alert. Edgy.
It made him wonderâhow much of this competition was about food anymore?
He looked around the kitchen, saw the precision, the control, the quiet confidence in his team.
Then he looked back at the whisk.
Fine.
They wanted war?
Letâs cook.
Back The kitchen was quiet.
Not silentâbut quiet in a way that meant focus, not absence. There was no yelling, no chaos. Just the soft sounds of knives on boards, the hiss of reductions simmering low, the occasional tap of someone adjusting plating tweezers.
Luca stood at his station, gently brushing a glaze over the edge of a mushroom tartelette. His hands moved without thinking. Muscle memory. Years of repetition. But his mind?
Spinning.
Tomorrow was the competition.
And while everyone else buzzed with excitement or nerves, Luca felt⊠something else. A pressure that settled low in his chest and refused to leave.
Noma was already a name. A legacy. That carried weight. Expectations. Perfection was the bare minimum.
And this time, it wasnât just about technique. It was about narrative. About story. And, unfortunately, about drama.
He glanced at the stack of small wooden boxes piled in the corner of the prep areaâgifts from Lloris. Unrequested, unwanted, unforgettable.
Luca had received a worn French whisk he hadnât seen since culinary school, polished and wrapped in parchment. No note. Just an address scribbled on the bottom of the boxâthe apartment he lived in when he first moved to Paris.
One of his sous chefs got a perfectly replicated plate from their first fine dining job. Another found a rare spice blend theyâd mentioned in passing on a podcast years ago.
It was intimate. Invasive. Almost surgical in how precise the gifts were.
And unnerving.
âStill thinking about it?â his sous, Anja, asked from beside him, slicing wild leeks with terrifying speed.
Luca didnât look up. âWhich part? The gifts or the part where the entire world thinks weâre unraveling?â
Anja shrugged. âBit of both.â
âIâm not unraveling,â he muttered, brushing more glaze onto the tart.
âYou did scream âfuck Llorisâ into the walk-in yesterday,â she pointed out gently.
He paused. âThat was private.â
She smirked. âYou were micâd.â
Luca exhaled, finally letting himself smirk, too. âWeâre ready, right?â
âAs ready as we can be,â she said. âThe menuâs locked. Everyoneâs dialed in. And weâve got backup for the backup for the backup equipment.â
Luca nodded, stepping back to survey the finished tart.
Their concept was rooted in nostalgia and transformation. Dishes that looked like one thing but told a deeper story on the plate. Memory through illusion. Playfulness hiding mastery.
The centerpiece? A deceptively rustic root vegetable stew that, on closer inspection, used molecular techniques to mimic textures, reverse flavors, even shift temperatures halfway through the dish. It was humble in appearance, mind-blowing in execution.
Classic Noma.
Still, Luca couldnât shake it. That tension in the back of his neck. The knowledge that someone out thereâLlorisâhad gotten under his skin without ever showing their face.
And it wasnât just him.
Everyone on the team had been off-balance since the gifts started arriving. Not panicked. But alert. Edgy.
It made him wonderâhow much of this competition was about food anymore?
He looked around the kitchen, saw the precision, the control, the quiet confidence in his team.
Then he looked back at the whisk.
Fine.
They wanted war?
Letâs cook.
In a kitchen somewhere in New YorkâŠ
Alicia sat at her tiny kitchen table, the last rays of sunlight bleeding through the windows, a pen tapping anxiously against a battered notepad.
It was strange how quiet everything felt now.
For the past few weeks, it had been nonstop. Cooking, planning, strategizing, scheming. A full operationâone that had required more assistants, more contacts, more hidden logistics than even David knew about.
Now, with less than twenty-four hours before the competition, there was nothing left to tweak.
No more notes to send.
No more plates to perfect.
Nothing but herselfâand her story.
She leaned back in her chair, staring at the menu sheâd finalized that morning.
It was unlike anything else she had ever cooked.
A life laid bare through food.
Course One: Childhoodâbright, sharp, chaotic. A dish of clashing colors and textures that somehow came together.
Course Two: Leaving homeâsimple, stripped down, a single protein and sauce, isolated on a massive plate.
Course Three: Building wallsâprecise, intricate, almost too perfect, designed to impress and distance at the same time.
The mood in the kitchen was quieter than usual, but not from exhaustion.
It was uneasy.
Sydney walked in and immediately clocked the huddle around the pass. Something was on the counterâwrapped boxes, neat, clean, unsettlingly curated.
Not food this time.
JustâŠgifts.
Tina noticed her first. âYou might want to brace yourself, Syd.â
âWhat is this?â Sydney asked, already moving toward the packages.
Richie held up a note, expression unreadable. âFrom Lloris.â
Sydney blinked. âTheyâre still going?â
âOh, theyâve leveled up,â Marcus muttered.
Each box was marked with a name. Everyone had something.
Sydney opened hersâinside was a well-worn, now-restored copy of her first culinary notebook. The one she thought sheâd lost during her externship. The corners were still marked, her handwriting still shaky and small on the first few pages.
The note tucked inside read:
âDonât forget who you were before the pressure. â Llorisâ
Marcusâs gift was a delicate carving tool setâidentical to the one he had shown Carmy back in the early days when he was practicing sugar work. Tools heâd sold to pay rent once.
His note:
âYouâre better than they think. â Llorisâ
Tinaâs was deeply personalâan old photo of her and her mother in front of a food stall in Puebla. One she hadnât seen in decades. The photo had been laminated, preserved.
âSome roots run deeper than kitchens. â Llorisâ
Ebraâs was strange, but meaningfulâan out-of-print French poetry book, something heâd once quoted from during a family meal debate about art and food.
âYou were always right. â Llorisâ
Richie opened his box last. A perfectly clean, unopened copy of the self-help book heâd once sarcastically recommended to Carmy but secretly started reading after a particularly bad night.
Even Fak had a boxâan old CD-R labeled âDemo â The Faktones.â His garage band from high school. Somehow, someone had found the only copy.
âNever stop being the weirdo. â Llorisâ
The room went quiet as everyone looked at their gifts, shifting from confusion to a shared, eerie realization.
âThese arenât just random,â Sydney murmured. âThey know us.â
Richie stepped back, whistling low. âItâs not even just food anymore. This is some Zodiac killer chef shit.â
âTheyâre watching,â Ebra said solemnly.
âTheyâve been watching,â Tina added.
Carmy, standing in the back, hadnât opened his yet. He stared at it for a long moment before finally cracking the box open.
Inside?
His old, scuffed chefâs knife. The one he left behind when he walked out of New York for good.
Cleaned. Sharpened. Still his.
The note?
âYou keep trying to start over. Maybe you should try picking up where you left off. â Llorisâ
He said nothing.
Just quietly rewrapped the knife and set it down.
NomaâŠ
The Noma satellite kitchen wasnât spared either.
The gifts were waiting when Luca arrived. Lined up neatly on the pass. No names, no explanations.
One of the junior sous-chefs picked up a package cautiously. âChef⊠these are for us?â
Luca raised an eyebrow, already guessing. âOpen it.â
The gifts were similarâpersonal, too specific.
One line cook received a rare truffle grater from a small forge in Italy. A mentor once told her sheâd never earn the right to use one.
A sous-chef got a journal from a staging trip she did in Tokyo. She lost it on the flight home, devastated. Somehow, it was here, intact.
Lucaâs own gift was more on the same levelâ- french whisk he hadnât seen since culinary school, polished and wrapped in parchment.
He stared at it for a long time before pulling out the note tucked underneath.
An address scribbled on the bottom of the boxâthe apartment he lived in when he first moved to Paris.
He exhaled through his nose.
This was no longer about sending messages.
This was a campaign.
The Culinary World Reacts
The backlash was inevitable.
After the last round of dropsâgifts instead of dishesâthe atmosphere around the competition shifted completely.
Chefs started talking. Quietly at first, then loudly, then to anyone who would listen.
Within days, articles started popping up.
âIs the Mysterious âLlorisâ Going Too Far?â
âChefs Across the World Targeted in Culinary Mind Gamesâ
âGifted, Intimidated, and Unsettled: Competitors Speak Out About Llorisâ
Dozens of chefs went to the media with their experiences. Some were amused. Most werenât. Several claimed emotional manipulation, crossing ethical boundaries, and creating a âtoxic pre-competition atmosphere.â
The headlines hit hardâand fast.
Lloris had gone from urban legend to front-page mystery.
But they still didnât know who.
And in every quote, every article, every talking head giving their take, the question was always the same:
Update on the storyâŠ.I WILL BE UPDATING ALL CHAPTERS BEFORE THE MONTH ENDS. I donât think there will be another update this upcoming week as well because of my finals, sorry for bad news. But good news is that after the chapters are uploaded the start of the extra chapters will come out!!!