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[tsunodaradio]

IT’S TO DRIVE FOR! (SEMI-HIATUS)

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[tsunodaradio]

yes, chef! ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

the great yuki tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

ꔮ starring: restaurant owner!yuki tsunoda x pastry chef!reader. ꔮ word count: 18.6k. ꔮ includes: implied smut/suggestive, romance, friendship. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: restaurant/service industry. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. yearning, friends to lovers, ensemble of driver cameos. ꔮ commentary box: celebrating turning twenty-something with a monster of a yt22 fic!!! been working on this for what feels like forever. everybody, meet my shaylas 🎂 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Monday mornings always feel like a personal attack.

Your alarm is cruel enough, but the real betrayal is the way sunlight filters through your blinds as if the world is mocking you. You drag yourself out of bed with all the grace of a zombie extra in a B‑list horror film. Teeth brushed, hair tied back, chef’s whites pressed in theory (in reality, the iron stayed untouched), you go through the motions of a routine that has more to do with muscle memory than enthusiasm.

Coffee comes first. Always coffee.

You sip it like medicine, grimacing at the bitterness but knowing you’d be a public safety hazard without it. Bag slung over your shoulder, sneakers squeaking on the pavement, you head out to Venti Due—the only itameshi restaurant along the West Coast and, conveniently, your place of reluctant employment.

The brick façade of the restaurant looks deceptively cheerful in the morning light. You push the door open and step into the familiar hum of pre‑opening chaos. The servers are already buzzing around, though ‘buzzing’ is generous when it comes to Oscar. 

He greets you with his usual sleepy smile, one hand still clutching his phone as if he’s been dragged out of bed five minutes ago. Knowing Oscar, it probably isn’t far from the truth. A uni student pulling part‑time shifts, he’s charming in the way of someone who can’t fully hide his exhaustion but tries anyway.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice caught somewhere between dreams and reality.

“You’re awake. Miracles do happen,” you shoot back, tossing your bag behind the counter.

Jules pops her head up next, practically materializing from behind a stack of menus. “Don’t jinx him. He’s fragile in the mornings.” Jules, with her eccentric flair and a tendency to turn even simple table setups into performance art, beams at you. She’s already managed to scatter napkins across three different tables in what looks suspiciously like an avant‑garde arrangement. You decide to let her have her moment.

George, the sommelier, is next in line for introductions whether he wants it or not. He shuffles past with a clipboard in hand, brow furrowed in concentration. Frumpy, yes. Well‑meaning, also yes. He greets you with a distracted nod, muttering something about bottle inventories that you’re not entirely sure wasn’t directed at himself. You’ve seen him lose battles with corkscrews more often than you’d care to admit, but his heart’s in the right place.

The bar clinks with the unmistakable rhythm of Lando at work. He’s got that too‑easy grin, the kind that spells trouble before you even reach the counter. “Morning, pastry princess,” he calls, shaking a cocktail shaker despite the hour. You roll your eyes, already bracing yourself. Lando’s in the middle of his Master’s, somehow balancing academia with bartending and an unrelenting commitment to flirting with anything that breathes.

“You’re not supposed to make drinks before noon,” you point out.

“You’re not supposed to look this grumpy before noon, but here we are.” He winks, and you resist the urge to throw a spoon at his head.

The kitchen door swings open and Alex emerges, still tying his apron. Away from kitchen duty, he’s personable and warm, the type of guy who remembers birthdays and always has an extra pen when you’re short. When it’s time to cook, though, the sous chef is Gordon Ramsey reincarnated. “Don’t let him bother you,” Alex says, shooting Lando a look before offering you a smile.

The rhythm of the morning crew is familiar, each cog in the machine spinning in its predictable orbit. You’re halfway to convincing yourself this Monday might pass without incident when the air shifts.

Yuki Tsunoda steps into the room with the kind of presence that demands attention. Not loud, not showy. He’s only sharp, focused, carrying an authority that instantly changes the tempo of the restaurant. He shrugs off his jacket, ties his apron with brisk precision, and surveys the room with an expression that dares anyone to waste his time.

You hate the way your stomach flips. It’s Monday morning. You’re supposed to be miserable. Instead, all you can think is: here we fucking go.

Yuki sets his knife roll on the counter with a soft thud, pulling the ties loose with the focus of someone already two steps ahead of everyone else. You’ve seen him do this a hundred times. Efficient, precise, and more than a little intimidating if you’re new. But you’re not new. You’ve been here since the beginning, which makes you immune to the brunt of his stormy focus. Mostly.

“Morning,” he says finally, not looking up as he inspects a blade for sharpness.

“You mean ‘good morning, how are you, did you sleep well?’” You lean against the prep counter with your arms crossed. “That’s how normal people greet each other.”

He snorts, clearly unimpressed. “If I wanted small talk, I’d ask Jules. Did the flour delivery come in?”

“Wow. Straight to business. My weekend must mean nothing to you.” You slide your phone across the counter so he can see the checklist you’ve already made. “Yes, it came in. Two sacks instead of three. I called the supplier already. They’re sending another one this afternoon.”

Yuki glances at the list, lips twitching in what might almost pass for a smile. “And the pistachios?”

“Safe and sound. Locked away from Lando, in case he gets bored and decides to experiment with nut-based cocktails again.”

“That was one time,” Yuki exhales, lining up his knives like soldiers. He pauses, flicking a look your way. “You remembered to order the hazelnut paste?”

“Do I look like someone who forgets the backbone of her own creations?”

“Sometimes,” he says. But you catch the corner of his mouth fighting upward, and it’s enough to make your pulse skip. This is how it always is. Professional words with just enough bite to keep you on your toes. You can read the rhythm of his moods like sheet music, filling in the gaps with your own easy counterpoint.

“I’ll start on the tarts once the ovens finish preheating,” you say, turning toward your workstation. “If you behave, I might even let you have the first one.”

Yuki shakes his head, feigning exasperation as readjusts his chef’s jacket. “You talk like I can’t just take one.”

“You could,” you concede, glancing at him over your shoulder, “but then you’d miss the fun of me pretending you earned it.”

For a moment, his gaze lingers on you longer than it should, heavy enough that you feel it even without looking directly at him. Then he clears his throat and flips open his notebook. “Inventory meeting in ten. Don’t be late.”

“As if I would ever,” you say, already pulling flour from the storeroom. Your hands move on autopilot, weighing, measuring, prepping for the day ahead. You and Yuki have done this dance so many times, it’s practically second nature. Two halves of the same rhythm, balancing each other without ever needing to speak it out loud.

By midmorning, Venti Due hums like a machine that knows its purpose. Orders aren’t flying in yet, but prep is its own battlefield. Knives chop in rhythm, pans hiss and sputter, and the front-of-house polishes glasses with militant devotion. It’s chaos, but choreographed chaos. You fall into the current without hesitation, sleeves rolled up, fingers dusted in flour before you’ve even noticed.

You catch Oscar fumbling with a tray of wine glasses and Jules swooping in with the dramatics of a knight saving a maiden. George is muttering about pairings to no one in particular, while Lando is teaching himself how to juggle lemons when he thinks no one’s looking. Alex keeps the kitchen calm, redirecting energy like it’s second nature. And Yuki—well, Yuki commands it all with a glance. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. A sharp nod, a clipped word, and everyone falls into line.

You don’t have the luxury of stopping to admire it. The pastries won’t prep themselves, and you’re elbow-deep in dough by the time the clock ticks toward noon. The ovens cycle batches with military precision, trays sliding in and out as you shape and fill with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times. Your world shrinks down to sugar, butter, and the hum of timers.

By lunch, Alex slips away first, snagging a plate and scarfing it down with the kind of efficiency only a chef of his calibre can manage. Yuki takes his turn after, pausing just long enough to check on the line before disappearing toward the staff room. You wave him off when he gestures toward you. “I’ll eat after this batch,” you insist, shaping another neat lattice over a tart.

You don’t notice time slipping until the next batch cools and the savory scent of lunch is a faint memory in the air. Wiping your hands on your apron, you finally make your way toward the back, stomach growling in protest. The tray of staff meals is nearly empty, save for a few scraps of bread and what looks suspiciously like the last sad bite of salad. Alex shrugs apologetically from across the room.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you grumble, a little louder than you intend. “I slave away over butter and sugar, and this is the thanks I get?”

Before you can work yourself into a proper tirade, a plate slides into view under your nose. Perfectly portioned, still warm, and suspiciously untouched. You look up to find Yuki standing there, arms crossed, expression caught between exasperation and fondness. “I knew you’d do this,” he says simply, “so I saved one.”

You narrow your eyes, though the twist of relief in your chest betrays you. “What are you, my babysitter now?”

“More like the only one here with common sense,” Yuki replies, pulling out a chair with his foot. “Sit. Eat. Before you faint into a tray of éclairs and make me fire you.”

“I’d haunt this place,” you huff, but you sit anyway. The first bite is a revelation, your stomach sighing in gratitude. You peek up at him through your lashes. “You know, some people might think this is sweet.”

Yuki shrugs, deadpan as ever. “Some people don’t know you well enough.”

It’s meant to be a jab, but the silence that follows is heavier than either of you expect. You break it first with a snort, nudging his hand as you reach for your fork again. “Thanks, chef.”

His mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile before he turns back toward the kitchen. “Don’t make it a habit.”

The day’s dinner service winds down with the steady rhythm of plates cleared and chairs stacked. The air is thick with the scent of garlic, wine, and the faint sweetness of the last tiramisu you sent out. You wipe down your station, fingers stiff but satisfied, and listen to the restaurant exhale after another day survived.

Yuki gathers the staff near the pass, arms crossed, expression sharp but not unkind. He does this every night. Quick notes, a pulse check on the team, a reminder that tomorrow demands just as much precision as today.

“Service was clean,” he starts, scanning the group. “Oscar, your pacing was better. Jules—don’t rearrange the cutlery mid-shift. It confuses the guests.”

Jules gasps like she’s been personally insulted. “It was art!”

“Save the art for your apartment,” Yuki replies, tone clipped. “George, good pairing tonight. Lando, stop experimenting during service. Alex, solid work on the line.”

The feedback rolls out like clockwork, efficient and even. The crew listens, nods, takes it in. Despite his dry delivery, you can feel it. The respect humming beneath every word, the quiet trust that everyone here leans on. When Yuki speaks, people listen. Not because they’re scared of him, but because he’s earned it.

Finally, his gaze lands on you. “Pastries were consistent,” he says. “Timing was better too. Keep it up.”

There’s nothing in the words themselves, but the weight of his eyes lingers. You offer a small shrug, as if to say, of course they were.

“God, just kiss already,” Lando mutters from the back, which earns him a snort from Jules and a scandalized look from George. Oscar, barely holding back laughter, pretends to check his phone.

Heat prickles your neck, but you roll your eyes and toss your towel at the bar. “Don’t project your tragic love life onto us, Lando.”

“Tragic? Please. I’m thriving.” He sticks out his tongue at you before Yuki clears his throat, sharp enough to cut through the noise.

“Focus,” Yuki says simply. Just like that, the teasing dies down, the crew dispersing with the tired chatter of people who’ve given their all. Bags are slung over shoulders, goodbyes are murmured, and soon the restaurant quiets to its bones.

You linger at your station a moment longer, stacking trays with more care than necessary. Yuki moves past, close enough that his sleeve brushes yours. “Ignore them,” he says softly, not looking at you.

“Who says I care?” you reply, but the laugh in the back of your throat betrays you.

He doesn’t press, doesn’t tease. He only gives the smallest nod before heading toward the office. You’re left with the ghost of his sleeve against yours, wondering why ignoring them feels impossible.

The next week at Venti Due settles into its rhythm: the clang of pans, the rise of voices calling for orders, the sweet hush of pastry cream thickening under your whisk. Between the noise and the chaos, you find yourself drifting. Thinking back to how it all started, how you ended up tethered to this kitchen and, somehow, to Yuki.

Culinary school feels like another lifetime now, all stainless steel counters and the sterile scent of bleach. Yuki had been the one student who managed to make a uniform look like armor, his sharp focus cutting through every room he walked into. You’d first spoken during a class on fundamentals. He’d been hunched over a cutting board, perfecting a julienne that looked like it had been measured with a ruler. You’d leaned closer, deliberately dramatic. “Going for world’s straightest carrot sticks?” you’d teased.

He hadn’t even glanced up. “Some of us care about precision.”

“And some of us care about not boring ourselves to death.” You’d grinned, tossing him a piece of your unevenly chopped onion. “See? Personality.”

He’d finally looked at you then and said, “Your personality smells.”

It was the start of something neither of you had language for yet.

Between classes and late-night study sessions, you carved out a rhythm. Yuki was disciplined to the point of obsession, while you thrived in improvisation, especially once the curriculum turned to pastries. You remember the first time he tried one of your test tarts, biting into it with a seriousness that made your palms sweat. “Not too sweet,” he’d said eventually, and you’d laughed because coming from him, that was the highest form of praise.

One evening, you found him sitting alone in the library, textbooks sprawled around him, a notebook filled with scrawled ideas. “Itameshi,” he’d said before you could even ask. “Japanese-Italian fusion. Not gimmicky, not watered down. Balanced. Something that respects both traditions.”

You’d sat across from him, intrigued despite yourself. “That’s oddly specific.”

He’d leaned back, expression thoughtful. “It’s what I grew up with. Pasta with shoyu, miso in risotto. My mom didn’t think about it as fusion. It was just… dinner. I want to take that and make it into something that belongs on a Michelin menu.”

You’d nodded slowly, tucking that piece of him away. It explained the focus, the drive that sometimes looked like obsession. It wasn’t just food to him. It was identity, stitched together by memory and taste.

“And you?” he’d asked then, catching you off guard. “What do you want?”

“A patisserie,” you’d answered after a moment of hesitation. “Glass display cases, rows of pastries, the smell of butter and sugar hitting people when they walk in. Something that’s mine.”

He’d given you a rare smile then, small but real. “Sounds fitting.”

Graduation came faster than you expected. A blur of exams, sleepless nights, and too much caffeine. The ceremony itself felt like theater, everyone pretending not to care while secretly waiting for their names to be called. Yuki wore the cap and gown like he wore everything else: with a kind of reluctant irritation, as though the whole pageantry offended his sense of efficiency.

It was afterward, when the crowd thinned and the graduates dispersed to dinners and family celebrations, that he cornered you outside the hall. The sky was slipping toward dusk, a warm June evening wrapping the campus in gold. He stood there with his hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable, and for a second you thought he was going to comment on how crooked your cap sat.

Instead, he said, “Be my pastry chef.”

Your brows furrowed, wondering if you misheard. “Excuse me?”

“I’m opening a restaurant. Itameshi. You know what I want it to be.” His gaze locked on yours, steady and unflinching. “I want you there. Pastry chef.”

You laughed, nervous but amused. “Yuki, that sounds like a proposal.”

“It is,” he said flatly, his eyes crinkling as he broke out into a proper, toothy grin. “For food. Not marriage.”

“You really know how to sweep someone off their feet.” You had crossed your arms, tilting your head at him. “What makes you think I’ll say yes?”

“Because you already said you want your own place. You won’t waste time at someone else’s restaurant. Not unless it mattered.”

The words hit harder than you expected, like he’d been listening closer than you realized. You rolled your eyes to cover the way your chest tightened. “Fine. But it’s temporary. I’ll help you launch, save up, and then I’m gone. Patisserie, remember?”

He nodded once, solemn, like you’d struck a deal. “Temporary.”

You shook his hand, though it felt oddly ceremonial, and something inside you whispered that this was more binding than either of you admitted aloud.

That was four years ago.

Now, standing in Venti Due’s kitchen with sugar under your nails and the hum of service in the background, you realize the word ‘temporary’ has stretched longer than you ever intended. Every day has carried the same steady gravity of that handshake. An agreement that was never just about work, no matter how hard you both pretended otherwise.

By closing time, the kitchen looks like it survived a small war. Pots stacked high, jam staining your apron, the faint smell of seared fish clinging to your hair. You’re wiping down your station when Yuki approaches, holding out an envelope. “Salary’s in your account,” he says, tone casual. “This is extra. Tips.”

You glance at the wad of cash inside, instantly shoving it back toward him. “No way. I don’t need your charity fund.”

His eyebrow lifts, sharp and unimpressed. “It’s not charity. It’s from the floor. Customers like desserts, apparently. Who knew.”

“Shocking revelation.” You push the envelope across the counter again. “Split it with the servers.”

“They already got their share. This is yours. Take it.” He says it with the stubbornness of someone who will stand here all night until you cave. His arms are crossed now, a silent dare.

You sigh, snatching the envelope before he can start another speech. “Fine. But if I blow it all on overpriced candles, that’s on you.”

“Save it. Or don’t. I don’t care.” 

“Thanks,” you add, quieter than intended. He doesn’t reply, only nods and turns back to check on Alex, as if the conversation never happened.

Later that night, your apartment greets you with the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint creak of floorboards. You set the envelope on the counter, then reach for the Mason jars lined up in the cupboard. Their weight is familiar, each one filled with neatly rolled bills. Months, years of tip envelopes, savings, little sacrifices. The ritual of stacking them has always been your silent countdown to freedom. You pour the new bills into the jar marked with a strip of masking tape, the one labeled Someday. It’s already full to the brim, crammed so tightly that the lid barely twists shut.

Here’s the truth: you had enough last year. 

Enough for the deposit on that storefront downtown, the one with big windows and a perfect corner for displaying cakes that would stop people in their tracks. Enough to hire staff, to design menus, to finally call something yours.

And yet you’re still here. Still showing up at Venti Due every morning, still brushing sugar from your clothes and trading barbs with Yuki across the kitchen. You tell yourself it’s practical. Safe. Sensible.

When you glance at the jar, heavy with possibility, you know it’s none of those things. You’re still here for one reason only. 

The weekend market is already buzzing when you and Yuki arrive, shoulder to shoulder in the lazy late-morning sun. Vendors are hawking their produce with theatrical gusto, baskets of tomatoes and eggplants gleaming under striped awnings. You tug your tote bag higher on your shoulder and try to look like this is just another errand, not some weirdly domestic ritual you’ve fallen into with your best friend-slash-boss. “Which one first?” Yuki asks, scanning the rows of stalls like he’s plotting a battle strategy.

“Whichever one isn’t going to tempt you into buying another box of mushrooms we don’t have fridge space for,” you shoot back.

His mouth curves upward. “That’s very specific. Almost like it already happened.”

“It did. Last month. You held them like a newborn.”

“They were good mushrooms.”

You roll your eyes but follow him anyway, weaving through the crowd. There’s an ease to this—how you match each other’s pace without thinking, how he hands you a sample of melon before even tasting it himself. The vendor grins at the exchange, as though the two of you are some couple straight out of a weekend slice-of-life film. You ignore the implication and bite into the melon, pretending the sweetness on your tongue is the only thing worth noticing. “Thoughts?” Yuki asks, expectant.

“It’s good. Very… melon-y.”

“That’s profound. Truly your culinary school tuition at work.”

You elbow him lightly, earning a laugh that draws a curious glance or two. He doesn’t seem to care, and you pretend not to either. Later, while you’re considering a stack of strawberries, he appears at your side with skewers of yakitori, one already half-gone. He holds out the other without ceremony. “Lunch.”

“You just couldn’t wait?”

“Chef’s privilege.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker with mischief as you take the skewer from his hand. You mutter a thanks around your first bite, trying not to acknowledge the fact that you’re sharing food in a way that feels intimate.

You keep telling yourself this isn’t a date. You’re here for produce, for scouting local vendors, for the sake of the restaurant. But then Yuki brushes a stray leaf off your shoulder without comment, and you wonder why the lie has to work so hard to convince you.

The market shifts sometime around noon, when the lazy sprawl of vendors and wandering locals turns into a slow-moving human tide. At first you think it’s just you getting bumped one too many times by an elbow or an overenthusiastic shopping bag, but then you notice Yuki’s face. That pinched look he wears when something irritates him but he hasn’t decided if it’s worth a fight. Spoiler: nine times out of ten, it isn’t.

He lingers closer than usual, not that you’re about to complain. His hand hovers once near the small of your back before he thinks better of it, retreating to the safety of his pockets. Instead he becomes a living barrier between you and the chaos of the crowd, always stepping a half second ahead of anyone who might jostle you. He’s subtle about it, or at least he thinks he is. You can read him too well. “You look like you’re about to start body-checking grandmas,” you tease, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Relax, Yuki. I can handle a market crowd.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he says. His eyes dart toward a group squeezing through the aisle, and his jaw ticks. “You’re short, people don’t see you. Easy to get pushed.”

There’s a warmth tucked in that blunt little statement, disguised as irritation. You let it hang in the air, unspoken, savoring it like the last bite of dessert. “Fine,” you grin. “Since you’re obviously seconds away from picking a fight with a produce stand, why don’t we bail? Early dinner?”

He exhales, relief hidden in the smallest curve of his mouth. “My place. Closer than yours. And I don’t want to carry all this stuff any farther.”

You arch a brow at the loaded grocery bags he’s holding in one hand, as if the weight of it is nothing but child’s play. “Uh-huh. Definitely not because you’d rather control the menu.”

You head for his apartment, tucked right next to Venti Due. Convenient for the workaholic. Yuki’s place isn’t new territory. By now, you can navigate it without even thinking. Keys tossed on the counter, shoes kicked by the door, sleeves already rolled to your elbows before Yuki’s even finished locking up. His place is small, but it feels lived-in. Warm. Familiar. The kind of space you drift into without ever needing to ask permission.

You’re already in the kitchen before he joins you, pulling a pan from its usual spot. “You do realize you’ve tricked me into more cooking after a full week of baking, right?” you say, giving him a look over your shoulder.

Yuki shrugs, as if that explains everything. “I’m not tricking. You volunteered. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh.” You set the pan on the stove, nudging him with your elbow when he crowds in beside you. “And what, exactly, did I volunteer for? Being your sous chef?”

He smirks, reaching for the garlic. “More like my commis.”

You make a face. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He tosses you the knife like it’s a challenge. You catch it easily, slicing into the cloves with more precision than he probably expected. He leans just close enough to watch, and you’re tempted to say something biting, but the way he’s looking at you—quietly impressed—makes you bite your tongue.

The rhythm comes easy, though. It always does with him. He stirs while you chop, you season while he tastes. The banter fills the cracks in the silence, steady as muscle memory. “So,” you say, flicking a piece of garlic at him, “what are we calling this masterpiece? Chef’s special?”

“Chef’s survival.”

“Catchy. Michelin will be begging.”

He laughs under his breath, and the sound sticks with you longer than it should. The apartment fills with the smell of browned garlic and olive oil, something simple and grounding. By the time pasta hits the pan, you’re both shoulder to shoulder, stealing tastes straight off each other’s forks. Dinner ends up being just that. Two spoons, one pan, and no patience for plating. Yuki passes you a bite, and you take it without hesitation, like it’s nothing. Like it isn’t something at all.

“You know,” you say around a mouthful, “I think we might actually be good at this whole cooking thing.”

“Finally noticed?” He chuckles, stealing the spoon back. “Took you long enough.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite smother the smile that follows. Sitting at his tiny table, sharing dinner out of the pan, it feels too easy. Too natural. And maybe that’s what makes it dangerous.

The bell above the café door jingles as the three of you step inside, the smell of espresso and roasted beans wrapping around you like a blanket. Jules makes a beeline for the counter, and Lando falls into step beside her, leaving you trailing with the quiet suspicion you’ve just been set up. “So,” Jules says with an innocence that fools no one, “Yuki seemed in a good mood last night. Wonder why.”

Lando, ever the accomplice, smirks. “Probably has something to do with a certain pastry chef who practically lives at his side.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something. “Wow. Stellar detective work. Truly groundbreaking analysis.”

Jules grins at you over her shoulder as she orders her usual oat latte. “Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t see it,” she insists. “You two are practically married already.”

You shoot her a look. “If we’re married, then I want half of Venti Due in the divorce.”

Lando nearly chokes on his laugh, stepping up to the counter to order. “That’s the spirit,” he says offhandedly, “but seriously. You should just date him. It’d save us all the suspense.”

You lean against the counter, the perfect picture of unimpressed. “Right. Because what a restaurant really needs is its manager and pastry chef combusting over a messy breakup. Brilliant idea, ten out of ten,” you bite out.

They exchange a look, conspiratorial in its silence, and you know they’re not about to drop it. You sip your coffee when it arrives and decide you’ve had enough. “You know what,” you say, your voice syrupy sweet, “I think you two should date. Jules, Lando—match made in heaven.”

That does it. Lando goes red immediately, fumbling with the sugar packets like they’re suddenly the most fascinating things in the world. Jules sputters mid-sip, coughing into her sleeve, eyes wide with something close to shame. You grin, mischievous, basking in the chaos. “See? Works every time.”

The walk back is blissfully quiet, the two of them still awkwardly avoiding each other’s eyes. You sip your coffee triumphantly, knowing you’ve just secured yourself at least a week’s reprieve from their meddling.

The coffee run conspirators are barely out of earshot when Yuki finds you back at the counter, sleeves rolled up again like the morning never ended. He raises an eyebrow, the kind of silent reprimand you’ve come to know far too well. “You could at least pretend to rest when you leave the building,” he says, not looking at you as he straightens a tray of glasses.

“Rest? Never heard of her,” you reply, grabbing a towel for no reason other than to look busy.

He shakes his head, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “One day you’ll thank me for trying to keep you alive.”

“Or curse you when I die of boredom,” you shoot back, and he laughs. Soft but warm, the kind that lingers longer than it should.

You let that moment slip past, choosing instead to busy yourself until George’s bark of laughter cuts through the room. He’s standing with Alex by the espresso machine, both of them suspiciously smug. You narrow your eyes just in time to see Alex slip a bill into George’s waiting hand. “Really?” you say, marching over. “Please tell me you’re not gambling on how long it takes for me to sass Yuki back.”

“Not exactly,” George says, unbothered as he tucks the money into his pocket. “But you two make it too easy.”

Alex shrugs, grin breaking across his face. “It’s good money. Don’t take it personally.”

“Don’t take it personally?” you repeat, scandalized. “You’re making a profit off my tragic, very professional, completely platonic working relationship?”

“Professional,” George repeats, and Alex snorts like that word’s the funniest punchline he’s heard all week.

You swivel to the nearest sane person: Oscar, nursing a mug of black coffee. “Tell me you’re not a part of this.”

He shakes his head, calm as ever. “Nope. I don’t bet.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, “if I had to calculate it, I’d say the odds of you and Yuki ending up together hover around… eighty-one percent? Maybe higher if you count the market trips. Those skew the data.”

You gape at him. “You’re supposed to be my ally.”

“I am,” he says. “I’m just being scientific.”

George and Alex are wheezing now, delighted by your misery. You throw your hands up. “Unbelievable. I’m surrounded by degenerates.”

With that, you storm off, exasperation trailing behind you like the aroma of coffee grounds. Strong, bitter, and impossible to shake. The shift winds down in its usual rhythm, the clang of pots fading into the background as Yuki does his end-of-day ritual. He moves through the kitchen, giving nods, comments, and the occasional dry joke that has everyone smiling despite their exhaustion. There’s something about the way the crew listens when he talks. Not stiff, not fearful, but attentive, like they’d follow him into battle if the battlefield were lined with stovetops and prep counters.

You hang back, waiting for your moment. All day, people have been throwing you into the ring, teasing you about him like it’s a group sport. You’ve deflected, joked, even tried to flip it back on them. Now, you plan to sneak in a jab of your own, something light, something that will finally even the score. When the last of the staff filters out, you sidle closer. “Big day for me,” you say, leaning against the counter. “Apparently I’m starring in a rom-com I didn’t audition for. Thought you’d like to congratulate me on my lead role.”

Yuki huffs a laugh, one hand tucking into the pocket of his apron. “You’re good at improvising. You’ll win Best Actress, no contest.”

You open your mouth to volley back, but then he adds, almost too casually, “Speaking of… I should get going. I have a blind date tonight.”

The words clatter to the floor between you, louder than the pans ever were. Your brain scrambles, reaching for something witty, something sharp. All you manage is a smile that feels too thin around the edges. “Wow,” you say, and your voice sounds a little too bright even to your own ears. “Someone’s adventurous.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “It’s just dinner with a friend of a friend. Who knows, right?”

You nod, even though you want to shake your head until the whole idea falls out of the universe. “Right. Who knows.”

He gives you a small, easy smile before grabbing his things. “Don’t wait up.”

In the next moment, he’s gone—slipping out the back door, leaving you with the hum of the refrigerators and the hollow thump of your own heartbeat. You stay a moment longer than you should, staring at the empty space where he stood, then finally grab your bag and head out into the night.

You make a valiant attempt at salvaging the night, like it isn’t already slightly soured. Distraction is the name of the game: cleaning out the fridge, reorganizing your spice rack (alphabetical, then rearranged back to the order you actually use them in), watching half an episode of some cooking competition before realizing every contestant is making you think of Yuki anyway. You groan, flop dramatically on your couch, and eventually drag yourself to bed.

Your phone buzzes just as you’re about to fall asleep. It’s a text from Yuki. A TikTok link. 

It’s a video of a cat swatting flour off a counter while the baker screams in horror. You snort so hard you have to clutch your chest. The fact that he thought of you—your flour-covered apron, your tendency to leave powdered sugar handprints everywhere—hits a little too close.

You reply with: That cat has better technique than you.

He answers quicker than you expect: Bold words from someone who once dropped an entire bag of cocoa powder on the floor.

You grin at your phone in the dark, but your thumbs hesitate before typing. Finally, you cave: So… how was the date?

Three dots appear, vanish, reappear. Then his reply comes, simple. There won’t be a second date. 

Your stomach does a traitorous little flip. You squeeze your pillow and type back: Their loss.

His reply is slower this time, but it still arrives. Good night.

You stare at the screen longer than necessary, smiling despite yourself. Then, you type the words you mean and don’t mean all at once: Dream of me, Yukino.

I always do, comes his easy response, and you hold your phone to your chest as you feel the thump, thump, thump of your heart.

Chaos is not new to Venti Due, but today it feels like the world is testing how much caffeine-fueled patience one restaurant can hold. Orders are stacking faster than the ticket machine can spit them out, Alex looks one second away from throwing a pan, and Yuki’s temper is sparking like a gas stove with faulty wiring. You try to keep the rhythm, weaving between stations with that too-bright smile you wear when everything’s going to hell. “Table six says they’ve been waiting thirty minutes,” you announce, voice sugar-sweet, as if sugar could soften the blow.

“Tell them it’ll be thirty-one,” Yuki snaps, slamming a pan onto the burner. The clang echoes through the kitchen, and Alex mutters something sharp under his breath. Yuki hears it, of course. He always does.

“Say that louder, Albon,” Yuki challenges, eyes flicking up like knives. “To my fucking face.”

You slide between them, spatula in hand like it’s a peace offering. “Okay, gladiators, how about no one throws cookware today? Pots are expensive.” Your grin wobbles at the edges, but you keep it in place. Comic relief is your best weapon, even when you’re dying inside.

Alex scoffs, tossing chopped herbs with more force than necessary. “Tell your boyfriend to chill, then.”

Heat climbs up your neck, not just from the stoves. “He’s not my boyfriend. And he is very chill. He’s the definition of chill. Like a freezer.”

Yuki slants you a look that’s anything but chill, though his lips twitch like he almost wants to laugh. Almost. The kitchen keeps roaring, plates keep flying, and you keep tightrope-walking between Alex’s sarcasm and Yuki’s sharpness, pretending your heart isn’t racing for reasons that have nothing to do with service.

Oscar and Jules call in almost at the same time, their voices overlapping through the kitchen phone. You catch fragments—“table six wants their third refill five minutes ago,” “guy at four is snapping his fingers,” “if one more person says ‘extra crispy’ I’ll lose it.” Lovely soundtrack for a Friday night.

Yuki looks like he’s two seconds from ripping the apron off and walking out. His jaw’s set, his shoulders wound tight. You can practically hear the steam whistling from his ears. You know that look. You also know the last thing this kitchen needs is Mount Yuki erupting all over the line.

You step in, hand pressing lightly to the small of his back. A tether, a nudge. “George, pour some free wine, make it look like we’re generous saints,” you start. 

Alex picks up what you’re putting down. He’s already yelling for Lando  to bring out his shaker like it’s a weapon. “Whip up a couple of your science project cocktails,” Alex hollers. “If the drinks are colorful enough, maybe the customers will forget their existential despair.”

It’s not exactly Michelin-star crisis management, but it works. The edge in the air dulls. You feel Yuki breathe out beside you, his shoulders loosening. His hand finds yours, quick, almost stealthy, a squeeze hidden between moments. By the time anyone looks your way, he’s already back to pretending he’s unflappable, barking new orders like nothing happened.

You, of course, are left with your heart pounding harder than it has any right to during a dinner rush.

The aftermath of the shift looks like war survivors slumped against barstools. George has his head tilted back, eyes closed as if he’s auditioning for a Renaissance painting. Jules is counting tips with the air of someone too tired to do math, mouthing numbers like they might bite her if she miscounts. Alex is sprawled over two chairs, dramatically near death, while Oscar taps away on his phone with the clinical detachment of someone who has already emotionally detached from the evening.

Everyone is waiting for the inevitable. Yuki is still standing, arms crossed, expression unreadable as he surveys the wreckage. Normally this is the part where he dissects every misstep, precision-knife sharp. You brace for it too, already preparing your counterarguments and deflections. Instead, he sighs. “Good work tonight, everyone.”

The silence that follows is so loud it could count as a new kind of noise pollution. Yuki continues, voice softer. “It was rough, but you all handled it. I know I was short-tempered. Alex, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry.”

Alex blinks as if someone just offered him free real estate. “You’re… apologizing? To me?”

“Don’t make me take it back,” Yuki says flatly, but there’s no heat in it.

A ripple of muffled laughter moves through the room. The tension lightens, shoulders drop. Yuki turns to you. His eyes linger, steady. “And you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”

Cue the chorus of ooooooohs from the peanut gallery. George clutches his chest like he’s about to swoon. Jules mutters, “When’s the wedding?”

You roll your eyes and wave them off, forcing breeziness into your tone. “Don’t be dramatic. Yuki did great tonight.” You look at him deliberately, keeping it light but meaning it more than you should. “Seriously. You kept us all together, chef.”

For a moment, Yuki holds your gaze like he knows exactly what you mean, like he can hear all the words you don’t say. But then he clears his throat, turning back to the group, already moving on. The tips of his ears are a little red.

The spray of the sink is too loud, the plates too slick, and the kitchen too cramped to be having this conversation. Which is exactly why you’re having it now, with Oscar. Poor Oscar, elbows deep in soap suds, eyes wide like he can sense danger coming.

“I swear, he’s impossible,” you grunt, scrubbing at a plate like it personally wronged you. “Everyone else can see it. George, Alex, Jules, even Lando, and he barely notices anything. But Yuki? Nothing. Not even a flicker. How do you miss someone literally spelling it out for you with neon lights?”

Oscar clears his throat. “I don’t think anyone here is using neon lights.”

You flick suds at him. “You know what I mean. He’s oblivious. Painfully oblivious. Like, should I start carrying around a banner? Hire a skywriter?”

Oscar fumbles with a glass, nearly dropping it, and you swoop in to take it before disaster. He looks grateful, then immediately regretful that this means you’re still glaring at him. “You could just tell him?” he offers, voice small, like he knows it’s the worst possible suggestion.

“Brilliant. Revolutionary. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He winces. “Right. Sorry.”

“I’m serious, though,” you sigh. “How do you even tell someone like him? He’s either going to laugh it off or think I’m joking. He never takes me seriously unless I’m yelling about oven temperatures.”

Oscar gives you a long, awkward blink, as if calculating whether it’s safer to keep quiet or offer more useless wisdom. “Maybe… yell about this, then?”

You throw your dish towel at his head. “You’re no help.”

He grins, half apologetic, half relieved you’re teasing again. “Didn’t think I would be.”

The dish pit is still warm with steam when you and Oscar finish the last stack of plates. Your hands smell faintly of lemon soap and regret, though mostly the soap. Oscar is drying the last tray of glasses with all the care of someone performing delicate surgery, which makes it an easy moment for him to look at you sidelong.

When you move to leave, tugging your apron off, Oscar catches you just before the door. His voice is casual, but it lands with a strange weight. “You know, you’re pretty oblivious yourself.”

You turn, brows pulling together. “Oblivious about what?”

He just shrugs, retreating back to stack the glasses. “Figure it out.”

The words scratch at the back of your mind all the way into the night, but they don’t get far. Because as soon as you’re free, your phone buzzes with a message from Yuki: Dinner? My treat.

Oscar’s warning evaporates like steam in the dish pit. You don’t hesitate. Sure.

Yuki is already waiting on the sidewalk when you show up, still in your work clothes and very aware that you smell faintly like fryer oil and espresso. You throw your arms out dramatically, as if you’re presenting evidence at a trial. “I didn’t even have time to freshen up,” you announce. “I’m a walking PSA for why service industry workers need hazard pay.”

Yuki just shrugs, easy grin sliding onto his face. “You always look pretty.”

That’s it. Like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just lobbed a grenade straight into your ribcage. You do the only logical thing and roll your eyes, pretending the heat in your cheeks is from the streetlights. “Pretty tragic, maybe,” you mutter, but Yuki’s already walking ahead, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s perfectly pleased with himself.

The two of you gravitate toward one of the food trucks parked down the block, another one of those rituals you’ve fallen into without ever actually planning it. After nights at Venti Due, when the air inside feels too tight and the noise clings to your skin, you both need the antidote. Greasy paper plates, cheap plastic stools, food that drips down your fingers. It’s become its own tradition, like a sort of rebellion against the polished chaos you both live in during shifts.

You sit side by side on stools that wobble dangerously if you breathe too hard, elbows brushing as you dig into whatever fried concoction you’ve ordered this time. Yuki nudges his shoulder into yours as he chews, expression sly. “This is balance, right? Five-star kitchen by day, suspicious street meat by night.”

You point your fork at him. “Suspicious? Please,” you tease. “This is haute cuisine compared to the stuff I eat when you’re not around.”

He laughs, head tilting back, and the sound pulls something warm through your chest. The street hums around you—passing cars, the hiss of the grill inside the truck, the faint buzz of a neon sign overhead—but it all fades when Yuki looks at you again, still smiling like he knows something you don’t. Or maybe like he does, and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

Tonight, Yuki actually going front-of-house to greet guests himself. No clipped instructions to Jules, no waving you over. He’s personally out there, polite smile and all, which can only mean these guests are the kind of people that matter. You lean toward George, eyes following the scene like it’s prime-time television. “Alright, ten bucks says it’s a Michelin inspector.”

George smirks, polishing a wine glass he has no intention of using. “Fifteen says it’s his secret girlfriend,” he says, and you try to ignore the twang in your chest.

“Twenty says you’re both wrong,” Lando chimes, “and it’s just some old man who taught him how to cook noodles.”

Before George can counter, Yuki turns, spotting you. “Come here,” he calls, casual but with the edge of someone about to put you on the spot.

You shoot George a look that says pay up before heading over. When you get there, you freeze in your tracks. Pierre Gasly and Isack Hadjar. Head chef and sous chef of Alpha Tauri, one of those French bistros that food magazines worship like a minor deity. They’re sitting at one of Venti Due’s cramped tables like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“Uh,” you manage, because your brain is still buffering. “Hi.”

Yuki, apparently thrilled to be the cause of your speech malfunction, gestures between you. “These are my friends. Pierre, Isack. This is—well, this is who keeps this place from falling apart.”

“Flattering,” you exhale, before catching Pierre’s grin. He looks exactly like the kind of guy who would charm his way through both a dinner service and a black-tie gala. Isack, quieter, has the sharp eyes of someone cataloguing everything in the room.

“Ah, so you are the famous right hand,” Pierre says smoothly, his accent making it sound even more like a compliment.

“Famous for what, exactly?” you ask, because sarcasm is easier than admitting your ears are warm.

“Putting up with Yuki,” Isack deadpans, which earns an actual laugh from Yuki and nearly makes you choke.

Isack and Pierre don’t just order like regular customers. They order like men on a mission. No glancing at menus, no awkward pauses. Just a quick exchange in French—one you don’t need to understand to recognize as fluent culinary shorthand—before Pierre rattles off their requests.

It’s not the safe pasta route or a token pizza either. No, these two go straight for desserts, as if they came here with a purpose. Cannoli with a yuzu mascarpone filling. Matcha tiramisu layered with delicate ladyfingers soaked in sake instead of espresso. A chestnut mont blanc with candied ginger woven into its spiral. Even a semifreddo that borrows from kakigōri, shaved ice folded into the cream and studded with shards of caramelized sesame.

You jot it all down, already picturing the chaos this order is about to cause in the kitchen. Dessert-first people are a different breed. When you step back through the kitchen doors, you brace yourself. You pass the ticket along with the kind of caution reserved for live grenades. To your surprise, nobody panics. Lando perks up, muttering something about having wanted an excuse to torch meringue anyway. Alex groans, but you know he’ll secretly enjoy the challenge.

And Yuki. Yuki tries very hard not to look smug as he passes through the kitchen, glancing at the ticket and then at you. His face is the picture of composure, but you know him well enough to see it—the proud little tilt of his chin, the quick dart of his eyes toward you like he’s saying, See? They trust you. They trust us.

You ignore him, or at least you pretend to, focusing instead on plating. The tiramisu layers neatly. The cannoli shells crackle when you pipe in the filling. Each dish hits the pass like punctuation marks in a sentence you didn’t realize you were writing until now.

When you finally carry them out, Isack and Pierre are waiting, watching like hawks. They murmur their approval before forks even touch plates. For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. Because maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to see why Yuki looks so proud.

After the sweetest hour of their life, the Frenchmen’s plates are cleared and their wine glasses sit half-full. Isack leans back with a satisfied sigh. “We want to compliment the pastry chef,” he declares, pronouncing it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You glance at Yuki, half-expecting him to wave you off and take the credit himself, but he doesn’t. Instead, he flicks his eyes toward you with the faintest smile, almost as if to say, go on then. You do, your apron still dusted with sugar, sweat threading through the eggshell white of your jacket.

Isack greets you first, his grin boyish and enthusiastic. “Those desserts were brilliant. Clean, balanced, but playful. The panna cotta? It tasted magnifique.”

Pierre nods in agreement, sharper in his delivery but no less genuine. “You’ve got a strong hand. That miso tiramisu was clever without trying too hard. You should be proud.”

You mumble a thank you, cheeks hot, and when the tip comes it’s far too generous to brush off as a gesture of politeness. You try to slide it back discreetly, but Isack just waves you off, already standing to bid Yuki good night. 

Pierre lingers a moment longer. He studies you the way chefs do when they’ve spotted talent they don’t want to miss. “Listen,” he says, lowering his voice. “My pastry chef left two weeks ago. I need someone sharp, inventive. Someone like you.”

You gape, caught off guard, but Pierre presses on. “I know you’re loyal to Yuki. But Alpha Tauri pays better, and I can open doors for you. Connections, stages in Paris, maybe more.” He slides a small card across the table, his name embossed, the number beneath it neat and exact. Pierre Gasly, Head Chef of Alpha Tauri. “Think about it.”

With a final nod, he tucks his hands into his coat pockets and heads off to join Isack. The card is still warm in your palm when you head back toward the kitchen, rehearsing excuses you’ll never have to use. Except Yuki’s waiting, leaned against the doorframe like he’s been there the whole time, eyes sharper than usual.

“What did Pierre want?” he asks casually, which is how you know he’s not being casual at all.

You blink too quickly. “Nothing. Just… you know. French people talk a lot.”

Yuki raises a brow. “Talk a lot, or flirt a lot?”

Your laugh comes out too high-pitched, too guilty, and you instantly want to sink into the nearest stockpot. “Don’t be ridiculous. He was just—” You wave a vague hand, failing to find a word less incriminating than ‘offering me a job.’

“So he did try to ask you out.”

The fact that he says it like a joke makes it worse. Your laugh doubles down, nervous and unconvincing. Yuki narrows his eyes, clearly clocking every octave of panic in your voice. He’s not a jealous type, not really, but he’s also not great at hiding it when it slips out. Right now, it’s all over him, disguised poorly as humor.

“Relax,” you say hastily, brushing past him with an overdone roll of your eyes. “No one’s asking me out, okay? You’re imagining things.”

Still, the weight of Pierre’s card in your apron pocket is impossible to ignore. Instead of tossing it in the trash like you should, you slide it deeper, tucking it away where Yuki can’t see. 

You’ve known from the start that Pierre’s offer would always be a no. 

Not because it isn’t tempting—better pay, prestige, connections most chefs would sell their knives for—but because you already decided your next step wouldn’t be working under someone else’s name. It would be your own place, your own kitchen. The thought is terrifying, but it’s yours. So Pierre’s generous card burns in your pocket, not with possibility, but with a strange sort of ache. The ache isn’t about Alpha Tauri at all. It’s about Venti Due, and how, no matter how many times you swear you’ll eventually move on, you can’t seem to imagine leaving it. Leaving Yuki. That’s the part you don’t say out loud.

You spiral instead, eyes glazed as you plate tiramisu for table six, your thoughts chewing themselves into knots. You barely hear George asking if you’ve gone deaf. You barely register Jules dropping an empty wine glass into the sink. It’s like everything’s muffled, until Yuki’s voice cuts through the fog. “You’re distracted.” He says it like an accusation, sharp enough to slice through your reverie. His brow furrows as he studies you, like you’ve been caught cheating on a test.

You manage a laugh, which comes off as shaky and thin. “Just tired. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine.” Yuki wipes his hands on a towel, stepping closer, his gaze stubbornly locked on you. He’s trying to read you, as if peeling back layers with his eyes alone.

You shrug, picking up another plate, anything to avoid the weight of his stare. “Really. Nothing’s wrong.”

He doesn’t buy it, not for a second. You can tell by the look on his face. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable, until he finally exhales and mutters, “If you say so.”

You keep your eyes on the desserts, but you feel him still there, hovering, unwilling to leave you to whatever storm you’ve walked into. It’s why the sting hits before you even realize what you’ve done. Your hand makes contact with the oven door, and the heat bites instantly. You curse loud enough to make the whole kitchen snap their heads toward you. Yuki is back at your side in seconds, rattling off a string of reprimands in Japanese and English like you’ve personally offended every kitchen safety rule in existence.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, snatching your wrist up before you can cradle it against your chest. “How many times have I told you to—”

“I know, I know!” you cut him off, wincing as the burn throbs. “I was distracted, okay?”

“Distracted,” he repeats, unimpressed. “You could have lost your hand.”

“Pretty sure I still have it,” you say, trying for humor, though your voice shakes just enough to betray you. The corners of your eyes sting, and you bite down hard on the inside of your cheek.

Yuki catches it immediately. He’s quiet for a beat, just studying your face, before his shoulders drop in a heavy sigh. The lecture dies on his tongue. Without another word, he tugs you toward the back, past the prep stations, and swings open the heavy metal door of the walk-in freezer. The cold rush of air hits you like a wall, prickling your skin, but he’s already pulling you inside.

“Here,” he says simply, guiding your injured hand toward a shelf stacked with frozen containers. He presses the burn gently against the icy surface, holding it there with his own hand covering yours. The temperature bites, but it’s a welcome relief compared to the searing heat from minutes ago.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing in the blue-white hum of the freezer, his fingers brushing against yours as he steadies your hand. His breath fogs in the chill, and you can feel his warmth even in the cold. “You scare me when you do stuff like this,” Yuki admits quietly, his usual sharpness dulled to something softer. You look up at him, ready with another joke to lighten the mood, but the way he’s watching you makes the words stick in your throat.

The freezer hums around you, cold air rolling over your skin as you press your burned hand against the icy metal shelf. Yuki’s brow is furrowed, and though he’s still muttering under his breath about how reckless you are, his eyes keep flicking to your face like he’s waiting for you to break again.

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?” he asks, softer this time. “You’ve been somewhere else all night.”

“Like I said, I’m just tired,” you say with a shake of your head.

“Liar.” He says it plainly, no bite, just fact. He crosses his arms, resting his weight against the shelf stacked with tubs of gelato. “You think I don’t notice when you’re lying? You think I don’t notice anything?”

Your silence only makes him sigh. His shoulders drop, and when he looks at you again, there’s something raw in his expression. 

“Don’t go,” he says. 

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“Don’t go,” he repeats, firmer now, though his voice trembles at the edges. “Don’t… don’t date Pierre. Don’t move to Alpha Tauri. Don’t leave Venti Due.”

The words stick in your throat. You want to remind him of the truth—that your dream has never been someone else’s kitchen, that it’s always been your own patisserie. That Pierre’s offer doesn’t matter because your loyalty was never up for sale. You open your mouth to say all of it.

But then Yuki takes a step closer. His hands hover like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like touching you will make everything collapse, but his voice breaks when he whispers, “Don’t leave me.”

That’s what undoes you. Because the way he says it, it isn’t about work, or restaurants, or loyalty. It’s about him. About the late nights and food trucks and the way he always looks for you in a crowded kitchen. About every joke and fight and moment that’s been stacking up between you like bricks to a house you didn’t realize you were building.

Before you can get a word out, his resolve cracks completely. Yuki leans in, quick and desperate, and his mouth finds yours in the cold of the freezer, his kiss tasting like salt and nerves. You don’t immediately reciprocate, your brain blanking at the feel of finally getting what you’ve always wanted.  

Yuki pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours. His breath ghosts against your lips, uneven, and his eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s caught himself in some kind of crime. For once, he looks nervous—almost shy, like he’s already regretting how impulsive he was. The great Yuki Tsunoda, who can breeze through a dinner service without breaking a sweat, suddenly looks like he might crumble under the weight of his own feelings.

Before he can take it back, before he can wrap his walls back up around himself, you lean in, kissing him harder, catching him before he even thinks of retreat. 

He makes a startled sound in the back of his throat, a half-surprised, half-helpless noise, and then he’s melting into you, his shoulders dropping like he’s been holding tension for years. His hands hover awkwardly before finally finding their way to your waist, fingertips pressing lightly as if afraid you might vanish if he holds on too tightly. The kiss stretches, breaks for a breath, then finds its rhythm again. 

In between breaths, in between the brush of his lips over yours, he murmurs, voice ragged and unguarded, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” The honesty in it hits you harder than the kiss itself.

You laugh against his mouth, playful even as your pulse threatens to sprint out of your chest. “Then you’d better make up for lost time.” Your words spark something in him, teasing a spark into flame.

It’s like lighting a fuse. He kisses you again, firmer this time, urgency curling at the edges, no hesitation left. There’s a shift—something determined, something fierce—like he’s trying to prove he means every word, every unspoken thought he’s ever swallowed around you. His thumb strokes the side of your waist, almost absent, almost reverent, and he leans into you as if he’s finally decided this is real, and he’s not about to waste another second.

The cold air of the freezer doesn’t stand a chance against the heat rising between you. The clink of metal shelves and trill of the fan fade into background noise, unimportant, irrelevant. All you can feel is him, close enough that the world seems narrowed to this exact point in space, this kiss, this gravity. For the first time all night, you’re not thinking about burns, or job offers, or all the ways you keep talking yourself into staying at Venti Due.

Right now, there’s only him, and the terrifying, thrilling realization that everything is about to change.

It’s Monday morning, and the first thing you register is that this isn’t your ceiling. You blink at the unfamiliar cracks, the faint water stain that kind of resembles a turtle, and the sudden realization hits: you’re not at your place. You’re at Yuki’s.

The second thing you register is the solid weight beside you, the rise and fall of his breathing. He’s still asleep, hair mussed, lips parted in the kind of slack, unguarded way that makes you grin like an idiot. The third thing—your feet are freezing, and you know exactly what to do about that. You wiggle closer under the covers and press your icy toes against his shins. Predictably, he jolts, groaning like you’ve just personally betrayed him. 

“Why are you like this?” His voice is rough with sleep, muffled into the pillow.

“Because it’s effective,” you reply, unapologetic as you burrow into his warmth. “Human hot water bottle. Don’t complain.”

He cracks one eye open, glaring in the most halfhearted way possible. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re still letting me stay here,” you counter, tracing lazy circles on his chest as if that proves your point. “So, really, who’s the idiot?”

For a second, it seems like he’ll just roll over and go back to sleep. Instead, Yuki shifts, catching you completely off guard as he flips you onto your back with a speed that makes you squeal and laugh all at once.

“Wait—” you start, but he’s already grinning, playful as ever in the low morning light. “You asked for this,” he says simply, and then he disappears beneath the covers.

Your laughter pitches higher, mixing with a breathless kind of disbelief as you grab at the sheets, your toes curling now for a very different reason. 

The smell of coffee fills the kitchen before you’ve even pulled yourself together enough to stand. Yuki’s already moving around, grinding beans, flicking the switch, pouring milk. He doesn’t ask how you take yours; he just sets the cup down in front of you the way you like it, like he’s been keeping track all along. You try not to look too pleased about it, but he catches the gleam in your eye anyway.

“Don’t,” he warns, though it’s half-asleep and half-affectionate, the kind of voice that tells you he’s already lost whatever argument you’re about to start.

You sip the coffee, burn your tongue a little, and grin through it. “I should probably swing by my place, grab clothes, you know,” you say instead of teasing him. “Just to avoid looking like a scandal walking into work.”

His frown is subtle but obvious. “Why? You can just wear what you have.”

“Right, because showing up in the same outfit as last night isn’t suspicious at all.” You tap his cup with yours like you’re toasting him for being so ridiculous. “Let me grab something fresh, then I’ll come back. It’s a quick pitstop.”

He sighs like you’ve just told him you’re moving continents. “You can only be ten minutes late. No more than that.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just long enough to watch the tips of his ears turn red. “I’ll take that as girlfriend privilege,” you half-joke. 

The word hangs in the air, light and heavy all at once. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart to yours, startled before settling into something softer. He tries to hide it by taking a very long sip of his coffee, but you see it. The flush that spreads up his neck, the smile he can’t quite hide.

It might be your new favorite way to start a Monday.

The moment you step into Venti Due, the weight of the kitchen settles on your shoulders the same way it always has. The gleam of pans, the rush of prep, the scent of yeast and sugar all return you to familiar ground. Professional. Focused. The kind of atmosphere where there’s no room for slip-ups, especially not the kind that involves stolen kisses and warm glances across stainless steel counters.

You and Yuki made the unspoken agreement clear last night, punctuated with a nod and the brush of his knuckles against yours before he unlocked his front door. Don’t tell the others yet. Don’t make this into a thing. Keep it quiet.

When you pass him in the kitchen this morning, it’s nothing more than a muttered “Morning” and an acknowledging tilt of his chin. He’s every inch the head chef, doling out orders with clipped precision, demanding sauces be reduced faster, knives sharper, plating tighter. You’re every inch his pastry chef, shoulders squared as you pipe cream with steady hands, pretending your chest isn’t buzzing with the memory of his mouth on yours. 

There are the moments in between. The way he adjusts the oven timer behind you when he doesn’t need to, close enough that his hip briefly presses against yours. The way your hand lingers an extra second when you pass him a spoon for tasting. The barely-there smile that flickers across his face before he turns to yell at someone else. No one notices, or maybe they do and they’re too busy to care.

And then there’s the freezer.

You both slip in under the guise of checking stock, of making sure the deliveries match the invoices. Inside, it’s a hush of chilly air and dim light, the hum of machinery wrapping around you like a secret. He presses his forehead to yours, hands skimming your waist. 

“I’ve got éclairs setting,” you whine, “and you’ve got steaks searing.” 

“Don’t care,” he breathes, lips cold from the air as he kisses you deeply. 

By the time you both step back out, it’s like nothing happened. The thread of something softer pulls under every clipped instruction, every quiet acknowledgment. Professional. Focused. But different now. Different in a way you can’t hide from yourself, even if you can from everyone else.

The market looks exactly the same as every Saturday. Stalls lined with crates of tomatoes that still smell of vines, herbs piled high in baskets, the air thick with the mingling scent of bread, flowers, and espresso. But you notice how different it feels with Yuki’s hand looped through yours. It’s casual, almost lazy, the way his thumb rubs the back of your hand as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. Spoiler: he’s definitely aware.

You pause at the usual olive oil stand, and the vendor offers up tiny wooden spoons dipped in golden green. You lift yours to your lips, and Yuki leans in behind you, bracing his chin against your shoulder so he can taste off the same spoon. “You’re just stealing my sample,” you protest, laughing.

“It tastes better when it’s yours,” he says, lips brushing too close to your skin for you to take it as anything but intentional.

At the cheese stand, he hovers closer than usual, one hand resting at the small of your back as if someone’s about to bump into you every other second. When you roll your eyes at his overprotectiveness, he murmurs, “Crowded. Don’t want to lose you.”

The sourdough stall is the last stop. The vendor, who’s been watching you two banter for years, smiles knowingly. “Finally together, huh? Took you long enough.” Before you can respond, she pushes two warm loaves toward you. “On the house. Congratulations.”

Yuki flushes bright red and mumbles something under his breath in Japanese you can’t quite catch. You thank her quickly, clutching the loaves to your chest, and turn to him with a grin. “Guess it’s obvious.”

He groans, trying to hide his face behind the bread bag. “We should have told her ourselves.”

“Too late. We’ve been exposed.” You lean closer, bumping your shoulder against his. “At least we get free carbs out of it.”

That makes him laugh, finally looking back at you. The sound is delicate, unguarded, and it carries in the crisp morning air. He squeezes your hand, voice quiet but certain. “Worth it.”

You’re mid–bite of a pastry sample when Yuki makes some comment that has you laughing too loud, the kind of sound that makes a few heads turn. He squeezes your hand, and you’re about to shove another piece of croissant in his mouth when you freeze. Because there, weaving between stalls with all the casual energy in the world, are Jules and Oscar.

Panic hits you faster than the sugar rush. You tug Yuki’s sleeve. “Hide.”

“What?”

“Hide!” you hiss, already dragging him behind a stack of crates filled with apples. He nearly trips over your feet but follows, and the two of you crouch down like fugitives in the middle of a farmers’ market.

Yuki whispers, “We look insane.”

“You’d rather they see us holding hands?” You peek through the gaps between crates, spying the two servers. 

Jules is animated, talking with her hands, while Oscar listens, amused. You lean closer to Yuki, lowering your voice. “I thought Jules was with Lando.”

Yuki frowns, squinting at them. “Really? I didn’t notice.”

You glance at him, incredulous. “How do you not notice? We literally work with these people every day.”

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “I only ever pay attention to your personal life.”

That knocks the air right out of your chest. The worst part? He says it so casually, like it’s not the most devastating thing anyone’s ever whispered to you while hiding behind apples. Heat crawls up your neck and you smack his back lightly, trying to cover it up with indignation. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” He’s smiling, and you’re doomed.

You straighten up, grabbing his wrist and tugging. Thankfully, Oscar and Jules are already off in some far end of the market. “That’s it,” you declare. “We’re going back to your place.”

“Now?” He tries to sound surprised, but the spark in his eyes gives him away.

“Yes, now.” You lace your fingers with his again, quickening your pace as you begin to haul him away from the market. “Before I combust from secondhand sweetness.”

“Pretty sure that’s firsthand sweetness,” Yuki teases, but he doesn’t let go.

By the time you get back to Yuki’s apartment, you’re already on him like you’ve been starved for weeks instead of just hours. Buttons, zippers, the trail of your jacket. It all blurs. You can’t remember who stumbles first against the wall, only that you’re laughing into his mouth while trying not to trip over your own shoes. By the time you reach the couch, you’re both half-breathless and entirely lost to it.

Later, once the world slows down, you’re stretched out on that same couch, cheek pressed into the curve of a pillow. Your body is still buzzing with the kind of lazy satisfaction that makes the ceiling look prettier than usual. Yuki lies below you, close enough that your fingers brush his when you move.

Of course, it’s not new—the wanting him part. You’ve always wanted him. You remember culinary school, how your heart raced when he’d glance over your shoulder to critique your knife cuts, his voice gruff and teasing like he had a personal grudge against julienning carrots. You remember thinking you’d put up with a thousand more lectures just to feel his breath on your neck again. So maybe it isn’t such a mystery why you agreed to Venti Due in the first place. Professional growth, sure, but also the chance to be near him. Maybe you’re only admitting that to yourself now, in the afterglow, when your guard’s too low to bother with excuses.

You tilt your head toward him, breaking the silence with the most important question you can think of. “What’s for dinner?”

He hums like he hasn’t thought about it, though his lips twitch like he’s already amused by your impatience. “Probably just takeout.”

You glare at him, mock-offended. “After all this effort I put in today, that’s the best you can offer me? Takeout?”

Yuki smiles widely, turning toward you with the kind of look that makes your stomach flip all over again. “I’m trying to save my energy for something else.”

Before you can fire back with another quip, he shifts, rolling smoothly on top of you. The weight of him pins you down, and suddenly it’s hard to remember what you’d even asked in the first place.

Business has been busier than usual, and you know exactly why. You’ve been experimenting more, letting yourself be bolder with flavors, textures, and presentations. The display case looks like a technicolor dream: glossy tarts crowned with jewel-bright slices of candied citrus, delicate choux puffs dusted with pistachio crumble, and a mousse cake layered so neatly it looks like it belongs in a glossy food magazine. Customers linger, phones out, photos taken before the first bite, and you can’t deny the thrill that rushes through you every time someone swoons over something you made.

Alex notices too. Of course he does. He watches as another pair of customers leave, practically glowing with satisfaction. “I’ll admit it,” he says, his mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Your desserts have been next-level lately. Whatever you’ve been doing, it’s working.”

You feign innocence, shrugging as you wipe down the counter. “What, am I not allowed to have creative bursts every once in a while?”

Alex narrows his eyes, still smiling. “Sure, sure. But usually those bursts don’t line up with you glowing all week,” he jabs. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You roll your eyes, but Yuki, standing beside you, is visibly stiffer than usual. He clears his throat, a little too quickly. “She’s just working harder. Nothing weird about that.”

“Right,” Alex drawls, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Totally normal. Just suddenly decided to reinvent the pastry case out of nowhere. No possible explanation besides ‘working harder.’”

You and Yuki exchange a quick glance—yours amused, his panicked—and you can’t help but cover a laugh with your hand. “Maybe inspiration struck,” you say, aiming for breezy.

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, clearly unconvinced but entertained. He points between the two of you as he turns to leave. “Whatever it is, keep it up. But don’t think for a second I’m not onto something.”

Yuki mutters under his breath once Alex is gone, “He’s too nosy.”

You grin, nudging him with your elbow. “Relax. Deny, deny, deny. It’s practically foolproof.”

Yuki shoots you a look that’s half irritation, half affection, and you can’t resist leaning close enough to add, “Besides, if Alex thinks my pastry game is suspiciously good, wait until he tries what I’ve been practicing at your place.”

A couple of days and a dozen more pastries later, the bell over the door jingles and you glance up, already halfway into your automatic “Welcome to Venti Due” when you freeze. Standing in the doorway is Doriane. You know her instantly. The same bright smile, the same blonde hair. Culinary school feels both like yesterday and a lifetime ago, but here she is, bustling toward you as if no time has passed at all.

“Are you kidding me?!” she squeals, throwing her arms around you. You laugh, startled, returning the hug. The sound of her voice alone drags you back to late nights in the pastry kitchen, sharing half-burnt éclairs and bad coffee while cramming for exams.

You pull back, a little breathless. “Dori. What the hell are you doing here?”

She beams. “Scouting. My bakery just hit one year. Can you believe it? One year, and we’re still standing.” She launches into chatter, telling you about her staff, her favorite customers, the early mornings that nearly killed her and the croissants that made it all worth it.

You smile, you nod, you laugh where appropriate. You mean it—you are happy for her. You are. But somewhere under your ribs something twists, sharp and unexpected, like a knife you didn’t realize you’d been carrying. You keep your hands busy twirling your kitchen towel, because if you don’t, you’ll have to look at her and admit to the ache in your chest.

She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and ignores it. Either way, she hugs you again before she leaves, clutching your arm like she used to. “I’m so glad you’re still you,” she says warmly, then tilts her head. “Though, honestly, I’m surprised you’re still here. I always thought you’d have your own place by now.”

Her words land heavier than they should, sticking to your skin long after she’s gone. You stand there, smile fading slow in the sterile kitchen you’ve overstayed in. For the first time in a long time, you wonder if you’ve been hiding behind the safety of Venti Due, behind the steady hum of it—and maybe even behind Yuki—longer than you realized.

You don’t notice the dip in your mood right away, but Yuki does. He’s running through the day’s feedback, voice steady and precise as always, while you’re staring off at a smudge on the stainless-steel counter like it holds the secrets of the universe. Normally, you’d be volleying back with sarcastic commentary or reminding him he sounds like an overzealous Hell’s Kitchen knockoff. Today, though, your mind is somewhere else, and Yuki’s sharp enough to take note of it.

He doesn’t call you out in front of everyone. He’s too careful for that, too considerate. But when the night winds down, the last tables cleared, and you’re elbow-deep in soapy water, he finally makes his move. You don’t hear him until his arms are wrapping around your waist from behind, his chin settling against your shoulder like it’s been waiting there all day.

“You’re quiet,” he whispers, not an accusation but an observation. The kind that makes your chest feel tight. “What’s wrong?”

You force a small laugh, too brittle to pass as genuine but hopefully enough to slip by. “I think I’m coming down with something,” you fib, eyes still fixed on the plates in front of you. 

He hums, the kind of sound that tells you he doesn’t believe you, but he’s not going to push. Instead, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, warm and unhurried, a promise tucked into the gesture. “I’ll make you soup.”

The words melt something in you and shatter something else all at once. You nod, letting him believe it, letting him take care of you in the way he knows how. All the while, your heart sinks under the weight of the lie you’ve chosen. The one you’re telling the man you love.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

That’s how Yuki starts, right after you’ve both trudged up the stairs to his apartment. Dinner dishes from your late shift still linger faintly in your clothes, and you brace yourself, heart thudding like he’s about to confirm every fear you’ve been carrying. This is it, you think. He’s caught on. He knows you’ve been off for the past few weeks. Maybe he’s about to call you out for lying, for being distant.

Except then he kicks off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket, and says it all-too plainly, “I’ve been thinking about expanding Venti Due.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Expanding?”

He nods, totally serious, as if he didn’t just blindside you with a bomb. “Yeah. I’ve been eyeing a property not far from here,” he informs you. “Smaller, more intimate. Different vibe, but still under the name.”

You’re still standing there with your arms crossed, waiting for the trick, waiting for the moment he circles back to the thing that’s been gnawing at you all this time. He doesn’t. He just moves around the apartment like he’s casually announcing he bought a new blender.

“Yuki.” You narrow your eyes. “You can’t just drop the word ‘expansion’ like it’s no big deal. That’s—”

“A big deal,” he finishes for you, smiling faintly. “I know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

“Me?”

“Of course you.” He says it so easily, so matter-of-fact, it throws you off balance. Then he meets your gaze squarely, no hesitation this time. “Because I want you to be the head chef of the branch.”

You blink at him. Head chef. At a branch of Venti Due. The words taste surreal.  “Yuki, I can’t,” you say quickly, as though cutting him off before the idea can breathe.

His brows crease. “Can’t? What do you mean you can’t? You can.”

“No, really—”

“Yes, really.” He walks back to you, already in full persuasive mode, like you’ve thrown down a gauntlet he refuses to leave on the ground. “You’re brilliant. Your desserts bring people through the door. Half the reason Venti Due has a line every Saturday is because of you. Don’t even start pretending otherwise.”

You laugh, though it comes out sharper than you intend. “Flattery noted, but this isn’t about that.”

He gestures with his hands in that animated way he does when he’s mid-rant. “You think I don’t see it? The way you’re always experimenting, always pushing,” he presses. “You’d make a perfect head chef. You’ve been ready for it for a while now.”

You match his steps across the living room. “You’re not listening,” you plead. “It’s not that I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“Then what is it?” He stops pacing and turns to you, frustrated but still trying to soften it with that boyish insistence, with that love for you that you don’t quite feel deserving of at this very moment. “Because from where I stand, the only thing holding you back is you.”

The words sting more than they should, and you feel the knot that’s been lodged in your chest all day finally snap. “What’s holding me back is that this isn’t my dream!” The volume surprises both of you. You’re breathing harder, anger and something raw bleeding through your voice as you go on, “I didn’t bust my ass in culinary school so I could run someone else’s restaurant. I always meant to open my own bakery. Mine, Yuki. Not yours. Not Venti Due. Mine. You’ve known this from the very start.”

You don’t even mean to blurt it out. The words just slip out: “I’ve had the money for over a year.”

Yuki freezes. His head snaps toward you, disbelief flickering across his face. “Over a year?”

“Savings. Investors. The whole thing’s been ready. I could’ve signed a lease last spring if I wanted.”

The air shifts. Yuki’s quiet, too quiet, and when he finally speaks his voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid of stepping on glass. “Then why haven’t you?”

You swallow, throat tight. The truth pulses at the edge of your tongue, desperate and obvious: because of you. Because you’re here, because every morning at Venti Due means seeing him, because the thought of leaving feels like ripping out a piece of yourself. But you don’t say any of that. You can’t. So instead you shrug, trying to pass it off like it’s nothing. “Timing wasn’t right. That’s all.”

Yuki studies you, eyes narrowing, and you can tell he doesn’t buy it. He knows you too well. His lips press into a thin line, and then, almost hesitantly, he admits, “I thought… maybe you’d changed your mind.”

Your chin lifts at that. “Changed my mind?”

His gaze flicks away, somewhere toward the window where the city hums indifferent outside. “About the bakery. About leaving Venti Due. Especially now.” His voice dips softer, a strange mix of vulnerable and tentative, as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to want what he’s hinting at. “Now that we’re… us.”

Because you’re dating. Because you’re together. He’d thought his dreams were suddenly—what? Weightier than yours? Worth bucking for? You reach for your bag without really thinking about it, the weight of Yuki’s words still pressing against your chest. It feels like white-hot humiliation, threading itself with frustration that refuses to dissolve. His apartment, usually warm and safe, suddenly feels stifling, every wall closing in on you.

“Where are you going?” Yuki’s voice is quick, alarmed. You hear the shift of his footsteps, him crossing the room toward you, and you don’t even have to look up to know the crease between his brows has deepened.

“Home,” you say, short, clipped. The bag strap slides over your shoulder, a shield you cling to. You’re not even sure if you mean your apartment or just somewhere that isn’t here.

His hand reaches for your wrist, the way it always does when he wants to tether you to him, but this time you twist free. Your heart stutters at the shock on his face. He wasn’t expecting that. Neither were you.

“Wait,” he tries again, gentler now. “Don’t do this. Don’t just walk out.”

You shake your head. “I’m not doing anything dramatic, Yuki. I just need air.”

“Air here,” he insists, stepping closer, his tone walking that line between pleading and commanding. “Stay. We can—”

But you take a step back, clutching your bag strap tighter, almost like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. “Not right now.” Your voice comes out almost a whisper, but it cuts anyway. His mouth closes on whatever he was about to say.

The silence that follows is thick, the kind that tastes of all the words unsaid. You manage to leave without looking back, even though every part of you wants to.

Venti Due sings with its usual rhythm: pans clinking, knives against boards, the soft hiss of burners catching. You’re in sync with Yuki the way you always are. Plates move from your station to his without a word, garnishes land with exact precision, sauces are poured with timing that borders on instinct. From the outside, it looks flawless.

Inside, though, it’s different. There’s a tightness under your ribs every time his hand brushes too close, a silence that stretches too long when your eyes meet. It isn’t explosive or obvious, but it lingers like smoke, curling in the corners of the kitchen. The others pick up on it. 

Jules keeps glancing between the two of you, eyebrows furrowing like she’s trying to do the math. Alex lingers longer at the pass, waiting for a joke or some playful jab that never comes. Even Oscar, who usually minds his own business, looks like he’s about to ask something and then thinks better of it.

It’s Lando who finally cracks. He drapes himself across the counter during a lull, smirking like he’s caught you in something. “What, did you two have a lovers’ quarrel? Or is this just some weird chef telepathy thing I’m not getting?”

Normally, you’d quip back. Yuki would roll his eyes and toss a towel at him. Something light, something that breaks the tension and lets everyone laugh. But not today. You keep plating, hand steady as you drizzle a sauce. Yuki doesn’t even look up from his pan. The silence that follows Lando’s joke is louder than the busiest dinner rush.

Lando’s grin falters. “Right. Cool. Totally normal vibes here.” He clears his throat and slips away, leaving the kitchen to its strange quiet again.

You and Yuki move on, the machine still running, but the heart of it misfiring. Perfect tandem, imperfect everything else. The end of shift debrief runs like clockwork, but without the usual noise of teasing interruptions or side comments. Everyone stands gathered near the pass, waiting through Yuki’s rundown. His tone is even and precise—too precise, the kind of politeness that feels like it’s been scrubbed down with bleach.

“Alex, your timing on the mains was sharp today,” Yuki says. “Keep that consistency.” Alex nods, offering a faint grin that doesn’t quite last before glancing at you, as if to gauge whether you’ll soften the mood with a sarcastic remark. You don’t.

“Lando,” Yuki continues, “good initiative with plating, but watch your portioning. Two grams might not sound like much, but it matters.” Normally, this would be where Lando fires back with a smart remark. Instead, he just mutters, “Got it,” subdued, like the tension is pressing down on him too.

“George, solid work on prep. You were efficient and organized. Keep that up.” George straightens like he’s back in school receiving a gold star, though his eyes flick curiously between you and Yuki, clocking the distance in your voices.

“Oscar,” Yuki says next, “good rhythm with service. Quicker reaction times today.” Oscar nods once, his usual grin absent, like he knows better than to test the air tonight.

Then Yuki looks at Jules. “Jules, strong on salads and support. I noticed you handled the backup on sauces without being asked. Good work.”

Jules, normally bright and easy with her thanks, only gives a polite nod, her smile faltering at the edges when she glances between the two of you. Everyone is too aware of the cracks in the kitchen’s unspoken choreography.

Finally, Yuki closes the clipboard, his voice steady as he says, “That’s all. Good shift, everyone. See you tomorrow.”

No jokes, no lingering chatter. The crew disperses quickly, leaving the silence behind like a dirty pan nobody wants to scrub. The kitchen feels too clean, too quiet. You’re drying your hands on a towel when Yuki clears his throat like he’s announcing himself.

“So,” he says, leaning against the counter like nothing’s wrong, like the air between you isn’t thin enough to snap. “Good service tonight. Your chocolate tart sold out. Again.”

You nod, polite as a stranger. “Yeah. People like chocolate.”

There’s supposed to be a grin, a nudge, a quick-fire joke to bounce back. Instead, his smile dies before it even arrives. He shifts his weight, trying again. “George didn’t burn the sauce today. That’s progress.”

“Miracles happen,” you answer, and it comes out flat.

It feels like watching someone dance with two left feet. Yuki doesn’t give up, but every line he throws lands awkwardly, catching in the silence. The rhythm you always had—the banter, the shared eye rolls—has abandoned you both. Finally, he exhales through his nose, tired. “Do you want to get dinner? There’s that new ramen place down the street. Or anywhere, really. My treat.”

The offer dangles in the air, heavy with hope you can’t touch. You tuck the towel over the sink and shake your head. “Not tonight,” you say simply. 

Something flickers in his eyes, but he swallows it down. “Right,” he says, pushing away from the counter. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to argue. “Get home safe.”

You nod, grab your bag, and head for the door. For the first time in a long time, you leave the restaurant before him. When you glance back once, he’s still standing there, hands braced on the counter, like if he stays behind long enough, the kitchen might tell him where he went wrong.

The awkwardness stretches on for a week. Seven whole days of polite hell, where you and Yuki still move around each other in the kitchen, but the heat is gone. It’s all surface-level courtesy, no lingering glances, no teasing brushes of hands at the prep table. You can feel the staff notice it too. Every sidelong glance, every muted conversation that dies when you enter the room. The silence between you and him is louder than the sizzle of pans.

So when Yuki asks to see you after a shift, your stomach twists into knots. He calls it a ‘meeting,’ the word dropping like a blade between the two of you. You scrub your hands clean at the sink, buying time, bracing yourself for what feels inevitable.

The dining area is empty by the time you join him. The low hum of the refrigerators and the soft clink of cutlery being reset by Jules are the only sounds filling the room. Yuki is sitting at one of the tables, posture perfect, face unreadable. It’s the kind of stillness that makes you want to squirm.

You take the seat across from him, pretending you don’t notice how your pulse has picked up speed. “So,” you say. “Is this where you break up with me in a public setting? Very professional.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a little moment with a corner of his mouth. His hands are folded on the table, knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding them together. The silence stretches, the air so heavy it feels like it’s pressing down on your chest. You swallow hard, waiting for him to just spit it out already, to confirm the thing you’ve been dreading all week.

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and serious.

“You’re being terminated.”

A beat. He doesn’t laugh. He’s not joking. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, “but have you lost your fucking mind?” 

That’s the first thing out of your mouth, sharp and incredulous, the words ricocheting off the walls like you’ve just lobbed a pan across the kitchen. Your hands are moving as if they have a life of their own, slicing the air, pointing at him, at the table between you, at anything that isn’t his maddeningly calm face. “Completely gone. Checked out. Cooked through. You’ve officially lost it.”

Yuki doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even try to interrupt at first, letting you get halfway through your tirade about betrayal, about how you’ve slaved in this restaurant, about how you’ve been nothing but loyal. How he’s being unfair, bringing your relationship problems into your employment. His silence only fuels you further, until your voice is tripping over itself, sarcasm and hurt bleeding into every syllable.

Finally, he cuts in. “It’s not your skills,” he says firmly, voice slicing clean through your spiral. “This is about retrenchment. The business is cutting costs.”

You freeze, mid-sputter, blinking at him like he’s just spoken in another language. “Cutting costs,” you repeat, pained. “So, I’m… what, garnish? Disposable parsley?”

He exhales slowly, not rising to your barbs, which only makes them sting sharper when they bounce uselessly off him. “There’s separation pay. I’ve already worked out the numbers. You’ll have enough to—”

That’s when it clicks. The cool tone, the carefully chosen words, the way he’s framing it not as a failure but as some kind of opportunity. You hear the subtext so loudly it drowns out everything else. He isn’t firing you because the restaurant is sinking. He’s firing you because he wants you gone.

“You’re trying to get me to leave.” Your voice is almost stunned, but it settles heavier than any of your earlier shouting. “This isn’t retrenchment. This is you pushing me out.”

Yuki meets your gaze, steady, unreadable. You feel the bottom of your chest drop, because you can’t tell if he’s doing this out of love—or out of fear. In the softest voice, he says, “You know that stupid saying… if you love someone, you have to let them go?”

“Wow,” you say slowly, “quoting fridge magnets now? Should I be worried?”

Yuki’s cheeks go pink and his hands start to fidget with each other, unraveling the neat knot he’d tied them into. “I—I didn’t mean… I mean, we haven’t… I know we haven’t said that. Love. I just thought—God, I didn’t mean to assume. I’m not assuming. Forget I said it. Pretend I didn’t say it.” His words spill in a frantic rush now, each one tripping over the next. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just—”

“Yuki.”

“I just realized I was so stupid, asking you to head the new Venti Due branch when I’ve always known—”

“Yuki.”

“—and I don’t want you to think I hate you or anything, because I don’t, and—”

You’re already climbing across the narrow space of the table before he can finish, balancing on one hand as you reach him. His eyes widen, panic stopping mid-sentence as your mouth presses against his. The table rattles under your knee, a fork clattering to the floor, but you don’t care. He tastes like the peppermint tea he’d been nursing, warm and grounding, and the way his breath catches against you nearly undoes you.

The moment you break for air, his arms are around you, hauling you into his lap. He mumbles against your mouth between kisses, his voice shaky but sure: “Missed you. Missed you so much.”

You don’t feel the pit in your chest, just the weight of him holding you close, as if letting you go had never been an option. You don’t know how long you two are making out—just that you’re still in his lap, his mouth still pressed against yours—when you finally manage to crack a joke against his lips. “What are the ethics here?” you tease. “Making out with my boss. At my place of work. Pretty sure this is an HR violation.”

Yuki’s laugh rumbles low in his chest, and he bites at your lower lip like he’s trying to underline his point. “I won’t be your boss much longer,” he says before kissing you again. His hand has inched up, hovering just above the hem of your shirt, his fingers spreading over the strip of skin there.

You’re caught between wanting to tease him for how cocky that sounded and wanting to let him prove it when the door swings open. “Oh my God!” George’s shriek bounces off the walls, higher than any soprano’s note could dream of reaching.

You both freeze. Yuki’s hand is suspended mid-climb, your lips still parted against his. Slowly, painfully slowly, you and Yuki turn toward the doorway. George is standing there, wide-eyed, like he’s just stumbled into some cursed ancient ruin. “I did not need to see that,” he screeches, his voice pitching higher as he slaps his hands over his eyes. “Ever. Ever!”

You stifle a laugh that bubbles up, half mortification and half delight at how utterly horrified he looks. Yuki, though, is the picture of calm. His arm still securely around your waist, his voice maddeningly casual. “George,” he says, like you’ve been caught discussing inventory instead of each other’s tonsils. “Knock next time.”

George lets out another noise—something between a whine and a yell—before stumbling backward, muttering curses under his breath about bleach for his eyes. The second the door clicks shut again, you collapse against Yuki’s shoulder, laughter spilling out of you in gasps. He grins into your hair, hand finally resting warm against your side. 

“Well,” you giggle, still catching your breath. “Guess we’re really terrible at keeping secrets.”

“Mm,” Yuki hums, “I couldn’t keep you a secret if I tried.”

Monday morning pulls you out of bed with more force than your alarm ever could. There’s something about knowing the day won’t end with fluorescent lights and order tickets that makes you stand a little straighter as you dress. By the time you step onto the street, coffee in hand, you already feel the hum of something new, something yours, coursing under your skin.

The storefront waits for you downtown, sunlight spilling across its big windows like a spotlight. The glass gleams, showing off the polished counters and the corner you’ve already claimed. The one perfect for cakes designed to stop people in their tracks. You picture passersby pausing, drawn in by sugar and butter made art, their feet carrying them in almost against their will.

When you push the door open, the smell of yeast and vanilla has already settled in, warm and rich. Chloe is at one counter, already elbow-deep in dough. She glances up at you, grinning with that edge she always has. “Took you long enough,” she sings. “We were about to start without you.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you shoot back, slipping into your apron with practiced ease.

Across the room, Rafaela raises a brow, steady hands piping buttercream rosettes onto cupcakes lined up in perfect rows. She’s the picture of efficiency, her voice dry but not cold. “Don’t tempt me. Chloe was one second away from eating the leftover pastry cream straight from the bowl.”

“That was quality control,” Chloe protests. 

You laugh, and just like that, the morning begins. Easy, familiar, and bright. It feels like the world has rearranged itself around you, and for once, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Mere minutes after you’ve flipped your sign to Open, the bell above the bakery door rings, crisp and cheerful. You don’t even have to look up to know who it is. Jules always comes in first—like clockwork, like the sun, like the personification of caffeine itself in her oversized sunglasses and slightly chaotic hair. You’re already bagging a pastry before she even says hello.

“Morning,” she yawns. “Tell me you’ve got a raspberry croissant today.”

You glance at her over the pastry bags, lips twitching. “Raspberry croissant? So it was Oscar last night.”

Her sunglasses tip down just enough for you to see her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t deny it. Instead, she puts a hand to her chest with mock dramatics. “I feel so seen. Next you’ll be reading my aura.”

You shrug, sliding the croissant into her bag. “I don’t need your aura. You give yourself away with your pastry order,” you point out. “Chocolate twist? Lando. Raspberry? Oscar. Plain croissant? Alone, tragically.”

“Tragically,” she repeats, sniffing like a Victorian widow, then peeks into the bag like she wasn’t sure you’d actually give her what she asked for. “God, I miss you at Venti Due. That kitchen’s a disaster without you. Yuki pretends he’s fine, but we all know the truth. You abandoned us.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you fake-crying when I’m sliding you free pastries.”

Jules lifts her hand and mimes dabbing away tears, complete with a hiccup of false sobbing. “You don’t understand. The pain of losing my favorite chef and the joy of gaining free carbs—it’s tearing me apart.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it.”

She beams, unbothered. “Absolutely. And you love me for it.” In one swift move, she leans over the counter, kisses you on the cheek, and straightens up. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

The bell rings again as she leaves, and you’re still half-smiling at the empty doorway, the echo of her theatrics setting the tone of your day. 

The bell above the door jingles around lunch, and you glance up just in time to see George slipping in with his sunglasses still on, as though the bakery is paparazzi territory. You don’t call him out on it; you’ve learned that George thrives on delivering his own punchline. Sure enough, he drifts to the center of the room, turns a slow circle, and hums. 

“Darling, it’s cute,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s a compliment and an insult at once. “But these chairs? Bold choice. Retro or tragic? The line’s very thin.”

You quirk your lip to one side, flour dusted across your cheek like war paint. “Retro, obviously. Are you going to order something, or did you want me to get your input on the wallpaper too?”

“Please. I’d only charge you a small consulting fee,” he huffs. “Friends and family discount.”

By the time you’re sliding him a plate—croissant sandwich, because you know him—he’s already snapping a picture of the pastry case like he’s secretly going to Yelp-review you. When he leaves, you catch Chloe grinning at the jar. A crisp bill, folded neatly, tucked among the coins.

Not long after, Alex wanders in, hands buried in his hoodie pockets, cap pulled low. He pauses just inside the door as though unfamiliar with the place, then meanders toward the counter with the casual air of someone trying not to look like a regular.

“Can I help you, sir?” you ask, playing into the role. “First time here?”

He deadpans back. “Yeah, just passing by. Figured I’d try the… what do you call them… muffins?”

“Wow,” you say. “Bold to insult me to my face before I’ve even taken your money.”

Alex doesn’t crack, though his eyes crinkle with laughter he can’t quite conceal. He takes his muffin to go, but not before dropping a note in the jar on Chloe and Rafaela’s side of the counter. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. They both leave in their own ways—George flamboyant, Alex pretending he’s a stranger—but the jar fills steadily, and your bakers exchange conspiratorial glances every time you turn away. Proof of love, wrapped in regulars and tips and remembered orders. 

Your bakery winds down, quiet as it opened. No clattering trays, no chorus of orders being shouted across counters, none of the frenetic heartbeat that defined Venti Due. Just the soft shuffle of parchment, the occasional metallic clink of a tray being stacked away, the murmur of Chloe and Rafaela wiping down surfaces as the golden hour light washes through the front windows. It isn’t adrenaline here. It’s yours.

You lean against the counter, notes in hand, giving them feedback. One of the things you’ve picked up from your time at Veni Due. Chloe listens intently, nodding in all the right places, while Rafaela balances the spray bottle on her palm as she listens to your feedback. Both of them grin at each other whenever you say something particularly earnest, but they still take it to heart. It’s a rhythm, and you like it.

“Honestly, you’re cramping my style,” a voice cuts in from the doorway.

Chloe and Rafaela both swivel toward the sound and then immediately turn back to you with the kind of grins that spell trouble. “Ooooh,” Chloe sing-songs under her breath, and Rafaela raises her brows in mock warning. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Rafaela adds, grabbing her bag and tugging Chloe along toward the back.

You roll your eyes, but they’re already giggling their way out, their laughter lingering long after the bell on the back door jingles shut. Which leaves you with the doorway. And him.

Yuki is standing there like he hasn’t thought this through. Still in his chef’s outfit, hair mussed like he sprinted here. A bouquet of flowers gripped awkwardly in one hand. The sight of him—rumpled, breathless, yet somehow still beaming—is ridiculous enough to make your chest tighten. 

You don’t even think about it. You’re already moving, barreling forward like gravity’s got you tethered to him. Yuki steadies you on impact, arms locking around your waist as though he’d been bracing for exactly this, and the sound he makes—half laugh, half groan—is ridiculously fond.

“Are you always going to tease me like this?” he teases, mock suffering painted across his face even as his hands linger at your back. “One day, you’re going to break my ribs. Then what? No more cooking, no more flowers, just hospital food for the both of us.”

“You’d survive,” you say, voice muffled against the warm press of his shoulder, though your grin is sharp enough to betray you. 

You lean back just far enough to swipe the bouquet from his hand with practiced ease, turning it in your grip like evidence. The blooms are impossibly fresh, bursting with color, every stem perfectly chosen. “Okay, seriously. Do you have some sixth sense for when your last arrangement dies?” you jab. “Because that’s suspicious. Like, stalker-level suspicious.”

Yuki only shrugs, his eyes lit with something playful. “I take one flower for my office at Venti Due. When it starts to wilt, I know it’s time to bring you new ones.” 

He says it like it’s nothing, like it isn’t the most absurdly meticulous, heartbreakingly thoughtful thing anyone has ever admitted. You freeze, bouquet balanced loosely between your palms, suddenly aware that this—this stupid, simple habit—is him in a nutshell. Not grand speeches or flashy declarations. Just steady, impossible attentiveness. The kind of detail only a chef could pull off, as if he’s spent his whole life honing his craft to turn it on you. He notices the smallest things, the almost invisible shifts, the way your world tilts when the petals begin to fall. And he answers it, every single time, with something that says: I see you. I won’t stop seeing you.

It floods you, a strange alchemy of fire and sugar that catches you low in the chest and spreads until you’re nearly dizzy. You’ve tried to outpace this, duck away from it, pretend it won’t undo you. But Yuki’s love, quiet and relentless, doesn’t burn out. It roots itself deeper, until even running feels useless.

The thought barely finishes before you’re kissing him. Not coy, not testing. It’s hungry, reckless, yours. He tastes like the exact thing you’ve been starved for: laughter caught between breaths, a relief so sharp it almost hurts. Your hands fist into his jacket and tug, impatient, demanding.

“Take this off,” you whisper against his mouth, half command, half plea.

His smile slides into the kiss. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate, only tilts closer until his words ghost against your lips, warm and teasing: “Yes, chef.” ⛐

[tsunodaradio]

happy birthday to yuki tsunoda whose boyfriend pics have gotten a significant upgrade since he has been confirmed as a bf. for everyone's information i have been listening to noah kahan's new album an obscene amount. i think i might have a leclerc fic inspired by sombr's undressed in the works; i'm sharing a little bit of it under the cut. hoping to be back very soon :) that is both a treat and a threat! everybody please tell me your recent song obsessions. lots n lots n lots of loveee

[xiry228]

f1 x the pitt

[tsunodaradio]

i have a ton of housekeeping to do but i just want it on record that 1) ANDIAMOOO, KIMI!!! and 2) i have accepted that i am probably an OB87 shooter for this season. that is all. better words soon when i am not grieving whatever the hell is happening over at MCL <3

[tsunodaradio]

agony ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟏

everywhere the duke of bristol went, heartbreak trailed behind. (everywhere but here, it seems.)

ꔮ starring: duke of bristol!lando norris x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 3.9k. ꔮ includes: humor, friendship, romance. alternate universe: non-f1, alternate universe: regency au. childhood best friends, fake dating lite, feelings realization. ꔮ commentary box: ahaha. so heyyy.. i have nothing to say except that, sometimes, we have to drop the fic nobody asked for in hopes that it will get us back on track. this is a very late celebration for LN1. tumblr is finally no longer banned in my country (long story) and i’m hoping to be around a lot more often again. always & forever, every lando i write is for my darling, dearest @norrisradio. you’re the wdc of my heart, t. love ya.

You slip out of the ballroom just as the applause reaches its most unbearable pitch.

Inside, the Queen has just declared Lando Norris, Duke of Bristol, the diamond of the season.

The diamond.

You still cannot decide whether the court applauds because they are delighted or because they are too shocked to do anything else. Lando—whose reputation for scandal travels faster than most carriages—now stands crowned as the most desirable prize of the London season.

If irony were audible, the ballroom would be deafening.

The corridor outside the ballroom is mercifully quieter. Candlelight flickers along the paneled walls, carrying the faint scent of beeswax and roses from the arrangements inside. The music seeps through the doors in polite, muffled waves. You lean against the window, grateful for the cooler air drifting through the cracked glass. You are granted peace for all of four minutes. 

“If you are hiding,” grumbles a voice behind you, “I must congratulate you on your excellent instincts.”

You do not have to turn to know who is speaking so frankly. You’ve heard that voice in your dreams, for better and for worse. You look anyway, and sure enough, there stands Lando—looking as though he has just survived a naval battle rather than a royal announcement.

His cravat is slightly crooked. His curls, which society ladies spend entire evenings praising, appears as though he has run a hand through it repeatedly. There is a wild, haunted look in his eyes that would be deeply concerning if it were not also extremely familiar.

“Your Grace,” you say with a polite incline of your head. “How fortunate. I was just reflecting on the Queen’s decision.”

“Were you,” he says flatly.

“Yes.”

You pause, studying him. “I wondered,” you hum, “whether Her Majesty had perhaps mistaken you for someone else entirely.”

His eyes narrow. Then, he groans and drops his head back against the wall. Gone is the man that half the ton’s mamas regarded a ‘waste’, a ‘rake’. Instead, there is the same boy who used to bitch and gripe to you about trivial, menial things, like the weather ruining his plans to play in the courtyard. 

“You see?!” he huffs. “This is exactly what I feared.”

“What, honesty?”

“Betrayal,” he corrects. “From my own childhood ally, no less.”

You fold your arms, unimpressed. “Lando,” you say.

It works instantly. He stills. The dramatics drain from his posture with almost embarrassing speed. He has always been like this; capable of terrifying half of London with his reputation, yet strangely manageable the moment you say his name in that particular tone.

He exhales slowly. His endeavor to be a mature person does not last too long. “I am ruined,” he groans, entirely incapable of shutting up for even a moment.

“You are a duke,” you shoot back. “Your definition of ‘ruin’ lacks credibility.”

“No, truly.” He gestures vaguely toward the ballroom doors. “Do you know what awaits me in there?”

“Adoration,” you say.

“Ambush,” he corrects.

You cannot help the small laugh that escapes you. It startles him into smiling, just briefly.

For a moment, there it is again. The boy who used to appear at your family’s garden gate with mud on his boots and an entirely unreasonable plan for the afternoon. He had been ten the first time he tried to teach you how to climb the old oak behind your house. He fell halfway up, landed in a rose bush, and insisted with great dignity that it had been a descent fit for a king.

He had always possessed a flair for dramatics.

“You should be grateful,” you muse. “Many gentlemen spend entire seasons hoping to be noticed.”

“Yes,” Lando sighs heavily. “But most of them are not me.”

You raise a brow. Before you can call him something deserving of his demeanor—perhaps ‘self-absorbed git,’ if you could get away with it—he barrels on. 

“I am not meant to be the diamond,” he says, as though this should be obvious to any reasonable person. “I am meant to be the cautionary tale.” 

As if he isn’t already, you bite back from saying. Lando often existed outside the fringes of society despite his title. Some might have even dubbed him as a disgrace, considering all his dalliances. How his bed always stayed warm; how he pranced around without a care in the world.

Everywhere the Duke of Bristol went, heartbreak trailed behind. (Everywhere but here, it seems.) 

“How tragic,” you murmur, if only to indulge him.

“Exactly!” He points at you as if you have proven his argument. “Someone understands.”

You study him again. Despite the theatrical despair, he looks... unsettled. Truly unsettled.

The ballroom doors open briefly behind him, spilling a wave of music and laughter into the hall. Several curious faces peer out before the doors close again. Lando watches the doors as though they might lunge for him. Then he glances back at you.

“You always did know where to hide,” he says, affection tinging the lilt of his tone.

“I am not hiding.”

“You slipped out the moment the Queen finished speaking.”

“Pure coincidence.”

“Cowardice,” he amends.

“Self-preservation,” you snap in return.

He gives you a proper laugh this time. The sound warms the corridor like sunlight; it has been years since you heard it so easily.

For a brief moment, he simply observes as you bite back a grin of your own. There is something thoughtful in his expression now, something quieter beneath the humor.

(Unbeknownst to you, he has spiraled into his own nostalgia. He remembers how many evenings ended exactly like this when you were children, both of you escaping gatherings of dull adults to sit on the garden wall and trade observations about the world.

You had always possessed the unnerving ability to see through him immediately. Everyone else saw the future duke, but you saw the boy attempting to impress people he did not particularly like.)

“You are staring,” present-you says, and Lando forces himself out of his memories to sport a grin. 

“I am reflecting,” he replies.

“That is a poor excuse for staring.”

“Do you know," he says abruptly, “that you are the only person in London who has not congratulated me tonight?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Absolutely not.” He shudders. “I might expire from embarrassment.”

You smile slightly. “Very well. In that case, I shall offer my condolences instead.”

“And I would thank you for them.” 

A silence falls between you then—comfortable, but not entirely simple. From the ballroom, the orchestra begins a waltz. Lando glances toward the doors again. “If I return in there,” he says, morose in a way unbefitting of a twenty-something-year-old, “I will be hunted.”

“You exaggerate, my lord.”

“I do not. I saw three mothers sharpening their smiles the moment the Queen finished speaking.”

“How horrific.”

“Precisely.”

He looks at you again. “You could help me,” he says, as if the idea has just occurred to him.

You have to force yourself not to grimace. He is looking more and more like the boy next door by the second. “That sounds dangerous,” you grunt. 

“Only slightly,” he assures you.

“Which means extremely.”

He grins. “Dance with me.”

It is the world’s most foolish idea. You, who so preferred to be on the sidelines of these events, would be in tomorrow’s papers if you were to so much as box step with the season’s diamond. “That will not help you escape,” you point out.

“No. But it will delay the inevitable.” His smile grows sheepish. He adds lightly, “If I must face the entire ton as the Queen’s unfortunate jewel, I would prefer to do so with someone who remembers me falling out of trees.”

How cruel of him to pull out this card. To know that you would do nothing for the sake of capital-s Society, but you are at the beck and call of your childhood friend and his watercolor eyes.

“Your Grace,” you start.

“Lando,” he corrects immediately. “You—I will always be just Lando to you.” 

“Very well,” you say benevolently, as if your heart had not done something particularly treacherous amid the abandonment of formalities. “Lando. If this ends in scandal, I shall remind everyone that it was entirely your idea.”

“Naturally.”

He extends his arm; you take it. Gloved hand in calloused one. The contact is brief, proper, and yet somehow startling all the same.

The ballroom swallows you whole the moment the doors open.

Music spills outward in a bright, lilting waltz. Candlelight multiplies across mirrors and polished floors until the room glitters like a jewelry box overturned. Silks whisper, jewels flash, and conversation rises in careful, eager waves.

And then the room sees him.

It happens almost physically. Heads turn. Fans pause mid-flutter. A murmur travels across the floor like wind across water.

The Queen’s diamond has returned.

You feel Lando stiffen beside you. “Ah,” he says quietly. “They have spotted me.”

“Shocking,” you mutter through clenched teeth. “A duke freshly declared the most desirable man in London. Who could have predicted such attention?”

“Your sarcasm is poorly timed,” he hisses.

It begins immediately.

A trio of ambitious mothers pivots in perfect formation across the ballroom. Two debutantes glance in your direction, whisper, and then begin drifting closer with the slow determination of hunting cats.

Lando exhales like a man watching enemy ships approach the harbor.

“Do not panic,” you say calmly.

“I am not panicking,” he says, panicking. 

“You look as though someone has informed you of an impending duel.”

“This is worse than a duel,” he says grimly. “In a duel only one person wishes to marry you afterward.”

You laugh under your breath, but the advancing crowd grows noticeably thicker. Names begin to float toward him.

“Your Grace!”

“Duke Norris!”

“My lord, what an honor!”

Fans flutter like startled birds. Smiles settle with frightening efficiency. Lando’s hand tightens slightly around yours before he seems to remember himself and releases it with suspicious haste.

Too late. Three matrons have already noticed.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

“What?”

“They saw that.”

“Saw what?”

“The hand,” he says. “Our hands were visible.”

“Lando,” you say patiently, “holding hands does not constitute a scandal.”

“It does when you are the Queen’s freshly polished jewel,” he grumbles.

The crowd closes in another step. A young lady with very determined curls edges forward, guided by a mother whose smile resembles military strategy. Lando glances at the approaching formation. Then he looks at you.

You recognize that look immediately. It is the same expression he once wore before attempting to ride the vicar’s horse backwards during a summer fair.

“No,” you say, even though he hasn’t said anything yet.

“Yes,” he says, then he tacks on a quick “sorry!” like it might solve whatever he is about to spring on you

“Lando—”

But he has already turned to the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls out, his voice carrying with alarming clarity.

The nearby cluster pauses. You stare at him in horror. He is smiling. It is the sort of charming, reckless smile that has caused half of London’s gossip columns to speculate whether he had illegitimate children.

“I fear,” Lando announces, “that I must beg your indulgence this evening.”

Several hopeful mothers lean forward. In contrast, you contemplate how far away you can bolt. 

“You see,” he says, “I have already resolved to begin a courtship.”

The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the violins falter for half a note. You know what is coming; it does not take a scholar to guess where he is heading. 

Still, like a fool, you hope he could be wise for once. 

Lando gestures directly to you. No wise men here. 

“I wish to court my neighbor and oldest friend,” he says cheerfully. 

The ballroom explodes. Gasps ripple outward like thrown stones. Fans snap open. Heads turn. Somewhere behind you a glass is dropped with a delicate crash.

You stare at him.

“My lord,” you say through a perfectly pleasant smile.

“Yes?”

“What,” you continue sweetly, “do you think you are doing?”

“Surviving,” he whispers back, the shite-eating grin never leaving his face.

Across the room, several mamas are already recalculating their strategies with visible disappointment. Unfortunately, the rest of the ton appears even more interested now—because nothing delights society quite so much as a surprise romance.

Lando, apparently satisfied with the chaos he has created, offers you his arm once again. “Shall we,” he murmurs, “before someone asks inconvenient questions?”

You do not move. “You just announced a courtship,” you hiss.

“A temporary one,” he assures you.

“You did not say temporary!”

“Details,” he shrugs.

You should have left him for dead when he was being chased by stray dogs way back when. You’re convinced you’re about to blow a fuse when you notice the complicated way his expression has shifted. 

For all the dramatics, for all the reckless charm, there is a flicker of something tender in his gaze. It is fond and hopeful all at once, and it is far from the first time you’ve fallen for it. 

It is deeply inconvenient.

“You are insufferable,” you inform him.

“I am aware,” he says.

The orchestra, perhaps sensing drama worth encouraging, launches into a brighter waltz. Several onlookers have already begun whispering with gleeful enthusiasm.

Lando leans closer. “Please,” he murmurs, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, “tell me you will not abandon me to them.”

You glance toward the watching crowd. You really ought to leave him in the lions’ den. Instead, you find yourself gingerly muttering, “You owe me.”

Lando’s shoulders relax instantly.

“But,” you add, “you will spend the rest of the evening explaining exactly how you intend to escape the consequences of your own stupidity.”

He beams. “I was hoping you would help me think of something.”

You slip your hand through his arm. The orchestra swells as though it has personally been waiting for this show. Which, given the enthusiasm of British musicians, is entirely possible.

Lando leads you onto the dance floor before you can reconsider your life choices. The movement is swift, decisive, and—most irritatingly—perfectly elegant. His hand settles at your waist with practiced ease, warm even through the layers of silk and propriety.

Around you, the ballroom watches. Not casually nor politely. No, the ton watches the way astronomers might observe a comet; certain something dramatic is about to happen and determined not to miss a moment of it.

“Smile,” Lando hums.

“I am smiling,” you reply through perfectly arranged teeth.

“You look as though you are planning my murder.”

“Give me time,” you say, saccharine as always, as the waltz begins.

He spins you smoothly into the first turn. The movement is fluid, graceful, and entirely infuriating given that he declared a courtship less than two minutes ago without consulting you.

“Plead your case,” you challenge mid-sidestep.

“I panicked,” he says simply. 

“You announced a lifelong social development to the entire aristocracy.”

“Yes. A momentary lapse in judgment.”

“Momentary,” you repeat, barely resisting the urge to snort. 

You glide past a cluster of whispering debutantes. Fans snap open. One lady nearly walks into a pillar while staring.

“They are writing our wedding announcement already,” you mutter.

“Talk about efficiency,” Lando cackles gleefully. 

“Lando.” 

“Yes, my darling, dearest?”

“You have created a disaster.”

“I prefer the term ‘solution’.”

“And you dragged me into it!”

“You were already there,” he says reasonably. “I simply made it official.”

Was it not the case for most of your lives? The only times you have run into trouble, it has been because of Lando. Before he was considered ‘bad’ for any man or woman who breathed, he was bad for you. Always drawing your parents’ ire, always dragging you into adventures that ruined your skirts and distressed your chaperones. 

The dance carries you across the center of the ballroom, where observation becomes unavoidable. The Queen herself sits elevated at the far end, her stern gaze following every step.

“She is staring,” you whisper as Lando expertly twirls you.

“I know,” Lando whispers back.

“You ruined her plans.”

“I suspect I did.”

You complete another turn. His grip tightens slightly—steady, guiding, entirely too natural. The crowd murmurs approvingly.

Unfortunately, the two of you dance very well together. You always have. Another memory flickers through your mind without warning.

You, age thirteen, standing barefoot in the grass while he attempted to teach you a proper waltz before your first local assembly. You stepped on his boots repeatedly and informed him that dancing was a ridiculous social ritual invented by people with too much time.

He had laughed so hard he forgot the steps entirely.

You step neatly through a turn now. You like to think you are not the same teenager who would do anything to make Lando Norris laugh.

The dance ends. Polite applause ripples across the room. It would be flattering if it were not accompanied by intense speculation and three dozen whispered theories about your secret romance.

Before either of you can escape the floor, a royal attendant appears. “Your Grace,” the man says carefully. “Her Majesty requests your presence posthaste.”

You and Lando exchange a look.

The Queen’s private chamber is quieter than the ballroom, and also considerably more dangerous. Her Majesty stands near the window when you enter, hands folded behind her back with the posture of someone restraining significant irritation.

“Your Grace,” she says coolly.

“Your Majesty,” Lando replies with a bow.

You curtsy beside him. The Queen studies the two of you with visible skepticism.

“How convenient,” she muses, “that the diamond of my season has already selected his bride before the festivities have properly begun.”

Lando clears his throat. “Fortunate timing,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly in his attempt at light-heartedness.

Her Majesty does not appear amused. “You realize that I had several very thoughtful matches in mind,” she sniffles. 

You remain silent, which is perhaps the most prudent thing to do. Lando does not have the same sensibilities.

“Your Majesty,” he says suddenly, “with the greatest respect—”

You glance sideways, raring to reel Lando in. No one who starts a sentence with that actually means to accord respect. You are thoroughly convinced you are about to watch your best friend put his head on a chopping block. 

“I assure you this was not an act of defiance,” he continues earnestly. 

The Queen arches a brow. Lando draws a breath.

Then, to your complete astonishment, he launches into what can only be described as a speech. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, “I have spent years avoiding the expectations of society with every tool available to me. Scandal, poor reputation, dramatic exits—”

“We noticed,” the Queen interjects dryly.

“—but none of that was ever meant as disrespect,” he presses on. “I simply never met a circumstance that felt… right.”

His voice softens. “Until her.”

You freeze. Lando was known for his dramatics, not his honesty. As he goes on, though, a bit of the latter seems to bleed in. 

“She has known me since childhood,” he continues. There is a quality to his voice that was not there before. It sounds dangerously like affection. “She has witnessed my worst ideas, my most embarrassing moments, and several ill-advised attempts to impress people I did not even like.”

The Queen watches him carefully. “And still,” Lando says, “she remained.”

He gestures slightly toward you. “Your Majesty, the idea of losing that to some calculated courtship arranged for appearances would be nothing short of agony.”

The word hangs in the air. Agony. 

Lando trips over the word as if realizing the gravitas of it, and then he clings to it with the earnestness of a man who had just found what he meant to say. 

“It has been agony to restrain my affection all these years,” he says, earnest in a way that makes your chest ache. “It has been agony to pretend I am anything but a helpless, hopeless man who aspires to grovel at her feet. I have agonized, and agonized, and agonized, and I only bear it because it has been for her.”

He takes in a deep, fortifying breath. “If I must be in agony,” Lando exhales, “let it be in her name.”

Silence follows. A long, twisting one. It is so quiet that you fear the chamber might hear the steady thump, thump, thump of your heart that has ticked upwards since Lando started speaking. 

His eyes remain on the Queen, while your gaze never wavers from the side of his face.

Her Majesty exhales slowly. “You are either very sincere,” she says, “or very persuasive.”

“I hope for both,” Lando replies breathlessly.

Her gaze shifts to you. “And you?”

And you? You, with your disdain for society and all that it entails? You, whose pulse races every time Lando calls for you? 

You, who—perhaps in some alternate universe that were not England’s conniving ton—would have loved to be the object of Lando Norris’ affections? 

Alas, these are the cards you have been dealt. A ruse with a friend. Another one of the duke’s infamous pranks, albeit with higher stakes. You manage a composed smile.

“I am still recovering from the announcement, Your Majesty,” you say evenly. “And… er… the duke’s rather shocking revelation.” 

For the first time, the Queen almost smiles. “Very well,” she says with a dismissive wave. “If this courtship is genuine, I will not interfere.”

Lando exhales quietly.

“However,” she adds sharply, “I will be watching.”

His shoulders stiffen again. The duke is no stranger to an audience, but to have a royal one is an entirely different tale altogether. 

“If I discover this is merely a performance,” the Queen warns, “I shall personally arrange the most inconvenient marriage possible for you both.”

“Understood,” Lando says immediately.

“Best of luck,” the Queen says. She sounds like she very much means it. 

The hallway outside feels significantly less threatening.

You and Lando walk in silence for several steps. You are the first to falter in your stride; Lando follows suit, looking over his shoulder before turning to face you completely. 

The end of the eventful night is drawing to a close. You can feel it in your bones. Still, your heart races for reasons you dare not speak into existence. 

“Well,” you say breathlessly.

Lando offers you half a smile, and says in agreement, “Well.”

You fold your arms over your chest as if it might protect you from some invisible, emotional blow. “That speech,” you say.

“Yes?”

“You were very good at pretending.”

A soft, strangled laugh breaks from the back of Lando’s throat. “Pretending?” he echoes, and oh, the genuine confusion in his tone is the thing of fairytales. 

This is not supposed to be a fairytale. This is your life, and in your life, you are meant to be married off to some halfway decent marquess with whom you might live a perfectly boring life.

“The agony,” you sputter. “The childhood loyalty. The heartfelt declarations to the Queen.”

Lando looks at you for a long, long moment. The realization dawns on you both in the very same second.

It is in how his brow furrows, how your breath hitches. You have spent years running from the very truth that is just now catching up to your agonized, oblivious duke.

Solemn as a vow, Lando whispers with awe, “I do not think I was pretending at all.” ⛐

[tsunodaradio]

heeey... u up?

[tsunodaradio]

i genuinely have no words for the year in writing i've had, so i hope a silly little wrapped-inspired thingo will cover some ground <3 grateful to have spent my first full f1 season this side of tumblr, and looking forward to much more come 2026!!! happy holidays and happy new year, everybody x

[tsunodaradio]

Rereading in between because of all the messages I see, and now I realized it was in Oscar's POV!!! And I would really love to have someone discusssss and nitpick and fangirl over (like realllyyyy talk about the scenes and scream with kilig!!!) the details from the mc's POV, like: 1. in trying the wedding gown: what was she thinking between "How does it look" and "Well" while looking at oscar 2. in the car: what was she thinking in “You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.” 3. while oscar was on the date with Isabella, what kind of thoughts led mc to wait for oscar in his apartment and get cereals, probably anxiously waiting for the outcome of the date...

Whenever I read your fics, I feel like I'm in a movie and I can see the scene because that's how your writing make me feel! I seriously pray one (and more!!) of your fics becomes a movie, because they are soooo good <3

i just want to say that questions like these are precisely why i try so hard to write. i love, love, love readers who bother to find out these little details because everything is intentional to the best of my ability, and to have that poked at is such a privilege 🥹 appreciate you biggg time!!! to answer: (obviously, spoilers under the cut)

she was definitely feeling a lil something during the wedding dress scene. at the first ask, she's still elated and cheerful—nbd, just trying on a dress—but i imagine oscar looks dumbstruck. there's a moment of being self-conscious, like "oh, i'm silly for trying, for asking," but then it hits her that oscar's flustered. i like to think she's always had a little knowledge that oscar might feel for her romantically (hence the teasing here and there), but to the extent of which, she's never been informed. this might just be the scene that solidifies it

ohhh, you bet my girl crashed tf out over that. i would too!!! held it together in the moment despite the gajillion blaring sirens in her head. probably stole away later for a moment (claiming she needed to go to the bathroom or something) so she could talk to herself in a mirror/slap her cheeks with her hands/gaze off into nothingness. mc tries to convince herself that osc is just talking his shit and that he didn't mean it that way lol. #denial is a river in egypt

aaand the date scene 🤭 she was 100% anxious about it. the cereal was a bullshit excuse. she wanted/needed to find out how it went, and was probably a liiittle manipulative about it too. like if oscar brought isabella home then it would ruin his chances to have a girl in his apt., right? terrible mindset but mc still can't say it out loud at this point. my emotionally constipated in between couple.. i owe u my life.. (addtl. note: mc has always felt less anxious in oscar's apartment/space, so that's the more noble answer to this question yipeee)

[tsunodaradio]

omg kae . oscar for vanity fair france

tug of war oscar is alive and well. a drabble is in order. thank you for sending this my way

[tsunodaradio]

same anon as last time ! i just read lando and the neverending breakup and oh my Gosh .

“Lando realizes halfway through dessert that this is it. This is his final act of love: Letting you go.” okay …???? OKAY ?????? 🙁🙁🙁🙁 susumbong kita kay mama pinapaiyak mo kooeisujrudheuueudue

i love the ending though kahit ansakit ❤️‍🩹 in my mind, di na talaga sila nagbalikan. wala eh kasalanan mo yan lando bahala ka dyan !! 😾 chareng. real talk though, letting me ( ME ? ) go is the best thing he could’ve done. ANG GALING MO TALAGA KAE ILY 🥹

lesson learned: mga lalaki talaga naku

skl this is the direct result of that fic 🥲 HSKNDHSHSHS pero mahal kita filo anon iba tlg mag crash out pag pinoy HHAHA ily. never trust a MAN. tama na ang iyak, paskong pasko pa naman

[tsunodaradio]

i have another song that reminded me of Lando and the Never Ending Breakup 🙋🏼‍♀️

(i was the anon who said “Lie With You” by Ten reminded them of the end of Lando and the Never Ending Breakup)

i would like to contribute “Letting Go” by Day6 to the playlist for Lando and the Never Ending Breakup

can we talk about how all these songs were SO good wth 😭😭😭 as a big myday (like they are my ult. u caught me right there), i screamed at the rec of letting go. that fic is the last thing that i got to write properly and these recs just gutteddd me. i appreciate u so, so much

[tsunodaradio]

Had to reread cool for the summer as the lack of jacky d fics in the world is really really horrible for my mental health……at least I have my beloved tsunodaradioshakespeare

baby give me time i WILL have a jack doohan fic up soon and it will be #ForYou

[tsunodaradio]

hihi kae !! i hope u are doing well, i thought you’d want too see some new additions to the dearly beloved like all fire pinterest board 🫂🫂

💚🍀

my darling i hope u know i would write 72536262 more variants of hiccup!lando if u asked of me. but also—as i think u guessed way back when!!!—a maze runner lando might be well on his way :,-) 🏃‍♀️ ... watch this space. love and kisses and i love you like all-fire, babyyy

[tsunodaradio]

just saw a divorce attorney talking about soulmates and he reminded me of someone else that is a divorce attorney who doesn't believe in soulmates

the concept of this being in between oscar for 20+ years but then he starts dating the love of his life

[tsunodaradio]

heyyy! i just wanted to come on here and say what i fan i am of your writing!!! i got to know your page after reading mv's wait for me, (which, by the way, is AMAZING). idk if its bc im such a huge hadestown nerd, but the musical + myth play with the f1 world was absolutely amazing to see, and your style of writing really lit it up. i also really enjoyed your doc russell fic (tbh at this point i loved speed running your entire masterlist truly carrying the f1blr).

i was also wondering about your pinned post, where it says like and follows from studioeisa; is that also you?? if so then this also feels like an entire worlds collide moment cuz im a big carat (starting even before i got into f1), so it feels amazing to know that my fav fics from svt have the same amazing author as my recent amazing reads in f1!! please continue to bless us with your writing as time permits, and sorry for the rant!

whenever people mention wait for me (which isn't often), i feel a shot of serotonin because it's genuinely one of the things i'm happiest to have written but it was also very, very niche :'-) getting to explore the myth in that format was an absolute dreaaam for me. and the dr. russell fic!!! as a grey's anatomy girlie, that was my jam. thank you for showing love towards the writing that doesn't always get spotlighted <3 and aaah, yes, i'm also @studioeisa; tsunodaradio is a sideblog to that account. please never apologize for this earnest ask and i'm glad you found me across fandoms hehe! wishing u the absolute best x

[tsunodaradio]

i am FREAKING OUT RN OMG I DID NOT KNOW ABOUT THIS OMFGGG??!! i'm reading f1 smaus as a two week old fan and i open an account to see my favourite-ist writer here too my day has been positively blessed kae youre just way too amazing the world is grateful for your existence😭😭🫶🫶

HIII RIS :3 the way u continue to find me in every universe.. i had to giggle 🫶 love u to no end and i hope the holiday season is absolutely everything u need it to be, my dear