A/N: I hope you enjoyed last week's chapter! The responses on the side character poll were hilarious. It's Italy this week yippee!! And copious levels of SeeSaw fluff to top it all off. There's about 9.8K words this time, so it's fairly long. Some content may seem familiar, but I did rewrite about 80% of it courtesy of weaving in the cast members and adding to the web of relationships. It's definitely what I missed out on in the previous version of Wax, and makes for a great foundation for interesting setups in the coming chapters.

Enjoy!

Oh and also, a little heads up that the next chapter is going to be fairly long, so I've decided to spend two weeks writing it. Eeep! Thank you for waiting patiently. And for all the lovely comments that warm my heart just like candles do with snow. 

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[Leroy]

"What's his name?"

"Chicken."

She paused. "I beg your pardon?"

"His name's Chicken."

"C-H-I-C—"

"Yeah." I nodded at the papers on her counter, courtesy of visits to the vet, training centers and more than three years of special service in station twelve. Search-and-rescue certified. "Think it's at the top."

"Well yes, I just... wanted to confirm," the lady checking him in cleared her throat, going back to the bunch of documents I'd handed her.

I had my boy on a lead, attached to a cool harness the crew pitched in to get for my birthday two years back. It was Jaeger's idea; something about liking him more than his owner. Altogether, the entire station pooled funds for a harness, a brush, and a frisbee—all packed and ready to go.

Chicken was quiet and obedient, eyes fixed on me the entire time I was at the counter handing over my passport and dealing with typical check-in procedures. He was the kind of dog to sit even if I hadn't told him to, and had pretty much minded his own business throughout bags and security until we arrived at the pet center to get him cleared for cabin travel.

This was different from the one that cleared smaller animals kept in carriers the entire flight. Chicken would technically have a seat of his own beside me. Any additional fees that came with certification and customs, I'd cover. Everything else, production was happy to take care of.

Not gonna lie, I wasn't expecting this level of generosity. Free lunches didn't exist, not when Siegfried was in the picture, but. Guess I'll take it.

"... What's up, boy?" I felt a tug on the grip around my wrist.

My dog was staring at something in the distance, but the confusing wall of text they made me read through and sign off on the spot kept me busy.

"Stay." I pointed at my heel and he sat back down, tail swishing.

I turned back to the papers.

Someone else would've had an easy time with big words like these, breezing through and needling out key points without batting an eyelid. Knowing him, he probably arrived four hours early to get this stuff out of the way and clear his kitten for boarding.

"Alright, he's good to go. Gate twenty-two will be opening in thirty minutes; turn left and straight down that way. Enjoy your flight."

"Appreciate it."

Chicken stood on fours, ready to go as soon as I gave him the signal when all of a sudden, my phone buzzed. Twice. Then, continuously.

It was a call from Rexi.

I picked up, telling her I'd drop a text before takeoff but she cut me off to say that Annie wouldn't settle for words and wanted to see her precious boy. And by that, she meant my dog.

So I turned the front-facing camera on to give them a show of the usual finger before directing it at my buddy on his leash, leading the way with a happy tail.

"What a good boy, Chicken. Aren't you brave, going on a plane. I'll buy you all the treats when you get back. Look after your owner for me, okay?"

It was a short walk. Fifteen minutes across the terminal past security and I could make out a bunch of people gathered alongside trolleys filled with equipment bags and carriers. Against a sea of dark-colored clothing, a single silhouette stood out.

"My back's killing me. Where's Vanilla? Let me speak to him."

I snorted. "He's not..."

Another look. Fifty feet away, at the lone snowstorm in the middle of crew members hanging around, waiting to board. I patted myself on the back. Top scorer of Where's Vanilla, most-played game in my head.

Then, out of nowhere, specifically while I was distracted, Chicken started making his way over.

Fuck. I had stuffed my passport and boarding ticket in my back pocket and swapped the phone to my other hand with the duffel bag, loosening my grip on his lead for just a second, but it was too late. He'd padded all the way across the distance like this was a calm morning stroll and his destination was a familiar stop.

My boy stopped right by his leg just as he turned, gaze lowering to my dog that was looking up at him from a seated position, waiting patiently for pats. Tail sweeping the floor.

Heads turned.

In his arms was a white carrier—a pair of tiny round eyes peering through the darkness and down at my boy. Meanwhile, his owner's gaze searched before I could respond; meeting mine in a blink and we locked. One second. Two. Three.

He caved first, looking away and brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ears before glancing around him. Most people who'd caught on had their attention on Chicken instead of him; a polite, well-behaved, handsome border collie to look at. Together, they were a screenshot straight out of my fantasies. Guess I had to include the cat from now on.

"Sorry." I approached, scratching my dog behind his ears and retrieving the end of his lead. Owner of said cat had his eyes shy of mine for a moment, pushing up his glasses and readjusting his grip on the pet carrier.

"Nothing to apologize about. Look at him—a law-abiding citizen; respectful and gentlemanly. Very much unlike his owner, in fact. Makes one wonder where he picked up his good habits," he teased with one of those smiles. The kind that got me all the time. He reached down to pat the top of Chicken's head. "I think he even nudged my leg a little, just to say hi. How very polite. The best sort of companion on a two-hour flight. Leo, on the other hand... he's a little sensitive about being outside. I'm afraid he might start an episode with your dog around..."

"We'll leave." I backed off, knowing he'd probably spent the night taking care of his kitten and preparing for the flight. "Let's go buddy."

"W-wait," I heard him say, turning over my shoulder with a pause. "That's not what I... what I meant was, well. That's what I thought would happen, but as you can see, Leo's rather calm. So... stay. If you'd like to. Did everything go smoothly at the pet check-in?"

"Not really. Took us an hour," I snorted, glancing down at my phone only to realize Annie had been listening in on the entire exchange. "Staff couldn't believe I'd named him Chicken."

This got his shoulders relaxing. The ice in his eyes easing up a little. "Us too. An hour, I mean. Not the Chicken part. Leo is a perfect name for this little daredevil." The instant his voice went soft all of a sudden and his gaze lowered to the carrier in his arms, I was ready to fite.

"So sorry to interrupt, but sweetheart, if you can hear me, I've been telling this idiot to hand you the phone centuries ago." Annie was back at it again and the two of us exchanged a look when her voice droned on through the phone. I switched off the camera and held it out to him. Waiting for the green.

"Says she wants to talk."

First, he blinked. Then, he looked around. "To me?"

"No, your cat." I played and he caught on, rolling his eyes while I amused myself with the look in them.

You could tell he'd paused at yellow for a bit, but I knew it wasn't a red from the slow, gentle ripple in his eyes—thinking, deciding—before reaching for the phone and tapping on the speaker button to turn it off.

"Good morning, Annie," he started in a whisper. I held out a hand, offering to hold the carrier in his stead while he talked. Carefully, he handed it over. "Yes, I am. Yes, I... um... if this is about leaving Leroy in my hands, I... no, of course n... oh. Yes. I promise. Thank you. Take care, Annie. And um. If you'd like, we could still go to that restaurant you talked about once I'm back in London. If you'd like. Yes. I will. You too, Annie. Would you like me to hand the phone back to... no? Al... alright then. Goodbye. Yes. We will."

Slowly, he held the phone away from his ear, stared at it for a good long second, before dropping the call and holding it out in exchange for Leo.

"What'd she say?" I asked.

"To spare you no mercy," he put across so simply, it was hard not to believe him. Either way, it did sound like something Annie would say. The smile on his lips left traces of nostalgia in his voice; memories we shared but along the way, had forgotten how they felt to touch. Warm.

"That's the plan." I shrugged and he gave me a look, laughing a little.

"And I have a splendid track record of keeping the promises that I make. I suggest you watch your back, Cinder."

I would have stayed for more but over his shoulder, I caught unnecessary eyes looking our way.

Most people minded their own business (probably thinking we were having a chat about our pets) but Siegfried had other thoughts. I hadn't the clearest idea what he was up to, so the least I could do was put out his flame.

"I will."

I left with a nod, feeling the urge to turn for one last glimpse—to appreciate his fit and take in the full combination of what he was wearing. Don't get me wrong, I know nothing about fashion trends and branded clothing. Had no interest in stuff like that either, but the way he could somehow constantly look like he'd popped right out of a magazine needed to be studied. Beige knit sweater; soft and loose, tucked into fitted dress pants that made his legs... waist... ankles...

Halfway across the waiting area, I caved and looked over my shoulder. He noticed; raising his hand a little.

A tiny wave.

Instant neuron activation. I was staring so hard, my buddy was looking up at me, his owner, like I was the one needing a collar and a leash. No comment. We ended up sitting at the farthest spot away from the production team in the waiting lounge, chilling with protein treats and a fold-out puzzle toy I got him. Doing our best to put distractions aside.

Not even ten minutes after plugging in, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

It was one of the Mavericks. The guy I shared a kitchen with for the kickoff dinner service alongside Popo—Syrup. I waited for gestures like a point or a look but all he did was stare and wait.

Reluctantly, I unplugged.

"Hey. So, the Mavs are grabbing a coffee before we board together. Wanna come?" He said the last part with more energy and enthusiasm than I'd ever known in my twenty plus years of living.

I paused.

"... Think I'm good." I was about to turn back after a nod when I spotted Chef Popo walking over with her arms full.

I stood to help and so did another guy. His alias was a long one, but he said to call him Raz. So we did.

"I'm alright dears, these aren't heavy at all." "Popo, you should sit! I'll get you some coffee. Tell me your order." "No no, let's go together. I want to see the menu. See, it's not heavy at all." "My arms are about to break Popo. I don't know what you're talking about." "Raz sweetheart..."

I had no clue what was in these bags and why they weren't checked in but they weighed a fair bit. The others joined up, placing their orders at the payment counter before standing around; chatting and waiting.

Then came Andre's voice from a mile away and that was how we knew the veterans had come to join the line for caffeine. He was just that loud. Half his counterparts had the heart to find his personality somewhat entertaining; the other half pretended not to know him.

"Nothing here's any good. Why bother?"

"It's an airport, Chef Andre..."

"So? They should have standards."

It did not take Layla very long to spot Popo and start making her way over for a hug, essentially bridging the two groups and allowing for a bunch of new interactions that did not need to occur. Chicken was happy to receive pats and attention. Not me. I wanted out.

"A dog!" "Oh he's the sweetest... just look at him." "He's so well behaved." "Can I pet him?" "What's the fuss? It's just a dog." "Granny, have you been to Italy?" "No, my dear. It's my first time. My children say I should do a vuh-log. I don't know what that is." "I'll teach you, Po." "Didn't know dogs could get a seat on the plane." "Cinder's dog is certified. Search and rescue, I think." "Mm. As cool as his owner, then. I heard he's a firefighter." "Wait, for real?" "Are you?" "... Yeah." "They'd love you on Magic Mike." "Not Magic Mike, Ingrid. Can't believe..." "You know what Magic Mike is, Chef Jones?" "Of course I do. Everyone knows."

I didn't. So I made a mental note to ask the most knowledgeable person I knew. In my world, he put Google out of business.

Somewhere off to the side, standing a couple of feet away from the commotion, was Sparrow and his sister. She was tugging on his sleeve, signing fast. Frustrated. Pointing at the group as he hung back. I slipped away and joined him instead.

Just my kind of company.

"Oh! Hey." His sister turned to me with her eyes lit up. "What's up? Wanna chat?"

"No." I straight up said and to my surprise, Sparrow held up his fist for a bump. Nice, he gets it. I returned the gesture.

"Great..." She sighed, crossing her arms and looking away until an idea crossed her mind. "Wait. We haven't been officially introduced!"

Her brother ran a hand down his face in despair. He was expressive for someone who preferred hanging back, away from social groups. That, or he actually liked interacting with others—just found it hard to join in when no one thought of including him.

"I'm Cyan. This is my brother, Cillian. I MEAN... fuck, I meant Sparrow. Sorry." She cringed internally as soon as it slipped out, hiding behind her passport.

Sparrow looked like he was seconds away from murder.

"Leroy." I said to him, holding out a hand. He blinked. Paused. And then took it really slowly like he hadn't expected that to happen. We shook and that was it. Neither of us elaborated.

Cyan did not know how to react. "I... what. So, uh. Huh."

"Doesn't matter as long as we don't talk on set," I told her. "Or use those names."

"Yeah! Okay, cool. Nice. Knew that. Don't know why I panicked." She turned to her brother as she signed, and he responded with something else. "Oh, right. We've never used names in front of the camera. Well, not yet at least. Right? Team challenges are different. But I'm not allowed in the kitchen for that. You'll be off on your own."

"... Sounds tough."

Sparrow shrugged. He tapped his chest with an open palm and pulled out something from his pocket.

"It's fine, actually." His sister interpreted. "I like using laser pointers to communicate... and basic gestures. Sometimes signs, if they are willing to learn. Salt. Sugar. Vinegar. Extra mirrors help with safety. If the kitchen has a display system for tickets, great... otherwise, I'm fucked." She nodded. "Yeap. There's a community of Deaf chefs where we live so accessibility is great. Visible fire alarms and all that. Not sure about the places we're going to though."

I thought about it. "... How do you call someone?"

"What do you mean?" They both turned to me. "Like, get their attention?"

"Yeah."

He demonstrated, reaching over to tap his sister's shoulder. "Like that. Or if your hands are full in the kitchen, use elbows instead. That's what we do when we call 'backs' with something hot in the way." Made sense.

"Same thing if you're fifty feet apart?"

"For that... I vocalize. Sometimes. Waving helps too. But if it's hard to pinpoint whose attention I'm trying to get... oh right—we use sign names!" She lit up again, turning to me now. "Not the actual names; those take way too long to fingerspell, so. We came up with signs for the judges 'cuz I gotta tell him who's saying what. It's like their special identification thing. So when I sign this... he knows I'm talking about Chef Pao."

They did something at the same time and without even having to explain it, I could see why this was Pao.

"What's Vanilla's?" Instant ask.

Sparrow and his sister exchanged a look. It was smug as fuck.

"You do a 'V' for Vanilla," she held up two fingers, index and middle, spread apart like a peace sign. "And then you circle the tip around your eye... 'cuz he wears glasses." She traced her index anti-clockwise and with both siblings doing it at the same time, made it look like they were posing for a picture. "Cute, huh. It's different from 'vanilla' as in the ingredient, so we don't get them mixed up in the kitchen."

Ten out of ten. Before I could drop them a hint or two about teaching the genius, orders were handed out and a bunch of announcements on the system called for business class boarding so we headed for the gate and got our passes scanned.

Flying business was a whole other level. There were benefits that came with having more legroom; for me, sure, but mostly for my dog. I pulled out a blanket they provided free of charge and laid it on the floor in front of his seat. Two spots to pick and choose, whichever he preferred.

And across the aisle: a nice little surprise.

The genius himself, peering into his kitten's carrier—reaching in for private pats at the sound of nervous mewling. I pretended not to notice, dealing with my duffel bag that went straight into the overhead storage bin and adjusting my buddy's seat so that he could get the most out of the window view.

"Leo, resistance... is... futile...!" I heard him whisper. True.

So I stopped resisting and took in the view across the aisle.

To calm the kitten, he had secretly taken him out of his carrier and held him in his arms. Their noses touched briefly. Leo nuzzled his human.

==========

[Vanilla]

Coddle.

A word dangerously close to its disastrous cousin 'cuddle', rivaling the strange sweetness and warmth the latter seemed to produce on the tongue; words that typically remained in the lonely unused corners of my mental dictionary. Alas, here I was with the little one in my arms, sneaking a hasty nuzzle of comfort before placing him back in his carrier only to be caught in the act by a certain idiot seated within arm's reach—musing privately as he stared.

To think Leo had reduced my worth to a coddle-r, indulge-r, kitten spoil-er and for this to be witnessed in entirety by a fellow, albeit large-sized, cat in the wild.

I'd altogether frozen and pretended not to notice, checking on Leo in his carrier and pulling out a pair of complimentary headphones to hide the state of my ears.

After sending a mandatory safety text to Uncle Al and Aunt Julie, I chanced a glimpse at my neighbor. He, too, appeared occupied with something on his phone. Chicken on the other hand, was staring intently in my direction. I looked away. He and his owner were equally illegal, having mastered the art of a criminal gaze. I decided to busy myself with the weather report and a folder that contained an outline of our schedule in Italy for the next couple of days. First Florence, then a private olive farm in Portofino, Genoa, for a masterclass, and then back in Florence for the main challenge.

On top of light refreshments that included a platter of premium fruits and cheese, the cabin crew provided us with an option between a glass of wine or champagne, which I ended up deciding against and requesting for a cup of tea instead—running through the drafted script and making annotations where necessary. Off to the side, I'd catch my neighbor tossing blueberries in the air for his furry companion's entertainment before going back to something in his lap. A book.

Certainly not the most common sight. Which of course, left me mildly curious about its contents but he soon shifted sideways and angled the cover of the book in my direction, gaze peering above the pages and a single glance at the cover was enough to identify the 'book' I'd loaned him two weeks ago.

Leroy taking pleasure in reading his old recipes written in the magnificent scrawl of a chicken was not something I could relate to. For instance, the mere sight of a review I'd written in my younger days as a critic—that silly long paragraph about the ice cream parlor's vanilla flavor courtesy of a certain idiot—was enough to ruin the rest of my day.

Bless Leo's heart for falling asleep halfway through the flight.

Two hours and a box of salted crackers later, the plane began its descent. Florence Airport; customs; pet customs; bags; and then finally, freedom. At long last, we made it to the arrival hall where the rest of the crew members were gathered.

Layla was the first to spot us from afar, waving. "Got your kids sorted?"

!!! Was all that appeared in my head after two hours of being in the sky, stumped for words or any sort of expression while Leroy simply nodded—taking her question in stride.

"Yeah." He reached down to rub Chicken behind his ears but because we were standing a little closer than he thought, our fingers brushed and I jumped, startling both his dog and Leo who'd been sleeping in his carrier.

"Ah. That—sorry, I didn't... um," I attempted to calm my supposedly intellectual brain. "I think the here are buses to us pick up."

Layla was seconds away from bursting into laughter while I tried to register my profound English with Leroy's gaze burning into my side.

"Well I did drop by to tell Roy about boarding bus B but, you know, I'm also here to prove a point about," she gestured to the distance, the space, the air between Leroy and myself. "The tension, is, peak. You guys acting like you don't know each other is doing the opposite effect of drawing everyone's attention. Just saying. Anyway. Time to go—the entire cast's waiting for you, sweetie."

"Yes. Yes, they're waiting for you," I repeated, raising my gaze to meet his for a second before backing out at the sound of emergency bells in my head. "You should go now."

He was warm and that was to blame.

How long it had been, exactly, since our last embrace; even a brief skimming of bare skin, warm to the touch—a sip. A sip after a drought was one that would turn into a wave; growing as it rolled, washing over the shore that was cold and dry and had, in time, nearly forgotten the comfort of its gentle stroking. The heat it once indulged in.

Unconsciously, I lingered in the moment that had passed.

"Alright, I'm out," Layla raised a hand before backing away from us both and turning to leave. "You catch up or we're leaving you behind, 'kay."

Leroy snorted, adjusting the weight of the duffel bag he had over his shoulder before grabbing his suitcase and giving his dog the cue to follow. Halfway across, Chef Syrup from the Mavericks joined them. I watched their backs recede.

Syrup.

Even observing him from afar, I found his profile and general silhouette oddly familiar and yet, no other information surfaced at the forefront of my mind despite having entered his name in my mental search engine. How strange.

"Banilla, how was the flight?" Chef Pao's voice had an immediate effect of bringing me back to the present. I refocused. "You look a bit, you know, not so good. Our bus is arriving soon; we sit with the producers, okay?"

I nodded briefly, thanking him for his concern before gathering my bags and heading to the pickup point with Chef Pao. Chef Streisand was on her phone. Siegfried stood further down the line, spotting us as we joined up with our fellow judge. He smiled, nodding in our direction. It was merely out of courtesy and manners that I did the same.

Raul, accompanying me on the trip as my assistant and personal translator during the filming of the first episode, appeared alongside a local fixer hired by the production team. I'd promised him an additional paycheck and complimentary flight tickets, which he agreed to in a heartbeat. After all, indulging in a delightful conversation about the food in Florence with a conventionally attractive young woman throughout the twenty-minute ride was precisely what he'd come to do.

I took in the streets of Florence as we passed the river Arno; piazzas, squares and a beautiful historic garden I would've loved to visit after the main challenge was over, but with a production timeline as tight as our current schedule, felt as unlikely as it was foolish.

Of course. The entire trip had one purpose, and it was strictly professional. Perhaps the knowledge of a certain idiot being close by had its effect on the delusions of my mind but still, I'd be to blame for the longing of a private holiday.

"Banilla." Chef Pao was seated directly behind me and had tapped my backrest before presenting me with what looked like a vial of transparent liquid through the gap between the seats. "Take this."

"Oh! Thank you. That is very kind of you. What... um. What is it, may I ask?"

"White flower," he said simply, displaying a thumbs-up through the gap. "Like uh... essential oil. Cure everything. All types of pain. Just apply a little bit on anywhere and massage, I promise you will feel better."

It was very kind of him to be concerned and for a moment, the image of my godfather crossed the back of my mind. He had the habit of being extremely caring and concerned about the wellbeing of the people around him. Even strangers. Which was the only reason he and my family eventually became acquainted with one another.

I read the ingredient list on the back of the tiny vial with dark blue accents, following Chef Pao's instructions and rubbing a drop of the essential oil on my temples. It had an intriguing scent that reminded me of Asian aromatherapy spas.

Villa Cora was located in a park that overlooked the Boboli Gardens, on the hills just outside the historical center of Florence. It was an aristocratic residence that once hosted distinguished guests of importance, ranging from royalty to the all-famous Tchaikovsky—a favorite of Vaughn Alekseyev's. Visually speaking, it was any film director's dream.

Everyone was too busy raving about the location to think about the program schedule; the camera crew included. The first half who'd arrived on scene to set up the cameras and dolly tracks for shooting were distracted by the refreshments that were being handed out by the hotel staff. Assistants were running around directing the contestants who'd arrived before us, loading their bags onto the hotel's luggage trolley manned by a bellboy. Chicken's tail was the only thing that revealed his excitement over freshly mown grass and a fountain. And butterflies. Still, he stuck close to his owner and brought little attention to himself.

The villa's exterior was magnificent to say the least; marble statues flanking a circular fountain against a backdrop of lush greenery and perfectly trimmed bushes. The building's terrace and balustrade were a tasteful shade of French grey, complementing tall arched windows that spanned the front of the villa.

For this all to be ruined by the chaos of a production crew mounting microphones in bushes and rocks and all things imaginable was unfortunate.

"Judges," Siegfried came by just as the three of us unloaded our bags. "Director Stan has decided to switch up the order of the timeline—we're having the opening shot for the chefs done first thing tomorrow instead. From now till dusk and the evening, the crew will work on B-rolls and location fillers. He says he'd like some time to scout the area and that we'd missed the optimal light for subject filming."

"Ay, that's okay. It's good too," Chef Pao nodded. "Banilla's not feeling very well. So is the reading still at five o'clock or we delay that?"

"Delayed. We'll do it after the producer's meeting. You are free to roam the grounds as you wish until then, since technically, we booked out the place. Anywhere beyond that, I suggest speaking with the staff at the front desk for recommendations."

"And the chefs?" I asked carefully and Siegfried turned to me with a strange, almost difficult expression in his eyes. As though trying to figure out how, exactly, I seemed under the weather.

"They've been given the same instructions. There's been a change of plans for dinner. Something about getting our dates wrong," he added. "The catering company got us mixed up with another production so we're considering booking out a restaurant last-minute... although what I'm hearing is that contestants are asking for time to unpack. We have a long day in Portofino tomorrow."

"Forget about booking a restaurant," Chef Streisand waved him aside. "There's no need to baby a bunch of adults. Let them dine wherever and whenever they want. That way, we all have flexible schedules and no time wasted. Best solution there is."

Bless her! May both sides of Chef Streisand's pillow remain perfectly chilled throughout the night, the crust of her bread never soggy, and her hot tea always hot. Finally, some time alone in my room with Leo out of his carrier! No more mewling for freedom and my attention.

"Let's go with that," Siegfried turned to his assistant who ran off to pass on the message to the rest of the cast and crew. "Thank you judges. We'll see you at the meeting." He left with an appreciative nod.

Faultlessly professional. Of course he would be, after spending more than two decades in the industry. This was second nature for those in entertainment—culinary or not.

I was thinking of ways to get Leo accustomed to a new environment (my hotel room) when Chef Streisand asked if I needed to see a pharmacist and that she could have someone at the front desk arrange for a doctor if necessary, but I explained that it was a mere case of motion sickness (an excuse, of course) and thanked her for her concern. She and Chef Pao then shared some interesting information about chioschi, street food trucks enjoyed by locals that served delicacies like trippa, cow's stomach, and signature schiacciata sandwiches. Raul joined in by elaborating on his favorites.

There were several hotel staff at the front desk assisting the contestants with their respective keycards and escorting them to their rooms while others lounged in the lobby with refreshments. Leroy and Chicken were off to the side speaking to a bellboy, who seemed to be pointing at the latter and struggling to express himself.

I tapped Raul on the shoulder and propelled him in the idiot's direction. "See what he needs."

"You, probably, but unfortunately you don't speak Italian," my subordinate had the gall to tease. I responded with a pointed look. He did as instructed and, moments later, returned with a triumphant smile. "I was correct."

I made a show of tapping his paycheck.

"Okay no I wasn't. But almost," Raul straightened his back the moment he saw the envelope, hands moving as he talked. "They forgot to tell him that pets in the rooms cost extra. Eighty euros. Someone's asking the producers if they got this covered, but Leroy said it doesn't matter and he'll pay even if it's not. Since you have your cat too, I think you should go to him. Over there." He then gestured to the owner of the most well-behaved border collie, who, coincidentally or not, already had his gaze fixed on us both.

"Thank you. I understand now, but you must come with me," was what I told Raul and immediately he had both hands raised.

"I'm not volunteering to be your third wheel, boss. You you you can't do this to me you know, yes, that's my paycheck, and yes, you paid for the flight, and... okay fine. But if anything goes down, I'm backing out."

I rolled my eyes, declaring in a lowered voice that obviously, Leroy and I were not going to be chummy with one another with twenty-odd people in the same room who'd have every reason to report a corrupt relationship between the show's contestant and judge.

"Sorry to interrupt," I joined Cinder at the counter, speaking directly to the staff behind the front desk who'd just received his credit card. "Um, I brought my pet as well. Should I be requesting a special room besides paying for the additional fee?"

Raul translated and the attendant turned back to me with a professional smile. "I can arrange that. Also, can I have your name please sir? That is eighty euro. Paying by cash or card?"

"Ca—" "Charge it to mine."

I paused. And very slowly, turned to said idiot.

Silence ensued until Raul gave in with a groan and begrudgingly translated this to the hotel staff, who then smiled and nodded. Thankfully, I recovered in time and reached into my coat to produce my wallet full of cards. Oh no you don't—

"Here's my card," I held it out to the attendant. Two hands, just to seal the deal and ensure that she accept it at once. "Please take it. Don't listen to him."

Flustered, she turned to Raul with a bewildered expression and presumably asked what was going on. Self-proclaimed Italian professional then turned to Leroy and myself with indecent fingers by his side (hidden from the staff's view) that had transformed from a single finger to all five converging at their tips.

"Boss. I said no dirty business!" He whisper-shouted. "Just decide on one."

I then turned to Leroy with the same whisper-shout. "You're not paying for me or Leo! I pay for me. End of story."

"I can do separate?" The attendant resolved all forms of criminal activity by proposing the finest solution. I nodded three times.

"Yes! Yes please."

A single read of the look in Leroy's eyes and I could practically hear the voice in his head: Mission failed. We'll get 'em next time. Instantly, I was bamboozled by the very existence of said voice in my imagination, somewhat proving the existence of an idiot having the time of his life building snowmen and stoking fires in the midst of winter snow.

"Why do you smell different?" He then proceeded to ask and needless to say, I was gobsmacked into outer space.

"What do you mean? Th—wh—you can't just... I don't have a scent!" "You do." "Most perfumes distort tasting notes. Everyone knows that. Smell and taste are inseparable! I can't possibly go around wearing cologne or or or fragrances that could potentially compete with delicate food aromas. It essentially dulls flavor perception!" "... No I mean your natural—"

"I'm out," Raul declared, turning to the staff behind the counter and saying something in Italian before throwing her a wink.

I sighed, turning to the certified idiot with a begrudging stare. "If you must know, Chef Pao left me a bottle of essential oil. Cures headaches, and, well. Pain in general, according to him."

"You... need meds?" The look in his eyes softened all of a sudden. "I can get you some."

"Oh. Oh no, it's... thank you, but I'm fine, really... just in need of some rest before the producer's meeting. And you...?" I asked, glancing up for a moment after putting away my credit card. "Any plans?"

"... Just one." He started off slow with a search of my gaze. "A place I've been thinking about."

The unspoken words rose to the surface of frozen lakes but still, I found myself hesitating.

He waited, getting a read on how I felt about interacting off-camera beyond the boundaries of work and the ongoing production. Needless to say, I was curious—hearing Leroy speak about a place of interest on his own volition was rare, and planning it in advance, even more out of the ordinary. Him taking the initiative to extend an invitation was few and far between. Heavens, I wouldn't be surprised if he was doing this on purpose, leading my insatiable curiosity with nuggets of mystery and intrigue, essentially plotting my demise (exaggeration).

Alas, it worked.

===========

[Leroy]

He was about to say yes.

I could tell from the look in his eyes. A happy sheen, glinting under the light; how a midsummer pool does at every skim of its surface. Ripples. They erased all thoughts from before. Thoughts about the brushing of our fingers and his response.

Right there and then, taking in the way he'd jumped out of his skin at the contact was enough to put ideas into my head. Wasn't hard to arrive at a conclusion that involved him wanting to avoid me for some space but now, eyes locked, I knew I was wrong. The moment reminded me, strangely, in a way I didn't expect to, just how long it'd been since we'd... spent time together. Alone. Close. Touching. Not in that way. But also in that way.

Fuck, it's in my head now.

"Hey cutie, they're talking dinner plans right now. Come join."

I followed his gaze. Standing beside us and looking my way was one of the Masters. She was the one who raised the thing about Magic Mike this morning. Still don't know what she meant, by the way. It was after five seconds of silence that I realized she was talking to me. Which made things twice as awkward.

"Ah, yes. Dinner's been cancelled, so I've heard." Snow recovered first, backing out from the conversation we were having. "It would be wise to make arrangements among yourselves."

"You coming?"

The light in his eyes dulled as soon as he lowered his gaze. Averting. "I... well I'd love to, but. There's a producer's meeting and... and another reading in two hours. I have to get Leo settled in the room, so."

I nodded. There was disappointment in his voice; mild, but not entirely hidden.

"Next time." He went on to add, glancing down at the keycard in his hands. "If that's alright with you."

The keycard distracted—reminded me of a time they slid down the front of shirts, slow and appreciative, between slender fingers of snow staying the night. The urge to run my hand through his hair and give him the usual on his forehead sparked a brief movement toward him but I killed just it in time, holding off as Raul called from two counters down alongside Pao and Streisand.

"Next time." I agreed, and he revealed the smile I had been waiting for. His shoulders eased up, sighing a little. Relieved.

"Alright. I'll um. See you, then." He reached down to pat my boy on his head before turning to leave, looking over his shoulder with a tiny wave. I watched him go.

"Are you hungry?"

"No chef."

"We're not on set, sweetie. Just call me Ingrid." She laughed and I turned to her with a pause. Chef Ingrid Jones. The veteran businesswoman with more than five brands under her name; global franchises. Restaurants all across the UK. Pubs, mostly. "I'm not that old."

She was Siegfried's age. Either that, or Annie's, because I recalled dining at one of her franchises in New York and studying the photography of her 30th birthday cookbook. Siegfried told me to.

"Some of them want seafood. The others are having pasta," she looked up and slid a hand up my arm all of a sudden. "But I'm thinking drinks at one of my bars. What about you?"

I stepped away. "... That's not dinner."

The expression on her face turned into one of confusion. Blinking twice. "I mean, we won a ton of awards for serving great bar food too, so. I could get us a spot overlooking the river and all. You look like you could use a drink."

I frowned. "Is it pet-friendly...?"

Jones had the loading icon baked into her eyes for a moment. I kid you not, she looked exactly like the pikachu meme. "What do you mean?"

"Taking my dog out on a date tonight, so..." I held up the hand with Chicken's lead. He instantly stood like we were about to go for a run.

Her eyes rolled, but she kept the rest of the interaction short. Smiling still. "Alright cutie. You do you."

She left me to join Saito and the others while I kept my distance, hanging back for a bit until Layla said something about her favorite pasta place. Popo and Raz were all for it. A vegan restaurant down the street appealed to three others including Du Bellay. The only itinerary up my alley was Sparrow's; food trucks and carts around town with his sister. I gave it some thought, but decided against it after a fuel check. Running low.

I held off on the flames and sought first for a fix. Nothing ice cream and solitude couldn't solve.

Leroy considers joining but then thinks to himself, never mind. He needs some time alone.

"What floor are you on?"

I turned. It was Syrup and one of the Masters, Chef Hyde, standing a couple of feet behind me in the lobby with their bags, waiting for the elevator.

"Four."

I heard him take a step closer, but Chicken put some space between us, watching close. My boy always had a knack for weeding out the ones to look out for. He never liked Erlynn. For years, I'd pinned it on the perfume she'd always worn.

"Oh. I'm three! What about you, Chef Hyde?" "I'm three too. They say we get a great view of the garden. The perfect Tuscan sunset."

Syrup wasn't one to stand out. White polo and jeans. Dark hair, dark eyes. Looking at him now without the cloud of sleep or adrenaline in my ears, the weirdest thought crossed my mind. I've seen him somewhere.

Running through my brief history of humans didn't help; there wasn't much in there to begin with. The reason I felt the need to have my guard up against the other chefs in the first place had mostly to do with them knowing about me and snow. That, or they had some other plans with Siegfried I didn't know about. The only person I knew for certain was Layla.

"If we're talking about a good view, hands down, I've got the best one." Andre's voice rang sharp in my ears, and I didn't bother turning to acknowledge his presence. One of the elevators had arrived and I made my way in. Chicken matched my pace. The rest came after.

"Oh. Uh... that's nice." "Really. So you've... seen your room?"

Andre snorted at Hyde like she'd asked the dumbest question on earth. "I don't need to see it. It's a Superior. That's an upgrade. Apparently, front desk took a liking to me."

I glanced at the keycard between my fingers. Superior.

"That must mean they like me too." Chef Hyde removed the shades on top of her head and raised a brow. "I hope the view is as nice as you described."

Raz in the other corner who'd kept to himself the entire time was happy to add his name to the list of apparent front desk 'favorites'.

Sometimes, I wish my boy could laugh. Or get the irony building up in the elevator so that we'd enjoy people like Andre embarrassing themselves in front of a crowd. Either way, he was left to fume quietly for the next couple of seconds before exiting the elevator on the third floor with Syrup and Hyde while Raz and I got out on the fourth.

My room was on the far end of the hallway with double the windows—one side overlooking the front yard and the other, the villa's private pool. The interior was fancy but I wasn't the best person to appreciate every detail. A king-sized bed though, was the kind of thing to be universally respected. My boy took a liking to a couch by one of the windows, so I transferred a couple of additional pillows from the master bed (there were like, six in total) to it and he made himself comfortable in the sun.

I got out his bowl and a can of his favorite stuff before tossing him a vitamin chew; unpacked for ten minutes before starting to feel restless. Leftover energy from the flight and just having pretty much done nothing the entire day.

I changed into something for a run and Chicken got all excited, padding over to his leash with his tail all over the place. Some spare cash in my pocket and we were out in central Florence for a view.

Google mapped out the optimal route for us, factoring in our need for a good workout and a nice view. We passed a couple of gardens. A museum. The river Arno. I'd stopped for a bit here and there, taking in the architecture and some parts of the city I found strangely familiar.

People don't usually remember the things they did as kids.

I was four or five when the three of us stopped by for a couple of days in Italy. Couldn't remember the reason why. Didn't even bother remembering the other stuff I ate or the number of naked statues and cathedrals we visited but if anything, there was one sole memory of Florence I had as a kid.

That day, I'd been a brat. By that I meant baring my fangs at Annie 'cuz she'd asked me to pick between ice cream and a new video game; said something along the lines of both being a want and not a need. Either way, any genius would've picked the video game and I was—still am—a genius, so I picked that. Still, I couldn't believe she made me choose between something I've never had but always wanted, and the intelligent choice.

Can't remember what happened after, but the next thing in my head was Siegfried taking me to Vivoli's while Annie shopped for souvenirs.

I didn't know what Vivoli was. It sounded like a car, or some type of pasta.

When he told me it was known as the best gelato place in all of Florence, I thought he was lying. We went in and I remember they had a ton of flavors. The display stretched all the way into the store, and it was massive. I wanted something with chocolate and sprinkles, like every other kid did, but Siegfried said no and pointed at something plain and white. He got us a cup each. And then we sat by the window on a hot summer day. Can't remember if we talked or anything. He probably said something about keeping this a secret from Annie, but I wouldn't have paid him any attention either way.

It was that good.

All I remembered him saying was the name of the plain white ice cream. And the other thing.

The one line I'd live by for the rest of my life.

I remember the sun outside was at its highest point in the sky and the heat was enough to fuck up any ice cream cone. I also remember being confused about whatever Siegfried had just said, and not bothering to figure out the meaning behind his words. They just turned into a habit.

I never went for anything else. Well, sometimes. If I was curious. Or in the mood for some adventure on my second visit to an ice cream parlor. The first was always reserved—one flavor and that was it. Just that one flavor.

So when I stopped by Vivoli for my fix nearly twenty years after my first scoop, I wasn't surprised to see the man himself stepping out of it.

Siegfried wasn't a kid—he could go anywhere he wanted. Somewhere nostalgic wouldn't have crossed my mind, sure, but he did dub this the best gelateria in all of Florence so I wouldn't exactly attribute his visit to sentiment or memory.

I stopped, holding off the approach and taking a couple of steps back into an alley. My boy followed.

If Siegfried paying a visit to Vivoli didn't surprise me, the next thing did. He held the door open for someone behind him and they stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was Du Bellay.

Wouldn't be surprised if she ended up the token best chef on the show with a great edit; her being the chief producer's sous chef was reason enough to guarantee a top five, at least. The Mavs were talking about contestants on shows doing the dirty. Getting into the good books of someone on the production team (or one of the judges) and supposedly increasing their chances of landing a spot in the finals.

Du Bellay being Siegfried's sous chef was her advantage. Being someone's personal idiot on the other hand, called for legal proceedings, higher standards, stricter rules, and the occasional arrest warrant.

Wouldn't have it any other way.

I waited for them to turn the bend before stepping out of the alley and heading into the store. Joined the line. Got the usual. Here, it was spelled Vaniglia.

I asked if they were okay with Chicken sitting with me in the store and they gave me the green. We sat at the same window seat, the one I recalled from twenty years back, looking out and watching people pass. Coffee in hand. Birds in the sky. Clouds. Flowers hanging from a streetlamp, swaying in the breeze.

Felt, then, a tad bit surreal. Cool word, huh. Picked it up from the real genius. He said it means... something like a dream. Here I was, in another part of the world. Some place far. Doing the same thing I'd been doing for years; just getting the usual.

The light was angled now. Slightly below the roofs with a glow that would soon settle with the coming of night. I watched it fade; waiting for a taste of the flavor I missed.

Somewhere in the distance, the sound of winter.

*

"Schiacciata! Mortadella, burrata, pesto. Only seven euro. Come try."

Feeling a tad restored after my fix at Vivoli's, I brought my boy for a short walk to the Mercato Centrale—the city's central food market with a selection of fresh produce, local specialties, and stalls selling ready-to-eat classics like lampredotto. Pizza. Pasta.

Ten seconds in the market hall was enough for Chicken to achieve celebrity status, surprising everyone on his best behavior while I checked out the city's comfort food and nabbed free samples. Not all border collies do well with unfamiliar environments, but an innate curiosity and need for stimulation meant that new experiences were welcome. For years, my buddy had stuck to a general routine that followed mine: firefighting and sleep. At his age, somewhat halfway through his lifetime, enjoying a life of retirement was the way to go.

"Sample for you, bonazzo?" I stopped by a specialty store selling bottles of handmade pesto and the guy manning the counter held out a ribbon of pesto farfalle on a toothpick.

I wasn't exactly the biggest fan of bow-tie pasta but not gonna lie, the pesto on it altered my brain chemistry. Not many things do.

In the back, a small elderly woman added fresh basil leaves to a stone bowl of nuts. Then, she picked up what looked like a rod and started pounding it. A pestle and mortar. Back in culinary school, pesto recipes called for a food processor; blending the ingredients instead of crushing or grinding them up.

The thought of making a small purchase crossed my mind. Annie would appreciate a bottle of that in her fridge. Turns out, the 'best before' date wasn't going to make the cut with three months of filming to go, so I ended up with a mortadella schiacciata—packed with burrata, rocket, and some of that class pesto I needed to have again someday.

Touring the market, we came across store owners who offered more samples in exchange for Chicken interaction. Everyone was in love with him. Chefs, farmers, locals, tourists; everyone stopped by to say hi. And since my buddy had three times the social battery I had, he didn't mind. He made it easy to get around; small talk with store owners about the specials they had on their menus, picking up bits and pieces of Italian cuisine from their perspective. Getting a lay of the land.

One place stood out.

A quiet store with just two garden tables underneath a vintage awning. It was dark out by the time I chanced upon it, stepping out of the market hall and down cobblestone streets only to get caught by the rain. We doubled back for shelter and the empty store with warm garden lamps against a red brick wall felt like the place to be.

It was the smell of food.

Savory and rich; the sort of aroma wafting out of someone's house before dinnertime, at the setting of the sun. The first thing on the handwritten blackboard menu above the sign was Risotto allo Zafferano. Their signature dish, according to the teen manning the front. Standing a couple of feet away in front of the burner was an old man firing my order.

I watched. Couldn't help it; his technique was nothing like the stuff Siegfried had me learn. Instead of stirring the rice with a spatula for an even cook, the man used no such thing. With a flick of his wrist, the risotto moved like a wave in his pan—rippling. Like the ocean lapping against an island shore.

One of the simplest dishes in Italian cuisine, and yet, the hardest to master.

On paper, risotto was nothing special. Just rice and broth; cooked to perfection. Common recipes found in every restaurant outside of Italy made up my curriculum back home. The classic Risotto al Parmigiano. Wild mushroom Risotto. White truffle. Standard stuff. Even in school, they made us learn the same recipe and practice the same technique.

The risotto in the chef's pan was a striking shade of yellow. Milanese.

Saffron was what gave the dish its signature color but everything else about it was a mystery. Would've been nice to ask the world's finest genius, but keeping up a false front of being unacquainted for professional reasons came first. Guess this was the kind of feeling I'd have to get used to for the next couple of weeks; within reach but also, beyond.

I sat at one of the tables with Chicken by my side, and that was when the teen behind the counter came by with a glass of water, asking to pet my dog. I gave him the green and over his shoulder, caught the chef in the kitchen looking at us before averting his gaze, passing the back of his hand over his eyes.

"Where you come from?"

The question stumped me. It wasn't strange or all that unexpected as a tourist, but for some reason, I didn't know what to say. Technically, we'd flown here from London. The city I'd spent a third of my life in so far. Before that, it was five years in New York with Siegfried, and before that, with Annie, it was...

"I don't know." I ended up saying with an honest laugh. The teen returned it. "He's from London, though." Our attention went to my border collie enjoying scratches under his chin.

"Very good boy." He rubbed Chicken's back and all around. "Nonno had a dog too but she died."

"..." The dog or Nonno? I went with silence.

"So now he cry when he see dog." The kid smiled, looking over his shoulder. "Everytime."

I caught on. Nonno was his grandfather; and the chef firing my risotto was the very man he was talking about.

The sound of the rain drumming on the awning began to soften, muted by the aroma in the air and the boy's laughter as his granddad called for service, gestures in the air. Sheepish.

Our eyes met. Mine and the chefs. I nodded once. He nodded back.

Arborio rice. Creamy. Glistening. Saffron threads. Beef stock. Marrow. Butter. Parmesan. The flavor put me in the middle of someone's home after a nine to five on a Monday evening. Simple home cooking—the solution to all things at the end of a long day.

"The way your grandpa makes risotto," I told the kid while he played with my dog. "It's different."

"Like this?" He mimed the act of shaking a pan, just like the chef did.

"Yeah, that. How does he do it?"

"All'onda mantecatura." He turned to the old man cracking open a bottle of wine behind the counter, shouting across in Italian. His grandpa snorted a laugh, beckoning with his free hand. "He show you." Both of them nodded before the kid held open the swinging flap separating the kitchen and the dine-in. "Come! I play with dog."

Not in a million years did I expect this turn of events. All I wanted was a chill night out with Chicken, a lay of the land, some gelato, and dinner to fill my appetite—that was it. But you know what?

I stepped into the kitchen and picked up an empty pan. The old man checked my grip, nodded, and began to demonstrate. There was no talking. No instructing. No nothing. Just watching, and learning.

Something clicked as the night went on in that quiet corner of the cobblestone street, lit by warm lights of the store and nothing else.

Maybe. 

Just, maybe.

I could get used to this.

What Annie really meant when she said it was time I learned; after all, the world was full of kitchens. And so maybe, the little lion might just learn to love some of them.