The Bear was quiet in the way kitchens get when they’re in between waves—too 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.
“Shit,” 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 he’d 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.
“Wha—what is this, Saw?” Richie asked.
Jimmy didn’t laugh.
“This,” Jimmy said, tapping the glowing countdown, “is how much time you have before this place goes under if you don’t figure your shit out.”
The number blinked: 89 days, 14 hours, 26 minutes.
“Generous, considering,” the tech guy muttered. He opened his laptop and turned the screen toward them. Charts. Numbers. An aggressive PowerPoint titled: ‘Why You’re Screwed’.
Jimmy pointed at a bar graph. “See that spike? Right before the awards? Right before you nose-dived back into chaos and cardiac arrest?”
Carmy stared at the numbers. The spike was undeniable. High revenue. High foot traffic. High ratings.
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “That was her. That was Lloris.”
The name hit like a kitchen pan dropped wrong. Heavy. Sharp. Unavoidable.
“Should’ve held onto her,” Jimmy added, shaking his head like he’d just watched someone throw away a winning lotto ticket.
Carmy’s jaw twitched. “That wasn’t exactly up to us.”
“Oh, boo-hoo,” Richie said, arms folded. “Forgive me for not weeping over the culinary ghostwriter who gave us trust issues and smoked out like Batman.”
“Still,” Natalie said quietly, looking at the numbers. “It’s not wrong. We were better then.”
“Just say it,” Richie said. “She made the place better.”
“She made the timing better,” Carmy muttered, staring down at the timer.
Sydney hadn’t said a word. She stared at the screen, unreadable. Her silence did more damage than a whole speech would have.
“Whatever,” Richie said, turning away. “We got through her once. We’ll get through without her again.”
“Yeah,” Fak added from the corner, holding a screwdriver like it might help. “But like… maybe if she wants to, like, email us a vibe or something? That’d be cool.”
There was a brief, awkward silence.
Then Marcus said quietly, “I just miss her.”
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.
“She was over by ten seconds,” Tina muttered. “It ruined the plate.”
“No one noticed,” Ebra said, her voice even. “You’re being a diva.”
“It’s principle,” Tina said, gesturing wildly with a dish towel like it owed him money.
They were quiet for a moment.
Then Tina said, “You know… when she was here, that never happened.”
Ebra glanced up.
“She had this way of knowing when something was off before anyone even felt it. Like… her nose twitched or something.”
“Like a rat?”
“Like a chef, Ebra,” Tina snapped. Then she laughed. “But yeah, kind of a rat. A psychic rat.”
They were quiet again, slower now, more thoughtful.
“You remember how Mikey was?” Tina asked.
Ebra nodded. “Big voice. Big heart. Always in the way.”
“Yeah,” she said. “She wasn’t him. But… I don’t know. She gave me that same feeling. Like if Alicia was in the kitchen, it wasn’t gonna fall apart. Even if it already had.”
Ebra swallowed hard and nodded.
“She made things feel okay,” 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.
“Think it’s possible to miss someone and still be mad they existed?” she asked.
Marcus snorted. “Yeah. It’s called family.”
Sydney smiled. “She drove me crazy. You know? All that ‘mystery’ shit. The games. The quiet genius thing.”
“She was intense,” Marcus agreed.
They both looked down at the tray of doughnuts.
Sydney picked one up, bit it, and made a face.
“What the fuck is in this?”
“Matcha. And… regret.”
Sydney coughed. “It tastes like tea and depression.”
Marcus shrugged. “Seemed like the mood.”
They both laughed. Quiet, tired.
Then Sydney said, “Do you think she’s really gone?”
Marcus paused. Then looked toward the timer on the wall.
“Not yet,” 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 hadn’t told them.
She staged at small places mostly—restaurants 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 didn’t 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 Carmy’s face in that hallway. The weight in Marcus’ voice. Sydney’s silence.
They hadn’t called. She hadn’t expected them to.
Still, the quiet was louder than she thought it would be.
She was behind the line at a moody, downtown spot—a seafood-forward place with too much black tile and a playlist that alternated between Sade and A Tribe Called Quest—when a sous tapped her shoulder mid-service.
“Hey. Chef wants you in the office. Says someone’s calling for you?”
Alicia blinked. “Me?”
“Yeah. Said it’s some guy named ‘Jimmie’? Sounded like… business-casual mobster vibes?”
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.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the prodigal daughter of gastronomy.”
Alicia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Cicero.”
“That’s me. How’s the Big Apple? You eating a proper meal or just subsisting on espresso and unpaid labor?”
“I’m staging, not starving.”
“Right, right. How’s fame?”
She rolled her eyes. “Distracting.”
“I imagine so. Listen, I won’t take too much of your time, but I figured you’d want to hear it from me first. The Bear’s on a timer.”
She paused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I showed up, brought a little screen, and slapped a countdown on the pass. They’ve got weeks, maybe, unless something gives. Money’s drying up. Menu’s finally consistent. Leadership’s frayed.”
“Sounds familiar,” Alicia muttered.
“Mhm. You should know… they ran the numbers. Guess when they were doing best? Right around the time you were on the line. Numbers don’t lie, sweetheart.”
She exhaled, leaning back in the creaky office chair. “What do you want, Jimmy?”
“A favor.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even hear it.”
“I already know it’s gonna end with me getting burned alive.”
“I 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.”
Alicia didn’t say anything. Her heart was already racing.
“I kept your secret,” Jimmie added, quieter now. “I didn’t even tell Sugar. You owe me.”
“That’s low.”
“Yup. I know. I’m okay with it.”
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.
“You know what you’re asking,” she said.
“I do.”
“They don’t want me there.”
“They don’t 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 don’t know how to love you back.”
Silence again.
Jimmie didn’t fill it. He waited.
Finally, Alicia sighed. “Two weeks. That’s it.”
Jimmie’s grin was practically audible. “Looking forward to seeing you back where you belong.”
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 monitor—hair pulled back, chef whites speckled with clam liquor and shallot skins, eyes just a little tired.
Are you still taking prompts? :) If so, could you write “You’re bleeding all over my carpet." for deisaku, please?
title: longing
pairing: deidara x sakura
word count: 2,273
a/n: it's been years since i've written anything. take it easy on me, anon. hope you enjoy!
Her front door closes softly, and Sakura presses herself against it. She releases a long-winded sigh, head tossed back and eyes towards the ceiling. She doesn’t know what it is about Wednesday evening shifts, but they never ran smoothly.
Maybe it was just her continuous lousy luck, or perhaps something in the hospital's ventilation system. Still, every patient was needier than usual, not a single chart was filed correctly, and any alternate nurses were nowhere to be found when they were needed.
She shakes off her despair, happy to leave work stress behind her. Kicking off her shoes unceremoniously, she doesn’t bother to turn on the lights as she pads into her kitchen.
It’s only when she’s half-buried in her open refrigerator, sniffing at a container of take-out that she realizes that she’s not alone.
The kunai is out of her hand before she turns around, the fast-food container now a discarded pile on her hardwood floor. Her weapon misses its mark, and judging by the muted ‘thunk’, it’s embedded into the wall. She scowls slightly at her skewed aim – and the fact that she will have to patch a hole – but her secret visitor has stopped skulking around in the shadows of her living room, so she considers it a small victory.
When his chakra washes over her, Sakura relaxes – only slightly. She flicks her ankle, discarding some of the mangled mess of beef and broccoli spilled on her foot, then stomps her way to the closest wall and slaps her hand against the light switch.
“What the hell are you doing, Deidara!?” She seethes.
Should she be surprised that an ex-war criminal had broken into her apartment? Probably.
Is she? Not really.
They fought side by side during the war, and despite not being within immediate proximity for most of it, Sakura can still hear the resounding explosions of his bombs connecting with their targets. She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but from how he revisits the memories during their late-night tirades, she is sure he kept a close eye on her while she was fighting. He knows too many details of her shining moments and the enemies that she took down. She doesn’t know if she should have been scared or exasperated by his interest in her, but she chooses not to ask herself that question often.
These little midnight visits started when the village was rebuilt and a sense of normalcy washed over the nation. Most of the time, they were to avoid getting into immediate trouble within his home village – he did have a knack for blowing things up, after all. Some were for healing minor wounds he received on his probationary missions; others were for absolutely nothing but to annoy her in her free time.
She couldn’t tell if he was on the right side of genius or the wrong side of crazy, but she enjoyed herself in his company. Most of their visits were spent with her listening to him talk about his art and medians. She couldn’t help but be enthralled by him, as he was enthusiastic. Sakura thinks she’s the only one who truly listens to him as he rants and raves, hence why he keeps coming back.
Though, there is something different as of late. It’s the way he looks at her. It’s guarded and apprehensive, like he wants to tell her something but is holding himself back. She never asks about his change in demeanor, hoping that he would figure it out on his own.
Her interloper has one hand raised, brows high on his forehead like he’s shocked that she would throw a sharp object in the general direction of his face. The lone blue eye not tucked behind his bangs slides to the kunai next to his ear. Sakura silently preens at noting it cut off some of his luscious blonde hair.
“You could have killed me, yeah!”
Sakura scoffs at his dramatics, eyes-rolling. “More like barely maim,” she says. She points a finger in his general direction, wiggling it up and down. “Doesn’t answer my question. What’s with the cloak and dagger routine?”
Much like his fighting style, Deidara is not the quiet type. Typically he makes his presence known while sneaking in her window or breaking in through her balcony door.
Deidara raises his other hand, the one pressed against his side, and Sakura catches the site of his palm covered in sticky, crimson blood.
“I need your help, yeah. Otherwise, I might bleed out on your carpet.”
“Bleed out on my –,” Sakura pauses, taking the time to skirt around the island in her kitchen to peer into her living room where Deidara stood. “Might? Might? You’re already leaking all over it!” She takes in the muddy red stains marring her yellow rug and growls, “I just bought that last week!”
Deidara winces slightly at her screeching and presses his coated hand back to his hip. “I’ll buy you a new one, yeah? So help me out here.”
Her gaze turns into a hate-filled glower, and Deidara grimaces again. He steps towards her but stops mid-stride when Sakura crosses her arms over her chest, anger not diminishing. He knew that look and what it meant.
“You do realize that you’re on probation, right?” Sakura questions. “You’re not even supposed to be within fifty miles of Konoha, let alone bleeding on my carpet.”
Deidara makes a noise that makes Sakura believe that he doesn’t particularly care about the aspects of his sentencing. “Hasn’t stopped me before,” he says. “And it won’t stop me in the future. You should start coming up with some new excuses. Come on, pinkie, help me out.”
He cocks his head to the side, bobbing it slightly, eyebrow raised and a sad pout plastered on his face. He knows she won’t last long with him begging; her good-natured heart would never turn down someone in need. It’s only a matter of time and a waiting game.
They lapse into prolonged silence, their stare-off becoming a battle of wills. She thinks she might have him beat, but the longer she stands there, the more exhaustion creeps into her bones. All she wants to do is take a shower, wash the day away, and crawl into her bed. Deidara, for his part, is starting to hunch in on himself, breath coming out in short parts – the pitter-patter of his blood continuing to stain her carpet. The last of Sakura’s stubbornness subsides when she takes in the twist of his mouth and the pinch between his brows. She doesn’t know what he’s done, but clearly, whatever it is bothering him enough that he’s wobbling on his own two feet.
She clicks her tongue, brushes a hand down her face, and states, “You know where the bathroom is. Go get the kit and sit down.” She waves him away with a hand.
Deidara is off before she could even second guess her discission, trotting down the hallway to her restroom, a trail of blood following behind him. She joins him at a much slower pace, taking the time to inspect the damage done to her rug. She will have to throw the whole thing away; what a pain.
By the time she’s reached the bathroom, he’s sitting on the lip of her tub, shirtless, wound oozing openly. It’s not the worst thing she’s seen; a decent-sized chunk of skin is missing close to his hip. It looks like someone or something took a bite out of him. She steps into the room, grabbing bandages from the first aid kit he kindly left next to her sink. She kneels on the floor, trying not to think about the fact that she is trapped between his thighs, and closes in on the wound.
Her hands start to glow a soft green, and she hovers them over the injury.
“Do I even want to know how you got this?” She asks.
Deidara sighs almost blissfully. “It was beautiful, beautiful art. You should have seen it, yeah.”
Sakura snorts, “I’m good. The last thing I need is to be caught interloping with one of the world’s reformed criminals.”
He chuckles, “Hasn’t stopped you from locking your windows or balcony door. Also, the key word in that sentence is reformed, yeah.”
She grumbles, caught red-handed, and heat blooms in her cheeks. “So, you blew yourself up by accident?” Sakura retaliates, trying to distract them both.
He smirks, knowing he has her beat. He leans further back on the tub’s edge for her to access his injury better. “A piece of debris clipped me when my newest formation exploded.”
The wound has closed enough for her to consider him out of any immediate danger. She doesn’t heal him entirely, just enough for the damage to be scabbed over and the skin to be mended.
Sakura considers it payback for her rug.
She reaches beside her, where she discarded the bandages, and motions for him to sit up straight. He does as she asks, and they lapse into companionable silence as she wraps his torso. She is so focused on her task that she doesn’t even bother to push her hair back as it falls into her eyes.
Sakura starts when she feels his fingers brush against the skin of her forehead, sliding down the side of her cheek to brush that hair behind her ear. Her eyes dart to his face, taking in his relaxed smile. It makes him look younger and boyish. It’s something that she would like to see on him more often. She bites her tongue, stopping herself from saying anything as that look starts to bleed back into his features. The one that she can’t place an emotion for. She turns from him and finishes her task, tying off the bandages with a small knot.
“There you go,” she says as she sits back on her knees. “All finished.”
He flexes the muscles in his stomach once, twice, then twists from side to side, judging the strength of her healing.
“As always, pinkie, you’re the best, yeah!”
She smiles at the nickname. “Yeah yeah,” she boasts, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
He immediately reaches for his undershirt and cloak, discarded on the toilet seat next to them. He slips them on quickly before standing and moving around her towards the door. Sakura fights the jolting disappointment at realizing that he is most likely not staying tonight.
She stands slowly, and some of her emotion must have slipped into her expression because Deidara's smiling again when he turns towards her. It’s a cocky twist of his lips, and he's leaning towards her before she has a chance to ask him what’s so damn funny.
It’s a shock to feel the brush of his lips across her cheek. It feels like someone had dumped a cold drink over her head; she went still and frigid, face freezing in place. She looks up at him with her mouth agape; all the while, he looks like the cat who got the canary.
Eventually, when Sakura’s brain can formulate coherent thoughts, she smacks her hand against her cheek, where his lips were only a few seconds before.
“What the hell are you doing?” She tries to sound affronted, but her voice fails her, and her challenge comes out more like a shocked, subdued whisper.
“Saying thank you, yeah,” Deidara simply replies, roguish smile still in place.
“The hell you are. Are you out of your god damn m –,” Sakura begins to say, but then his hand is on her hip, and his other is at her cheek, and his fingers were warm and callused, and he smelled a bit like gun powder and his cloak was worn against her hands and—
He kisses her, and it’s gentle and a little unassuming, like he is asking her a question. It’s just a brush of his mouth against hers, but she feels it from the top of her head down to her toes – Sakura could feel them curling against the tiles of her bathroom floor. There’s only a second’s hesitation before she’s kissing him back, and the world goes a little quiet, a little away. She likes everything about the kiss: the soft press of his body against hers, the slowness of it, the way he draws away, if only for a moment, as if to check she is all right with this.
He dips back in quickly for a second kiss, this one lasting a little longer than the first, but she the one pulls away this time, much too soon than she would like, but she feels like she needs to get her head on straight before she gets lost in the feel of him.
She doesn’t know how the night’s events have turned to this, nor when Deidara’s infatuation turned from curiosity to friendly to extremely fond, but she can now place that look in his eye: longing. She adds some questions – and a lot more – to the steady-growing pile in the back of her mind. There’s a time and place, and she’s immensely enjoying herself right now.
“This doesn’t get you out of buying me a new rug, you know,” she says, her voice breathless.
Deidara laughs, a loud, hearty sound rattling his chest, and leans down to claim her lips again.
Sakura pulls back once more. “And you’re cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.”
“Whatever you say, pinkie. Let me finish saying thank you, yeah?” He murmurs, dipping his head once more.
-o-
Sakura finds that Deidara’s definition of ‘thank you’ is much more thorough than she initially anticipated.
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 fate—or maybe just some producer’s twisted idea of drama—The Bear and Noma’s teams had been seated together.
Luca caught Carmy’s eye across the table first, offering a small nod. Carmy nodded back, tight, but genuine.
Richie leaned over to Marcus, whispering, “Should we like…start shit or what?”
Marcus elbowed him, grinning. “Shut up, man. Be cool.”
Tina, who had somehow ended up next to one of Luca’s sous-chefs, broke the ice first. “Y’all cook anything that didn’t make you wanna cry?”
The Noma sous-chef barked a laugh. “Maybe. Crying’s part of the game though, innit?”
Sydney cracked a small smile, sitting back, finally letting herself relax for half a second.
Luca leaned slightly toward Carmy and said, “You pulled a fucking shift drink course?”
Carmy shrugged like it was obvious. “We needed it. You?”
“Overthought it,” Luca admitted with a wry smile. “Twice.”
The Bear crew laughed, a low ripple of tension breaking.
“Same here, chef,” Marcus said, grinning. “We had like six panic moments.”
Across the table, Luca’s pastry chef nodded solemnly. “I cried in a walk-in. No shame.”
Tina raised her glass. “To crying in the walk-in.”
They all clinked.
It was…oddly peaceful.
These were supposed to be competitors. But tonight? After what they’d all just pushed through?
They were all just survivors of the same war.
Sydney looked around and realized for the first time—no 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.
Until—
The lights dimmed.
The murmuring stopped.
A booming voice came over the speakers.
“And now…the results of this year’s Culinary Vanguard Awards…”
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 crossed—but 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 picture…
They wanted it.
Bad.
The voice continued.
“In third place… Noma.”
Luca blinked, then exhaled softly. Around him, his team instantly straightened in surprise—then 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, “If that’s third…”
Marcus just shook his head, already breathless.
The announcer continued.
“In second place… The Bear.”
The table exploded.
“Let’s fucking GO!” 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 them—maybe 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… they’d 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.
“And the first place winner of the Culinary Vanguard Competition is…”
Pause.
“Lloris.”
The entire room erupted.
Except… no one moved.
The Bear and Noma crews looked around.
The stage stayed empty.
No one came forward.
Until—David stepped out from the wings, dressed clean in black, envelope in hand. He approached the mic.
“So sorry she couldn’t be here tonight,” he said simply, voice steady. “But I am sure this video will sufise.”
Behind him, the screen changed again.
And then…
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. “Fuck”
Interviewer: “Can you tell us what this one means to you?”
Lloris:“First time I got screamed at on the line, I burned the onions. Though it meant I wasn’t cut out for this. Turns out—I just needed to burn better.”
Course II: Family Meal
A refined arroz con pollo: crisp skin, saffron rice, chili, umami broth.
Lloris: “She taught me to salt with my fingers. Said spoons don’t know what food needs,” Alicia said, mostly to the dish, not the crew.
Interviewer: “Are you referring to a mentor?”
Lloris:“No,my grandmother.”
Course III: Silence Service
Beet tartare, horseradish, black vinegar gel, seared T-bone.
Lloris: “Silence can be armor… Or it can be a weapon.”
The last plate was a storm of movement. Nothing about it clean. Everything about it is intentional.
Interviewer:“Final course, what’s it called?”
Lloris:“Still Here.”
Each note she had sent—the 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.
Then…
Like a cruel ending the camera moves to Alicia’s face smiling.
Lloris: “Thank you for playing.”
Applause broke out slowly—awkward 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.
“I mean…” Sydney started, pacing a little in front of Marcus and Tina, “we thought we were feuding. We thought we were playing some kind of mind game.”
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck. “Turns out, we were getting hustled the whole time by one of our own.”
Richie barked a laugh. “She had us chasing our tails while she was stacking wins.”
Luca crossed his arms, nodding thoughtfully. “Every move we made… she was already two ahead.”
“She knew exactly what we’d focus on,” Carmy said, voice low, almost admiring and pissed all at once. “She wanted us distracted. And it fucking worked.”
Tina chuckled, nudging Marcus. “She even got you with that fancy plated ‘you suck’ note.”
Marcus groaned. “Man, I thought I was doing something.”
They all shared a tired, grudging laugh.
For a moment, there was no competition between them—just silence. Maybe it was the exhaustion bubbling over too much to give a genuine reaction.
Luca sighed and pushed off the wall. “Well. We got played.”
“Hard,” 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 corner—
A perfect lipstick kiss mark.
He stared at it, jaw tightening.
Across the hall, Marcus swore out loud.
Sydney’s door opened fast. “WHAT THE FUCK.”
Tina laughed from her room. “Yo! Same!”
Richie stepped out, waving his copy. “She’s taunting us now! She’s still playing the game!”
Ebra just shook his head, muttering something under his breath in Arabic about cursed women.
Down the hall, Luca opened his door too—and sure enough, there it was. His team’s photo. Kiss mark.
He smirked, exhausted and amused all at once.
“That crazy woman,” 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 else…
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.
“Seriously?” she muttered.
David was already leaning against the wall by the entrance, nursing a beer and looking way too smug.
“You couldn’t find a new depressing bar?” Alicia called out as she walked up.
David just grinned. “Nostalgia, baby.”
They pushed through the door, and were immediately assaulted by the same sticky floor, questionable jukebox, and an old man at the bar who might’ve 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. “You’re paying. I’m a celebrity now.”
David snorted into his beer. “You’ve been a celebrity. People just got to see your face.”
“Still kind of wish I waited a tad longer ,” she said, kicking her feet up onto the booth seat. “A couple have haunted people and avoided taxes.”
A server dropped two beers at their table without even asking. Apparently, they remembered Alicia.
David lifted his glass. “To chaos.”
Alicia clinked her beer against his. “To scaring chefs so bad they probably have a therapy group chat about it.”
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 gotten…big.
But eventually, David leaned back, growing a little quieter.
“So, listen,” he said, tracing the rim of his glass. “You know Ever, right?”
Alicia nodded. “The fancy restaurant. Like, the fancy restaurant. Why?”
David exhaled. “They’re closing.”
She blinked. “Wait, what? Why? That place was like…the Holy Grail.”
He nodded. “Exactly. Which is why they’re throwing a funeral for it. Like, a real one. Suits, speeches, the whole mourning-the-death-of-fine-dining bullshit.”
Alicia raised an eyebrow. “So, naturally, you’re dragging me to this nightmare.”
“You’re my plus one,” David said brightly. “Mandatory. No backsies.”
“Jesus,” Alicia groaned, banging her head lightly against the booth wall. “Are you at least gonna tell me who’s gonna be there?”
“Nope,” he said, looking obnoxiously pleased with himself. “You’ll find out when we get there.”
“David. DAVID.”
He grinned wider.
“You’re an asshole,” she said, but she was already laughing.
“It’s in a couple days,” he said. “Pack something black, dramatic, maybe slightly terrifying. Y’know. Honor the occasion wait no— I’ll just dress you myself.”
Alicia sighed dramatically. “I’m gonna get hate-crimed by Michelin chefs.”
“Good,” David said. “You probably deserve it.”
They ordered more drinks, arguing loudly over who was more emotionally damaged (David, obviously), the bar’s ancient jukebox played some tragic country song from the 80s, and for a few more hours, the world outside—the fame, the tension, the looming funeral—stayed blissfully out of reach.
A/n
So sorry for the late comeback. Like was hitting me hard.
The air in the hallway was thick. Carmy stood frozen, his chest heaving. The confrontation with David had left him rattled—more than he’d expected. His shoulders were trembling, hands clenched, laughter breaking through the sting of tears he didn’t want to shed.
Luca was there in a second.
“Hey,” Luca said gently, his voice soft but firm. “Breathe, man.”
Carmy just shook his head, wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, and laughed again. “He’s such a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah,” Luca nodded, his hand on Carmy’s back. “Yeah, he is. He always has been. You did good though. You said what you needed to.”
Carmy didn’t answer. Not really. He just stood there, emotionally frayed and unraveling by the second.
And then—
Voices. Footsteps.
Down the hallway.
“Alright, relax, Alicia,” David’s voice said, casual and smug as ever.
And then—another voice. A woman’s.
Familiar. Too familiar.
“I actually exclusively only go by Lloris now since you know I'm such a big deal.”
Carmy blinked, lifting his head. He and Luca turned in unison, like they’d rehearsed it.
And there she was.
Alicia- Lloris.
In all her fucking glory.
Looking composed, elegant, like a completely different person—and yet unmistakably herself. Same sharp eyes. Same goddamn presence.
“What,” they both said at the same time.
David, of course, couldn’t help himself.
“Well… this is convenient,” he said, hands shoved in his pockets like he’d just announced lunch.
He patted Alicia on the shoulder and walked off like this was nothing—like he hadn’t just worsened three people’s 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 ghost—no, worse. Like she was a betrayal made flesh just delayed because it still didn’t feel real. Alicia didn’t move. Luca looked between the two, jaw slightly slack, trying to process the emotional fallout unfolding in front of him.
“It really was you.” Carmy’s voice cracked low, like the question itself betrayed him.
Alicia didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“Say it,” he said, stepping forward. “Fucking say it.”
Alicia exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “It was me.”
Carmy laughed. Harsh. Bitter. Like it hurt. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Carm—” she started.
“No. Don’t—don’t say my name like that. You—Jesus. All that time? The notes? The gifts? The fucking games?” He threw his hands up. “You were in our heads for months. You sent Marcus stuff, Sydney. You sent me my own dish, Alicia. Are you fucking serious?”
“I was angry.”
“Yeah. No shit.”
“You don’t get to be mad at me. You’re the one who couldn’t even talk to me when I went on a sabbatical or look me in the eye at opening night.”
He flinched. Visibly.
Luca stepped forward. “Hey, maybe we should just—”
“Don’t,” Carmy cut him off, sharp. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Luca blinked. “What? No. Not until just now. Christ.”
Carmy turned back to Alicia. “So what—was this all just some kind of revenge tour? Fuck with everyone who made you feel small?”
Alicia’s jaw tensed. “You think I felt small because of you?”
“You left, Alicia.”
“You chose Claire, Carmy.”
Silence.
Carmy opened his mouth. Closed it. That hit landed—deep.
“I didn’t come here to fight,” Alicia said, voice low, tight. “But I’m not gonna stand here and apologize for doing what I’m good at.”
Carmy snapped. “You don’t even use your name.”
“Lloris was the only thing I had left after you—after The Bear. I rebuilt myself from nothing. I got better. Stronger. You think you were the only one who broke?”Alicia said, stepping toward him now.
Carmy was quiet. Too quiet. Breathing like he’d run five miles.
Luca rubbed his face. “This is insane.”
Alicia looked at Carmy, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to like it. But you saw the work. You know what I did.”
He shook his head. “I know what you took. You turned it into a fucking performance.”
A pause.
Then, Alicia—quiet, almost soft—“And it was excellent. Don’t be mad at something you have yet to achieve.”
That stung more than it should have.
He clenched his jaw. “No. I’m mad because I thought I lost you. Turns out, I never knew you at all.”
Alicia’s face didn’t change. Not right away. But something in her eyes flickered—like it hit.
She turned to walk away.
INT. STREET OUTSIDE EVER – NIGHT
Alicia walks down the sidewalk alone. Her heels are loud now—not from nerves, but finality. The cold air bites at her blazer collar. She’s halfway down the block when she pulls out her phone, thumbs out a quick message:
Going home. Thanks for everything. Don’t follow. – A
She hits send.
Then pockets the phone.
Then breathes.
And then—her thoughts, unspoken, start to form. Half-defensive. Half-liberating
Alicia POV…
I didn’t mean for it to go like that.
I didn’t come here to start a war or light old wounds on fire.
But I also didn’t come here to disappear for anyone else’s comfort.
Not anymore.
I feel like a jerk.
I probably am a jerk.
But I’ve spent so many years shrinking myself to be digestible—
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 had—to kitchens, to people who said they saw me—
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 yeah—maybe I went too far. Maybe I got cold.
But I survived.
I’m not proud of every move I made.
But I’m not sorry for making them, either.
It’s 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 left—
and still win.
I loved him in a way.
Maybe a little bit of me still did.
But I won’t set myself on fire to keep someone warm who never asked me to stay.
So yeah. I’m walking away.
Not because I’m weak.
Not because I’m bitter.
But because I’m 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 that’s 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 — 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 floor—too loud, she thought. Too seen.
It was dumb.
She’d 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 she’d 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 name—Lloris—was 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.
“You good?” David asked, sliding into his chair across from her, already scanning the room with that annoyingly smug expression of his.
“I feel like a zoo exhibit,” Alicia muttered.
“You are a zoo exhibit. You just lit the entire safari on fire and told everyone to clap.”
She gave him a look. “Not helping.”
“Look,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You don’t have to talk to anyone. You don’t have to do anything but sit here, look devastating, and eat the free food.”
“Devastating,” she repeated dryly. “Nice.”
“It’s the vibe. You’re mourning. Mysterious. Unapproachable. People love that shit.”
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 who’d 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. “Want me to stay?”
She shook her head too fast, too grateful. “No. Go schmooze. Be a functioning adult or whatever.”
He gave her a once-over, deciding. “Don’t start a food fight while I’m gone.”
“No promises.”
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 didn’t mean brave.
And even now, part of her still didn’t 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 “insufferable.”
So she wandered—slow, 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 eavesdrop—never that—but because she heard something that made her ears perk up:
Luca.
“—told him to pull the duck off mid-fire and the idiot basted it in sherry vinegar instead of jus,” he was saying, low and incredulous.
“Oh my god,” came the voice of another chef. “What did you do?”
“What could I do?” Luca replied, dry. “I told him it tasted like foot and served it anyway. Call it rustic.”
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.
Until—
Another voice joined in. Familiar. Firm. All edge and observation.
“I don’t know, I’ve had your duck. It’s not that far off,” Sydney said coolly as she stepped into view.
Alicia’s whole body snapped back like she’d touched a burner.
Her pulse kicked up, fast. Not fear—just… 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 recognized—even 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, she’d 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 hadn’t slept well. Hadn’t 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 he’d borrowed someone else’s clothes just to show up.
He didn’t even know why he came.
He guessed it was out of respect. For Ever. For what it meant. For what it could’ve been if everything in him didn’t 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, who’d 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 was—he hadn’t stopped thinking about Lloris. About the dishes. The notes. The final message.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about her being someone once in his life.
And maybe that’s why everything tonight felt heavy. Why the tribute speeches sounded like background noise. Why every dish tasted over-seasoned, even though it wasn’t.
He was zoning out again, and Sydney elbowed him gently.
“You good?” she asked, low enough that only he could hear.
Carmy blinked, nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, just tired.”
Sydney narrowed her eyes. “You always say that when you’re spiraling.”
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 way—just the slow drift that happens when you were surrounded by people who all know each other and all probably hate you even though they don’t 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 realized—until David’s sudden, smug grin cut across her line of sight.
He looked like someone’s smug cat.
Alicia blinked, sitting up straighter. “Okay. What’s that face?”
David didn’t answer. Just kept chewing on his food like it was nothing while his gaze stayed locked across the room.
“You’re making your ‘I’m better than you and you know it’ face,” she said. “Who are you aiming it at?”
He still didn’t 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.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Andrea said, her voice calm, confident, and laced with bittersweet warmth. “This 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 accolades—but because it was the first place we all got to say, out loud, ‘this is what we believe in.’ And because we had each other while we tried to prove it.”
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 course—artful, delicate, something with nasturtium and foam that probably had six more components she didn’t care to dissect.
It was fine.
She was over it.
“I need a break,” Alicia muttered, pushing back her chair. “Smoke.”
David looked up. “You don’t smoke.”
“Exactly.”
She slipped out before he could follow up with a smartass remark, weaving through to make it to long hallway. It hit her face instantly—cool 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 kitchens—step out the kitchen, stare at nothing, reset.
Behind her, she heard the heavy footsteps.
“Don’t say it,” she said without looking.
“I wasn’t going to,” 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.
“I hate dinner parties like this,” she finally muttered. “Everyone knows each other and acts like I’m despicable for coming.”
David smirked. “You’ll be fine. You’re just allergic to pretension unless it’s your own.”
Alicia made a face. “That’s fair.”
Alicia finally moved past the entrance door going outside before she added, “So who were you making faces at?”
But when she turned her head—
David was gone.
The door was still slightly ajar.
Alicia straightened, puzzled, stepping closer to peek through the doorway.
“David?”
Nothing.
But she hears a familiar voice….
“Chef”
She froze.
And for the first time in a long time… she never thought she would hear it again.
Carmy wasn’t 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 stories—first burns, worst bosses, most humiliating rushes—and 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 he’d 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 hadn’t aged. Or maybe he had. But it didn’t matter—he still looked untouchable.
Carmy’s jaw clenched, fork untouched beside him.
“You good?” Sydney asked, nudging his elbow gently.
Carmy didn’t answer.
Luca leaned in from the other side. “Mate. You’re burning a hole through him.”
Carmy exhaled, jaw twitching. “You know who that is?”
Both of them looked across the room. David, talking to a small group, sipping wine like he didn’t ruin people for sport.
Luca snorted. “Yeah. He’s a dickhead.”
Sydney frowned. “That’s Chef David? The one we shall not names friend David?”
Carmy nodded. Then, after a pause:
“He’s the fucking worst… and one of the best chefs in the world.”
“Total prick.”
“Fuck face.”
“Bastard made me probably and very mentally ill.”
“Dead inside. Cold. Never turns it off.”
“He accomplishes more by 10 AM than most people do in a lifetime.”
“I don’t think he eats. I don’t think he sleeps. And it’s hard to believe he loves.”
“…And he is getting up.”
Carmy didn’t 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.
Carmy’s chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood.
“Carmy—what are you doing?” Sydney hissed, grabbing his sleeve.
“Don’t,” Luca warned. “Don’t go over there. It’s not worth it.”
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.
“Chef?,” Carmy called, low and sharp.
David turned, not surprised.
Carmy stepped forward.
Luca stopped, halfway in shadow, not ready to intervene—yet.
The hallway dimmed behind them.
Alicia didn’t 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.
“Hi. How you doing, Bergazzo?”
David’s voice was dry, amused.
Carmy laughed. Not out of humor—disbelief.
The moment swelled with something ugly and quiet.
“I always wondered what I’d say to you if I got to see you again.”
His voice was steady, but he was already coming apart at the edges.
David nodded. “Okay. Let’s have it.”
“After ‘fuck you’? I don’t… I don’t have much.”
David blinked, almost impressed. “Fuck me?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“For anything in particular?”
“No. Just genuinely being you, I think. Yeah.”
David smirked. “Got it. Well, this has been nice.” He turned like he was about to leave. About to walk toward her.
Carmy cut in again.
“I think about you too much.”
David stopped. “I don’t think about you.”
That hit something sharp in the center of Carmy’s chest.
“Why are you such an asshole?”
David turned, leaned against the wall, almost relaxed. “How am I an asshole?”
“Do you have half an hour?”
David tilted his head. “You’re welcome.”
Carmy blinked. “For what?”
“You were an okay chef when you started with me. You left an excellent chef. So you’re welcome.”
Carmy’s body was tight. His jaw, clenched. His fingers were twitching like he needed something to hold onto.
“You gave me ulcers. And attacks. And nightmares. You—you know that, right?”
David shrugged. “I made you who you are. And guess what? It worked.”
Carmy started shaking.
“My life stopped.”
David just looked at him. “Okay.”
“Okay?!”
“You wanted to be the best. So you let everything go. Got focused. Got excellent. It worked. Look where you are right now.” He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m gonna go take a smoke break.”
And with that, David turned and headed deeper into the hallway.
He didn’t expect to see Alicia.
But there she was.
Leaning against the doorframe, unreadable.
He blinked. “Eavesdropping?”
“Didn’t have to. You’re both loud.”
They walked side by side for a moment, the hallway narrowing around them.
“He’s not wrong about everything,” Alicia said, quietly.
David scoffed. “He’s also not exactly the picture of stability.”
“Sure. But you’re wrong too.”
“How generous of you.”
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.
“Anyway,” David said, smirking as they walked, “I still think it’s hilarious how everyone here just whispers about what you did these last couple of weeks but still wont go up to you.”
Alicia rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, David—I'm the talk of the town. Mysterious ghost came to life”” Her voice dripped with exaggeration.
David snorted. “Alright, relax, Alicia.”
Alicia shot him a look and spoke mockingly . “I actually exclusively only go by Lloris now since you know I'm such a big deal.”
Laughter erupted between the two, and then—
“What.”
Voices.
From behind them.
Both of them froze.
David turned slowly. Alicia’s heart thudded.
Carmy and Luca.
Both Standing a few feet behind them, expression somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
A/N
Y’all 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.
“Okay but… do I look like I’m mourning a restaurant or seducing the ghost of Escoffier?”
David squinted, arms crossed like a fashion judge on a cooking show. “You look like a haunted bottle of Amaro. Which… is actually the vibe.”
Alicia rolled her eyes and spun to face him. “I liked the first dress better.”
David scoffed. “No. That one made you look like you were doing performance art about tax evasion.”
She groaned. “It was comfortable, though.”
David stepped forward, tugging at the lapel of the structured black blazer she was wearing now. “No. This is the one. This is mysterious. Elegant. Slightly threatening. My plus one has to look good, especially when she’s been the evil bitch making the culinary world go haywire.”
Alicia narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’ve always secretly wanted to dress a Bond villain?”
“Because I have,” David said. “And now I’m living the dream.”
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.
“Okay,” she said, softer. “Yeah. This is the one.”
David watched her for a moment, then nodded.
“You know,” Alicia added, fiddling with one of the buttons. “My style used to be… awful.”
“Oh, I know,” he said immediately. “I’ve seen the photos.”
She gave him a shove. “No, like. Before I went to Chicago. I just didn’t give a shit. I was always in frumpy clothes, bad sneakers, like I was trying to disappear into my walk-in fridge.”
“Sounds emo.”
“It was. Emotionally crunchy,” she said with a grin. “But after everything blew up—when I dropped the name and started over—I guess I cared a little more. Not just about clothes, about… being seen.”
David nodded slowly. “And then you met Carmy.”
Alicia laughed, dry and quiet. “Yeah. Then I met Carmy.”
“Ah,” David said. “So that’s when you upgraded from ‘haunted fridge goblin’ to ‘sexy knife cryptid.’”
“I wouldn’t say all that.”
She leaned against the mirror now, letting out a breath. “He 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.”
David’s voice was lighter again. “And now look at you. High-fashion chef-ghost. Devourer of egos. Destroyer of Michelin dreams.”
Alicia smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I’m not old enough to be your—okay, you know what? Fine. Yes. I’m proud of you, sweetie.”
They both laughed again, and the tension melted away a little.
They paid for the outfit—David insisting on covering it as part of her “appearance fee”—and left the boutique with two bags, an espresso each, and a level of petty energy that could crack the Michelin Guide in half.
“You ready to bury Ever?” David asked as they walked back toward the hotel.
Alicia pulled on her sunglasses like a movie villain. “Let’s go mourn some fine dining.”
Alicia didn’t realize she was dreaming at first, it felt too familiar. The kind of memory you don’t 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 Carmy—whatever it was—existed 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 weren’t new anymore. But they weren’t steady either.
They moved through each other’s lives like smoke—visible, undeniable, but never something you could hold.
She came over without warning.
Carmy didn’t say hi just slid the oven mitt off her hand when she reached for a pan and muttered, “Too hot.”
His fingers lingered on hers for a second too long.
She stayed until sunrise. Neither of them brought it up the next day.
Alicia—dream Alicia—watched 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 couldn’t be said out loud.
Then the shift.
Carmy started pulling away.
Stopped answering texts the same way.
He’d still brush past her in the kitchen, sometimes still reach for her hand without thinking, but he didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 spoon—not 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 hadn’t let herself think before:
She didn’t 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 wasn’t 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 wasn’t peace.
It was the sound of something dying too slowly to notice.
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 counter—wrapped boxes, neat, clean, unsettlingly curated.
Not food this time.
Just…gifts.
Tina noticed her first. “You might want to brace yourself, Syd.”
“What is this?” Sydney asked, already moving toward the packages.
Richie held up a note, expression unreadable. “From Lloris.”
Sydney blinked. “They’re still going?”
“Oh, they’ve leveled up,” Marcus muttered.
Each box was marked with a name. Everyone had something.
Sydney opened hers—inside was a well-worn, now-restored copy of her first culinary notebook. The one she thought she’d 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:
“Don’t forget who you were before the pressure. – Lloris”
Marcus’s gift was a delicate carving tool set—identical to the one he had shown Carmy back in the early days when he was practicing sugar work. Tools he’d sold to pay rent once.
His note:
“You’re better than they think. – Lloris”
Tina’s was deeply personal—an old photo of her and her mother in front of a food stall in Puebla. One she hadn’t seen in decades. The photo had been laminated, preserved.
“Some roots run deeper than kitchens. – Lloris”
Ebra’s was strange, but meaningful—an out-of-print French poetry book, something he’d once quoted from during a family meal debate about art and food.
“You were always right. – Lloris”
Richie opened his box last. A perfectly clean, unopened copy of the self-help book he’d once sarcastically recommended to Carmy but secretly started reading after a particularly bad night.
“You’re trying. That’s enough—for now. – Lloris”
Even Fak had a box—an old CD-R labeled “Demo – The Faktones.” His garage band from high school. Somehow, someone had found the only copy.
“Never stop being the weirdo. – Lloris”
The room went quiet as everyone looked at their gifts, shifting from confusion to a shared, eerie realization.
“These aren’t just random,” Sydney murmured. “They know us.”
Richie stepped back, whistling low. “It’s not even just food anymore. This is some Zodiac killer chef shit.”
“They’re watching,” Ebra said solemnly.
“They’ve been watching,” Tina added.
Carmy, standing in the back, hadn’t opened his yet. He stared at it for a long moment before finally cracking the box open.
Inside?
His old, scuffed chef’s knife. The one he left behind when he walked out of New York for good.
Cleaned. Sharpened. Still his.
The note?
“You keep trying to start over. Maybe you should try picking up where you left off. – Lloris”
He said nothing.
Just quietly rewrapped the knife and set it down.
Noma…
The Noma satellite kitchen wasn’t 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. “Chef… these are for us?”
Luca raised an eyebrow, already guessing. “Open it.”
The gifts were similar—personal, too specific.
One line cook received a rare truffle grater from a small forge in Italy. A mentor once told her she’d 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.
Luca’s own gift was more on the same level—- french whisk he hadn’t 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 box—the 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 drops—gifts instead of dishes—the 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.
“Is the Mysterious ‘Lloris’ Going Too Far?”
“Chefs Across the World Targeted in Culinary Mind Games”
“Gifted, Intimidated, and Unsettled: Competitors Speak Out About Lloris”
Dozens of chefs went to the media with their experiences. Some were amused. Most weren’t. Several claimed emotional manipulation, crossing ethical boundaries, and creating a “toxic pre-competition atmosphere.”
The headlines hit hard—and fast.
Lloris had gone from urban legend to front-page mystery.
But they still didn’t know who.
And in every quote, every article, every talking head giving their take, the question was always the same:
