Compliments to the chef (nah I wanna fuck the chef) study draft#1
The jazz bar is tucked on a corner most people forget — the kind of place you only end up if someone brings you there, or if you're looking for something quiet, warm, and a little strange.
Tonight, it’s the former. Your friend knew the place. Said the food was good, the wine was better, and the music? Magic.
You hadn’t expected much, just a night out, a little wine, something slow and indulgent. But from the moment you walked in, it felt like stepping out of your life and into something else entirely. Something slower. Richer. Dim lights and velvet shadows, laughter tucked into corners, the slow spill of trumpet and upright bass curling like smoke through the air.
You’re dressed in something soft, something that moves when you do. The lighting catches you just right — golden on your skin, your collarbones, the sweep of your mouth when you smile.
You don’t know it, but someone notices.
Behind the half-swinging kitchen door, where the heat rolls thick and the clatter of pans never really stops, Simon Riley catches sight of you through the narrow gap in the wood.
He shouldn't be looking. He never does. Faces blur together, most nights. But not yours. Not tonight.
You don’t know who he is , not yet, just that the food, when it comes, is unreal. Rich and decadent and somehow exactly what you needed. You sink into it, melting into the booth as you sip your wine and laugh with your friend, everything blurring around the edges.
Simon watches you in fragments. Between dishes, through the haze. He sees the way you laugh with your whole body, how your fingers linger around the rim of your glass. He watches you hum to the rhythm of the band, lean in close to your friend to share something only she’s meant to hear.
But he hears it too.
You’re full. A little buzzed. Languid with satisfaction. And then you say it, half-whispered, grinning like a secret:
"Forget compliments to the chef," you murmur, voice thick with wine. "I wanna fuck the chef."
Your friend gasps, nearly chokes on her drink, laughing too loud.
You laugh too, oblivious. The world is warm and fuzzy. No one heard you. Right?
Wrong.
Simon stands frozen just behind the kitchen line, arms crossed, heat licking across his jaw from more than just the grill. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you, the ghost of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.
He should go back to work.
Instead, when your table’s bill is printed and slipped into the leather folder, he takes it. Flips it open. Finds a clean corner of receipt paper. And writes something just for you.
The music plays on. Another song. Another glass of wine. You’re floating, but eventually, the bill comes.
You open it absentmindedly, card in hand, But something stops you.
A note, tucked neatly into the fold.
You blink. Your name isn’t on it, but you know it’s for you.
Simon.
Compliments to the chef.
xxx-xxx-xxxx.
You stare. Read it twice. Three times.
And then, as if pulled by something invisible, you lift your eyes toward the kitchen.
He's there.
Just a glimpse — framed in the glow of a backlight, one hand braced on the doorframe, apron smudged with the kind of mess only a good meal leaves behind. He’s watching you.
The music swells behind him. He doesn't wave. He doesn't speak.
Just offers a small, quiet smile. One that feels private, meant. And then turns away.
Gone.
You leave with the note pressed tight between your fingers, heart thudding in your chest like it knows something you don’t. Your friend is still laughing about what you said earlier, teasing you gently. But her voice feels far away now.
Outside, the air is cool. Crisp against your skin.
You think of the way he looked at you. The curve of his mouth. The fact that he heard you. The fact that he wrote back.
You don’t text him.
Not yet.
You hold onto it instead — the heat, the thrill, the maybe.
Later, you might. When your lipstick's faded and your heels are off. When you're in bed with the city buzzing faintly through your window, and you're still tasting the night on your lips.
You’ll find his name in your purse. And you’ll know, This isn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
