A/N: I had an absolute blast writing 12.2K words of flirting. This entire chapter is truly meant for Valentine's and by god, do I get annoyed with these two for taking over my brain in the middle of a meeting and proceeding to leave a maniac smile on my face for the next two minutes. 

Oh and I sincerely apologize for the delay. I spent a week in Guangzhou and it was amazing. I can't wait to write the China challenges. It is such a privilege to be able to see these places I write about in person. Perhaps one day, I'd visit Florence and Paris. 

This chapter has quite a bit of French in it, and so for your convenience, I am including a translation of what is being said as an in-line comment by the side. And if French is your native language, feel free to correct me any time! I am most definitely no expert. I did, however, spend a lot of time researching for this chapter. I hope you like it.

Bon appétit.

___________________

[Vanilla]

"Young man," I said upon complete malfunction, collecting myself only after a moment's pause and maintaining a general disposition of kalm. "What are you doing?"

"Asking you if I should kneel."

Instantly, I had in me the urge to combust into a flurry of sparks and address the idiot by his name in full for his disappointing, appalling lack of character development. Think, Vanilla. Just how many times has this man thrown you off in front of an audience with his distinctively heinous diction as though the two of you exist in a whole other realm independent of reality? Sue him already.

"Amelia, look. No space for Jesus." Chef Pao had a hand over his mouth in private amusement but despite his attempt at lowering his voice, the entire in-car dining area was well within earshot.

Because all of a sudden, everyone wanted to be paired with a judge on the panel.

"I'd pick Pao if I were you." "Streisand ran Le Pré Catelan for two years." "How is getting paired with a judge considered unlucky?" "It's practically cheating." "White's a critic. He's bound to get special treatment at restaurants." "Can't we choose more judges?" "I'm calling dibs on Chef Streisand." "Oh... I was going to pick her." "I'd like Chef Pao!"

"Mavericks, please." Chef Streisand cut all conversations short while her counterpart snacked on imaginary popcorn in his arms, completely absorbed. "This isn't a dating show. All Masters here are equally equipped to impart valuable culinary knowledge, and yes, everyone has preferred personalities they get along with but in the kitchen, choice is a rare privilege. Learning to adapt, compromise, and tolerate is all part of the process."

"Cinder," Pao shuffled over for a comedic beat. "Do you take—oop, I mean. You, uh... didn't let me finish! Unlike the other pairs, judges don't get extra budget on top of your own. Hundred euros; that's it. Just a companion, you know? Not another chef."

His words silenced earlier complaints about unfairness because all of a sudden, it was clear that willingly picking one of the judges over a Master was equivalent to shooting oneself in the foot.

"I'll take company."

Alas. Leroy Cox had the audacity to agree in a heartbeat, gaze returning to mine and still, holding out the rose he was given. Aside, both Chef Pao and Chef Streisand egged me on with bated breath. He waited.

"... Ridiculous," my eyes refused to meet his for more than a second. Nevertheless, our fingers brushed as I accepted the single red flower—fully bloomed. "I expect you to be on your best behavior."

A smirk crossed his features as he heard these words as though itching to complete this terrifying interaction of ours with a staggering crime. It was unfortunately infectious. Somehow, I felt myself fight the laughter threatening to surface.

"Ay not yet boys." Pao came between us like a parent on high-alert. "I know, Banilla is young, clever, and very beautiful but you cannot just pick and go! Tell us why you choose him. Better be good."

Good heavens, I panicked at once, glancing between Leroy and the judges expecting, quite frankly, the worst. Media training? Public image? TV etiquette? This man had none. Saying something completely out of hand like he always does, without a care in the world, would not surprise me one bit. After all, I'd had my fair share of experiences with this personal idiot of mine; the only way forward was to give him a look of warning and cross my fingers.

In front of twenty-or-so cameras and without looking away from his subject (me, unfortunately) he said: "... He speaks French."

So relieved I was that I actually considered delaying his arrest. Thank goodness he heeded my warning.

"Ay, yes. True!" Chef Pao nodded with his hands behind his back. "I cannot speak French. And Amelia... Amelia, how is your French?" He turned to Chef Streisand and all tension in the air eased upon his redirection of the conversation as Leroy returned to his spot amongst the row of Mavericks.

Nevertheless, a single glance his way was enough to tell me all that I needed to know: spending the rest of the day in the company of an illegal existence meant many crimes to be witnessed first hand.

Simply put, I was tragically excited.

The idea was a distraction, rendering the entire matchmaking process between the Masters and Mavericks completely null while thoughts of us spending all afternoon and evening on the streets of Paris taking in the sights brewed in my head.

How many years has it been since then? Since that leap of faith I'd taken—supported, thankfully, by Ruth Wells, my supervisor at the New York Times—to lead research ventures elsewhere across the seas; the culinary capital of the world, Paris.

Three months of work and solitude.

Back then, I was in the process of laying the foundations for GLACÉ, necessary for any nineteen-year-old looking to start a business of their own. After all, stakeholders and investors weren't going to pay just any ambitious teen precious attention. Besides the occasional spike in readership on my reviews every now then, the Times had extended a contract-based position as a columnist. Naturally, I accepted. In fact, my connection to The New York Times made reaching out to experts and professionals much, much easier. Surprisingly enough, I'd even started to receive offers to collaborate on research projects I had no knowledge of.

Still. I'd be lying if I said I never once imagined the comfort of company across a table for two.

Every dining establishment I had the honor of visiting had been filled with parties of two or more, chatting for hours on end, sharing the latest gossip about the new neighbor upstairs or an old friend from school; conversations over a glass of wine. A cup of hot chocolate out on the terrace.

Inherently, the city of love had a singular cultural perspective on food and dining—one that was deeply ingrained. Meals were a shared experience; social, and pleasurable. Regarding breakfast, lunch, and dinner as quick, functional necessities out of the need for sustenance was frowned upon.

At least years ago, this was very much the case.

Presently, instructed to split into our chosen pairs for the rest of the two-hour ride for an eventful 'planning phase' in separate carriages on the upper deck, I was about to experience the most unique version of 'cultural perspective' in Paris: Food with an idiot.

"Ah, bay seating." I noticed as soon as we arrived at the front-most area of carriage two, tailed by a small pre-assigned group of cameramen. "Thank goodness."

The mere prospect of sitting side by side had me shockingly afraid. Just imagining it seemed all too intimate; shoulders barely an inch apart with the sheer width of his and and and all that leaning in whenever he spoke, gaze following mine with his head angled sideways. Even if viewers were oblivious enough to think us strangers with a penchant for banter, I wouldn't last a minute under such blatant... blatant a-affection, I suppose.

Alas. Sitting across one another with a table between was not as crime-free as I'd expected. Just what are those legs?!

"You prefer this?"

The idiot's unbearably long limbs crowded mine under the table, crossing imaginary boundaries and and and rubbing against the material of my dress pants while I swatted my rose in his direction. After all, he wasn't the only tall person around who required decent legroom. I was plenty superior; vertically, yes. Leroy was simply... exceptionally superior-er.

"Well I thought I did. My mistake." I stroked Leo in my arms as we shot him a look of warning. Double the authority, now.

"This is pre-game before the main event in two hours." He tapped his watch with a smirk and more rose-swats were due.

"I'm quite disappointed, really. You didn't sing an entire list of my praises trying to court me considering what a popular pick I turned out to be." "I'll court you now if you like." "I—no. That's not what I meant." "What else could Mr. White have meant?" "Oh stop calling me that. I-it's a tad embarrassing actually." "What should I call you, Vanilla?" "..." "..." "... Tu me rends fou." "..." "..." "..." "Why have you gone quiet?" "That was hot." "Leroy!"

The accidental slip had me turning to the small camera crew across the aisle in a moment of fluster.

"Goodness, look what I just did. His real name... sorry about that. It, um, renders the entire sequence unusable, doesn't it?"

"We could just beep that out, really," said one of them from behind his cinecam, clearly amused by the odd nature of our back-and-forth.

I held up a hand. "I'd rather you delete that, Harrison. Please. They wouldn't use something like that in the final cut, it's far too unserious. Doesn't add to anything at all."

Harrison glanced at the other crew member with a pair of headphones over her ears. "I mean... that's fair an' all but... do you two know each other? From, y'know. Somewhere else."

An assistant producer joined us midway as the pair fiddled with their cinecams, fortunately too late to notice the missing take that, thankfully, hadn't been recorded on her shotlist.

"We went to school together. Just like I did with Chef Tenner," I responded calmly. Nothing but the truth! Yet, the moment I wandered close to the flame of a candle, I saw in them flickers of amusement. Clearly, someone was having the time of his life.

"Yeah. Except he hates me."

"... Yes! Yes. Yes, I do."

"Had to say it three times."

Before we could embarrass ourselves any further, I produced a notepad from my briefcase to start us down the path of official business: planning an itinerary according to our budget. After all, a hundred euros in a city like Paris would not go very far especially at dinnertime.

"You will be doing most of the eating," I said to Leroy, listing several iconic dishes in French cuisine (most of which, he was well aware, except I couldn't possibly out him as a knife-wielding two-year-old) and a suggested dining spot for each. "Is there anything in particular that piques your interest?"

"Haute is out of the question," he pointed out correctly. "Fine dining would blow that in two dishes."

"Precisely! Well, we don't necessarily have to spend a ton of money for good food in Paris, you know. The city is best explored spontaneously. With the right company, it... comes alive." I finished quietly, glancing down at my notepad before going back up to meet his gaze.

"... With the right company, everything does."

Cue rose-swats. "I—that—yes, but. Well, yes. I see what you mean. Moving on." I cleared my throat. "To make the most out of your budget, I suggest we pay a visit to every type of restaurant in the local food scene. A bouillon, a bistrot..."

"Brasserie. Café."

"Yes! Exactly. Perhaps even a marché, if you'd like to take a look at Parisian street food." I drafted four primary spots on the itinerary, mapped out according to distance and travel time. "We'll cater to your preferences."

"That's not how it works." He placed a hand on my notepad; relaxed and casual enough not to seem overbearing or instructive in any manner. "We'll split. Show me two of your top picks in Paris. I'm happy with street food and someplace with hot chocolate."

I paused, taking in the look in his eyes before writing down the first two establishments that came to mind. "... I see your palate hasn't changed."

"Crew always said the best hot chocolate was in Paris..."

Already, I could imagine Zales and her girlfriend spending a pleasant evening in the city. In fact, Violet said something about wishing... ah. Nevermind. "Well, they're not wrong."

"Score." Leroy produced his phone from his back pocket to input our listed options into Google Maps but I was a step ahead—outlining train lines and station names from memory. "... Guess you're a walking map too."

He watched as I drew a rough sketch of the city, complete with landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, the Louvre, and the Seine river.

"Unfortunately, transport isn't covered for this short excursion. Still, I don't see a problem with taking the Metro or walking from place to place. Palais Garnier is a ten-minute walk from Bouillon Chartier over here... and Marché Grenelle, just twenty minutes by Metro line eight. It, um, may sound intimidating, but... here. Spare transport cards. I used to collect them. Don't ask why." I handed out rechargeable Navigo cards to my partner for the day and the small camera crew.

"Do you... perhaps, have any questions? About anything."

"Yeah," Leroy looked up from the itinerary and straight at me. "What can I do for you?"

"... Sorry?" I did a double take, startled by the unexpected question. Are the places pet-friendly? How far is the market from the hotel? What's the budget looking like? These were the sort of questions within my realm of simulated conversations. His, on the other hand, caught me by surprise.

"You just did all the planning and I didn't even have to lift a finger," he said. "Can I at least give you a ride from place to place?"

"There is no car to drive." "I'll carry you on my back." "Th-there is no need for that." "You prefer the front?" "There is no preference." "That's not a no..."

"I assure you, it is." I cursed the look in his eyes—one I so adored.

In truth, I was quietly pleased. Gentle strokes of a candle flame warmed from the inside out; this was his roundabout way of expressing appreciation without coming off condescending or overly concerned for my wellbeing. For all intents and purposes, Leroy was taking this learning opportunity set up by the production team very seriously. Much so beyond my expectations. Signs of excitement, however small, sparked the contagious urge to toss all responsibilities of this being work out the window, amused and endeared by this side of him that I so missed. Curiosity borne out of a love for adventure and the unknown.

All of a sudden, the cameras Leroy never really liked as a child didn't seem to matter very much. Both to him and to me.

"But... if there was one thing I'd appreciate, well... you could take care of the pickpockets, I suppose."

"... Sure." He didn't seem to have expected that either. "Personal experience?" He added, almost as though he could read the memories in my head that decided to play as soon as I brought this up.

"Well. Nearly, yes. Apparently, they're extremely skilled at devising ways to distract their targets. Tourists and locals alike! Happens in most big cities in Europe, really. So um... I'd appreciate it if you paid extra attention to our surroundings while I'm occupied with navigation."

"Sounds like the perfect honeymoon."

I couldn't help but hide a laugh—because somehow, Leroy was the only idiot in the world who could sound even more foolish when he was serious about something.

_____________

Our first stop after dropping our bags at the hotel and leaving the little ones with two set assistants was Bouillon Chartier in Montmartre. Coincidentally enough, Chef Sparrow and his chosen partner, Chef Du Bellay, along with the former's interpreter, were headed in the same direction to Bouillon Julien a couple of streets down. As such, we were lucky enough to hitch a ride in Chef Du Bellay's estate car, a transport privilege provided only to toque bearers her and Chef Saito. Our small camera crew of three (Harrison and Taylor, alongside an assistant producer) were happy to tag along.

"So, uh... what are bouillons, exactly?" Sparrow's sister asked as she signed, slowing down to pronounce the new French word she'd learned. "Something like a diner?"

"Yes. But also, not quite," Chef Du Bellay attempted an answer before altogether turning my way. "Vanilla might have a better explanation in mind. Sometimes, the perspective of a local gets in the way of seeing things from a different point of view. To me, bouillons are... bouillons."

Pronounced boo-yong, these restaurants were the definition of a classic Parisian dining experience. Essentially, these were the city's earliest form of fast food chains that existed more than a century before McDonalds, serving high quality traditional French food at an affordable price. And what better way to start an introduction to Paris than breaking the most common stereotype and myth by sending our companions into the thick of every working-class Parisian's lunchtime rush?

"That's one hell of a line." Leroy said under his breath as we joined the back of the queue, watching as the assistant producer of our three-man production crew headed in to acquire filming rights in the establishment.

"We're in luck, actually," I smiled up at him. "This is short for Chartier's standards. Most bouillons don't do reservations at all; you'd be surprised how fast they clear a line like this."

He raised a brow in question, angling his head sideways to meet my gaze with doubt in his eyes.

"Bad news, everyone." The assistant producer returned with signed papers for image rights and a pained expression. "No room for cameramen. It's packed in there and they can't have us hoarding a table for five with a bill for two, so. Harrison, switch out their mics with long-distance transmission ones. Taylor, you have the action cams?"

Within a minute, Leroy and I were handed a compact, palm-sized camera each. The kind you'd see tourists and travelers carrying around for an eventual vlog-style video.

The look in the idiot's eyes told me all that I needed to know. Ah, the ignorance. He must think this a walk in the park; a fun little excursion for just the two of us! Alone at our table, finally. Alas, Leroy had not the slightest clue what he was in for and inside, I was ecstatic to witness a proper show. One that would have him shaken to the core.

Past the revolving doors came the instant hit of the Parisian lunchtime buzz; noise that traveled across the room in leaps and bounds, filling the abundance of space created by soaring high ceilings.

As we waited for the head server to attend to us, I could not help the urge to observe every bit of curiosity in my companion's eyes as he took in the sights and sounds of an iconic bouillon.

"What do you think?" I asked, leaning into his shoulder.

"Not what I expected," he concluded. "It's like a huge diner, but fancy. Tables are inches apart and turnover's fast."

"Well noted." I smiled. "The ambience is one-of-a-kind—Belle Époque. Since the 1890s."

The head waiter spotted us as he returned to the host stand, meeting my gaze with a generous smile.

"Bonjour, monsieur," I greeted first. "Une table pour deux, s'il vous plaît."

"Mais bien sûr, monsieur. Ah... je vous reconnais! Vos cheveux ont poussé—ils sont très longs, maintenant."

I blinked twice, pausing a little. "Je suis flatté. Peut-être ai-je laissé une impression... une bonne, j'espère."

"Mais évidemment! On ne vous oublie pas ici, monsieur. Et puis... la dernière fois, vous étiez venu seul—je vous avais installé avec sept autres convives!" He laughed, gesturing for us to follow before glancing over his shoulder with a wink. "Ce midi, vous êtes mieux accompagné."

Flustering in the middle of a packed bouillon was not on my checklist. Fortunately, my aforementioned companion was not fluent in French. Though unfortunately, he was sharper than the average criminal; hence, the sideway smirk, coupled with an eyebrow raise.

"Oh be quiet."

"Didn't say a word."

We were shown to a table meant for six, of which four seats were occupied by a group of lively tourists chatting in English. The head waiter gestured to the printed paper menu on the side of the table, turned over our water glasses, and left promptly to serve the next group of guests.

Needless to say, Leroy stared after him.

"This is our table," I said, musing privately at his reaction, referring to the two empty seats at the end of the six top.

"... Here?"

I pulled out the chair on his side of the table before settling in the one right across. "Yes. Part of the dining experience at bouillons include the tradition of sharing one's table with other guests." I turned to the four tourists seated at our table, smiling politely. "Good afternoon."

My companion sat, reflecting the amusement in my eyes. "Could've given me a heads up."

"One could say I took a leaf out of your book and opted for a dashing surprise," I returned wryly. He looked up from the menu and straight at me with an indecent finger, providing a simple form of entertainment for our American guests seated beside. In fact, so entertained they were, that they began striking up a conversation about our tiny cameras and the microphones clipped to our clothing.

"Is this for Netflix?" "I've seen you somewhere. Can't remember exactly but hey, mind if I get an autograph?" "Your friend's a strapping lad." "Where you guys from, anyway?"

I kept a close eye on Leroy's disposition, wholly aware of his introversion and general distaste for excessive social interaction. He surprised me with spontaneous answers that, however short, kept the conversation going with the additional company at our table. Perhaps being thrown off from the get-go allowed him some room for curiosity and a novel experience—expectations somewhat abandoned.

"He's the expert bringing me around." He caught my gaze and offered two words under his breath: "First date."

While, yes, I prayed his voice was low enough not to be picked up by the mics, I could not help but feel awfully amused by his lack of restraint. And penchant for falsehood. Clearly, this was not our first date.

Still, in case the noise and cramped foreign environment proved a little too much for his first experience dining as a local in Paris, I extended my legs under the table just enough to brush against his own. A small gesture of my presence. Physical company, I-I suppose.

The idiot proceeded to smirk at his menu.

Mind you, it was upside down. And in French.

He decided on the steak frites and a classic bouillon-style egg mayonnaise (priced at just two euro per serving) to share while I opted for the oven baked bream with greens.

Again, I watched the look in his eyes go blank the moment our server came by to take our order and true to Bouillon Chartier tradition, wrote our dishes straight onto the disposable tablecloth before us instead of producing a fancy notepad or tablet. I raised a glass of water to my lips to hide a smile while he glanced my way and noted the amusement in my eyes.

Interesting, he mouthed. And when our shared appetizer arrived within mere seconds of our waiter disappearing, he could not help but laugh.

"It's like they're telling you to eat and get the fuck out."

"Not your usual impression of French dining, is it?" I helped myself to half the egg after serving Leroy his.

"Complete opposite."

"Would you come again?"

"... With the right company, sure."

I felt his legs shift underneath the table and flinched at the entanglement of limbs. Alas, a budding trend.

"I see you've... taken a liking to small tables," I pointed out upon clearing my throat and collecting thoughts of panic. After all, my companion was a professional at making the most out of our twenty minutes without a camera crew.

"Could be smaller."

The food and prices at this bouillon were exactly as I remembered; extreme value for both quality and quantity. The only difference was having someone seated across me pick another item on the menu and hence, a greater variety to tasting. It certainly did not help that he was awful at conversations. Or a terrible distraction in general.

"Solid four, I think," was what he concluded after watching our server add up our bill on the table cloth he'd written our order on without the use of a calculator. Complete mental gymnastics, or so Leroy called it. I nearly forgot the state of his grades in Accounting Basics. "Twenty-five for all that?"

"Unexpectedly high!" I noted as we headed out the revolving doors and instantly, the indoor noise disappeared altogether. "You're surprisingly lenient, aren't you?"

"I get it, you're hard to impress."

"Oh be quiet, I never said that."

"Personal experience." He teased with the slightest smirk on the edge of his lips, right before we were joined by Harrison and crew. "Where next?"

"Marché Grenelle," I said after checking off the first box on our list and confirming the quickest route on my phone. "Eighteen minutes and you'll be enjoying your favored form of dining."

"Someone knows me too well."

"Technically, I need your guard lowered after the first culture shock," I corrected. "It's rather tactical, really; bring you to somewhere familiar before presenting yet another unexpected surprise for enhanced impact. Rinse and repeat!"

He snorted a laugh, quietly switching places with me on the sidewalk so that he was adjacent to the road while I busied myself with updates from the production team on my phone—herding me every now and then like a guard dog on duty.

The market I suggested was street food heaven spanning the entire distance between two metro stations on line six, right around the corner from the Eiffel Tower. Just like most markets in Europe, independent stands packed with vintage clothing, pre-owned handbags, and jewelry could be found slotted between mouthwatering selections of pre-made hot foods and boxes of organic fruits and vegetables.

Our options were endless.

"Seventy-six euros remaining," said the assistant producer as she handed us a Kitchen Atlas branded zipper pouch that contained the rest of our budget.

Already, Leroy had his eyes fixed on the row of stalls lining both sides of the street underneath the metro tracks, scanning the displays and every sign in French. "They got a shit ton of stalls to choose from."

"Ah. The paradox of choice," I remarked.

"... Yeah, that. Whatever it means." He laughed under his breath at my supposedly 'posh' diction, which I proceeded to respond to by presenting my best Violet-approved eyeroll. "A professional opinion, Mr. White?"

I paused to string several thoughts in my head, allowing an idea to take shape.

"Well. It's not entirely original, but I do like the sound of a mutual exchange. An interesting little activity for um, lov—people. Yes. People acquainted with one another. Essentially, we split up, pick something we think the other may like, and rejoin to share our spoils! Rather fun and exciting, don't you think? Eliminates the paradox of choice by having someone else choose in your place."

If you must know, the suggestion stemmed from a novel experience binge watching, for the first time, a Japanese dating show while Violet and I were based in New York and Si Yin came by for a week's worth of vacation. The latter had expounded the wonders of watching eight men (who were attracted to other men) live together under the same roof and run a coffee truck on the side whilst going on occasional dates that, um, included activities like the one I'd suggested. Overall, a very wholesome watch. And sometimes quite scandalous! After all, most dating shows guaranteed some form of 'spice', or so Si Yin confirmed. Violet's initial sentiments in the first five minutes had been: This is so boring. How are they allowed to run a coffee truck? Look at the state of that latte. By the end of the first episode, she was the first to reach for the 'next episode' button.

"Sounds fun." I watched my companion's eyes flicker at the suggestion—a sign of incoming misconduct. "One serving of coriander, then."

"Y-you wouldn't!"

"Sautéed or steamed?"

"Neither."

"... Raw."

"No no, none of that," I said in panic. "Dietary restrictions are a thing, yes? No red meats, if you please."

"So coriander's still in the picture..."

I gave him a look of warning. It merely doubled his amusement. But while the look on his face spelled trouble, it was clear that the endless irresistible food options lined up meant serious business. I presented him a ten-euro bill and another for myself before we agreed to part ways.

"You know what I like."

"Yes. I'm glad you are aware of how incredibly simple-minded you are. I reckon five minutes is all I'll be needing." He took that personally; which, of course, was well within my expectations. The invitation to a challenge was wholly intentional. Thus, I headed straight for the fried chicken.

"Bonjour monsieur. Un cornet d'aiguillettes de poulet, s'il vous plaît." Then, after some thought, added: "Bien croustillant, si possible... merci."

French-style chicken tenders; marinated in an interesting combination of mustard and milk. Coated with a traditional, popular breakfast cereal crust made from toasted flakes of corn they call pétales de maïs, and fried in graisse de canard. Then finally, served with lemon-herb aioli and homemade French mayonnaise. Quiet, clean, and simple.

An unwavering confidence in the delicious. And, clearly, the undeniable choice for chicken addicts like a certain idiot.

While the cameras fed on B-roll of cornflake-crusted tenders turning golden brown in the fryer, I wandered a stall down to an old couple with trinkets laid out on their tabletop. Since no one had noticed I'd slipped away, my attention was allowed the time and space to take interest in things I wouldn't ordinarily have paid any heed to.

A collection of toy cars. Vintage.

Every model crafted to perfection—meticulously painted in a way that felt like they weren't meant to be children's playthings in the first place. Amongst them, a single model caught my eye: a firetruck with a missing ladder. It stood out in the collection of dark, classic colors, ostensibly red and oddly enough, the only one with an imperfection. A perfect gift for a certain someone.

__________________

[Leroy]

My first thought was to get him something sweet. Crepes. Pain suisse. Some kind of dessert for a tease but a couple of food stands in and I started to see why he hadn't had any planned on our list of stops.

It was me.

Hot chocolate was an exception since I was the one who requested it, but imposing anything else on my palate could draw unnecessary attention to my condition I'd been trying to keep private. It was like him to gauge my level of comfort at all times without me even having to say a word.

"Why is he avoiding red meat, you reckon?" The cameraman tailing me threw out casually while I paused to look at a specialty stand selling escargots. "Is that a critic thing?"

As far as I knew... "Don't think so. But taking care of his gut is part of the job."

Come to think of it, he barely touched my dish at Chartier even though he practically let me have half of his fish and greens. If red meat was off-limits, a vegetarian dish was going to be my safest bet.

"A galette for you, monsieur?" A man said as I stopped by his crepe stand with two heated griddles cooking up layers of paper-thin batter. The handwritten menu on the counter was split into a top and bottom half; sweet and savory. Crepes and what they called Galettes Bretonnes.

Never had one.

"Bonjour." He would have laughed at that one. But not greeting someone here first was placing a vendetta on one's head, so. When in Rome. "Those look good. What do you recommend?"

"Thank you, monsieur! This one is my favorite," said the owner, holding up a quarter-sliced cheese wheel and pointing to the vegetarian option on his menu. "I like to add to it this Gruyère. My mushrooms, freshly picked. Vegetables, seasonal. Tomato and spinach."

He had me sold on cheese. A savory crepe would surprise the genius waiting for my return (knowing him, he'd decide on something for me in two minutes flat) and so I figured, why not.

It was after receiving the folded pocket of perfection, piping hot in a paper cone, that I made my way back to the spot we agreed on earlier and, without thinking twice, played a quick game of 'Where's Vanilla' that ended in two seconds.

"Julian? It is really you. Oh it has been so long..."

He wasn't alone.

I hung back, observing first before making any assumptions. He seemed to know the woman speaking to him so the sirens in my head cooled off for a bit but still, that didn't mean my guard was down. Scammers on the streets were great at pretending to know anyone.

"Professor Barré," he sounded surprised. Pleasantly. Like he wasn't expecting to be caught with fried chicken in his hands by another professional in the industry. "You've returned to Paris?"

He leaned down a little and she, up towards the sides of his face, closing the distance between their cheeks with two kisses. Three. Four.

"For a while, yes. I met Dr. Suresh in Quebec and you remember the joint research on culinary psychology? This is Saffron." The stranger glanced over her shoulder and waved. Another woman joined them. Just like before, she leaned in for the exact same greeting.

Didn't know what it was called, but I'd been around enough to know it was the norm in France between family, friends, and sometimes acquaintances.

"Ah. The only expert on molecular gastronomy with a pHD in cognitive psychology. Of course I remember..."

"I am honored, Monsieur White. It was a pleasure reading your paper with Dr. Knight. I was amazed by the amount of data you collected. Qualitative is... ça me prend la tête. What are you doing in Paris? Won't you... join us for coffee?"

"I... well..." He looked around. Then, met my gaze over his shoulder and flushed pink for a moment. "That, um. I would've loved to, but we're currently in the middle of a shoot, you see."

"For TV?" One of them followed his gaze. The crew with their cinecams stood a couple of feet away. "I never knew you did professional acting, Julian. It seems you excel at everything."

"Oh! Oh no, not at all. This is, well. It's a culinary competition." He beckoned with a tiny wave of his hand. I approached. "This chef is a contestant on the show. I'm sorry I'm not allowed to introduce him formally—there's been a couple of restrictions placed on identification—but if I remember correctly, we met years ago at the W-interschool. And, well, this, um, chef. He was... simply put, he was one of our best."

"I think I remember now. That is why he seemed so familiar," she extended a hand. No cheek-touch. "His looks were the highlight of that appetizer buffet challenge we struggled with, I recall."

"Ah yes. How could I forget."

They laughed and he proceeded to introduce the two women in a sentence. Uncharacteristic, because usually he'd be listing endless information about people he respected but this time, it felt like he was reluctant to let me in on who they were, exactly. Surprisingly enough, I wasn't bothered by it. Not when he had a takeout box of golden, crispy fried chicken clutched in his hands like it was prized treasure he got for someone else. Me, clearly. He'd known exactly what I would've picked.

Still.

The one thing that did bother me felt straight up like a kid in kindergarten crashing out over some candy flavor their classmate was lucky enough to land. Which is vanilla, by the way. Vanilla's the best.

"Perhaps another time, then. We must talk about your collaboration with Dr. Knight at the university. I know you stopped co-writing, but my students look up to you quite a bit. References, footnotes; you're in every citation."

I get it. It's part of the culture. They do it all the time.

Might as well ask him to show me how it's done and maybe pretend we're meeting for the first time every two minutes.

"That must be incredibly boring to read... but then again, the lack of research in the area of study would have contributed to the seeming popularity of our research. But, thank you, professor. I'm glad we crossed paths today."

If you couldn't already tell, brains don't exactly listen to reason all the time. Sometimes, red was blue and blue was green. Used to happen a lot but firefighting and growing up made the candles a little less resistant to the wind; so I guess you could say I wasn't feeling too good.

About being jealous over a greeting.

"À bientôt, Julian." They waved, leaving the square.

He turned to me. "Sorry about that. I-I wasn't expecting... like I said, we worked on several research projects back then, and I met the professor and her peers at Ferrandi institute in person for the first time." He glanced at the cameras. "I could tell you more later, if you'd like."

"Not if this gets cold." I held out the galette and watched his eyes light up. "Vegetables. Mushroom. Gruyère."

"Oh...! I'm, well, impressed, really." He handed me the kraft box of chicken tenders. Inside, a traditional French mayo dip packed in a lidded cup. "Yours. Parisian-style tenders coated in pétales de maïs. I hope you like it—I mean, I'm... confident you will. And thank you, for this."

He bit into the top of his crepe and somehow managed to look like royalty savoring a slice of pizza.

I dug into mine. The crunch was something else. A simple marinade; effortless flavors, done just right. We swapped after two bites of each. Then, maybe it was the silence, or a matter of intuition, but he seemed to notice the shift in the air.

"... Was I wrong? Do you um, perhaps, not like it after all?"

"It's good," I told him, but the words died there. I had no fucking clue what to elaborate on. "How's yours?"

His next bite was a nibble. "I am very pleased with it. Were you considering a sweet crepe instead of a savory one?"

"... Maybe." I gave him a look and he returned the mischief with a brief smile of his own before it faded.

"I am partial to neither but the gruyère in this is telling me otherwise." I could tell he was trying to read the expression in my eyes. "If you're... curious about the dessert versions, we could always opt for the renowned crêpes suzette at our next destination or, um, perhaps even make a detour. The restaurants on our list aren't fixed, so... in case you're... w-well, bored, or anything, or if something isn't quite your fancy, we could always..."

"The food's great." I stepped closer, spotting a large group of tourists shoving through the crowd and moving to switch places. Sure enough, one of them shouldered me on purpose. Tried to, at least. "And I'm not bored."

"Oh, um. That's good to hear," he breathed a sigh. "Then I suppose you must be worried about your dog? We could stop by the hotel for a short break if you'd like. Plus, we're in luck; accommodations are a mere ten-minute walk from here."

The crew used to say I had a great poker face when I first joined the firehouse. Not so much after spending days and nights together all year round, twenty-four-seven, but still, Erlynn had said the same. And here he was: the world's greatest genius, defying all odds.

"The three of you shouldn't be skipping meals either," he said to production, checking the time on his watch. "We'll take thirty and rejoin at the front desk. No rush. Do text in case of emergencies."

Felt like he'd waved a wand and all of a sudden, we were alone—crossing a street to the hotel and finishing up the last of our market food along the way. No mics. No cameras.

"Go on." He glanced up at me sideways. "It's not Chicken you're worried about; that much, I can tell."

"You're so fucking sharp all the time." "Why thank you. I take pride in that. Well, at least I'd like to. That, um. That was a compliment, though, wasn't it?" "Courtship, yeah." "If we were birds in a rainforest, I'd struggle to comprehend your feathery advances." "And be attracted nonetheless." "No comment. Now out with the truth, Leroy! You're upset. Did something happen while we were apart?"

We headed past the foyer and up a flight of fancy stairs leading to the reception.

"..." I started off slow. "What's it called?"

"Surely, you're allowed to be more specific than that."

"The cheek thing. French greeting."

He blinked. "Ah. La bise. Air kisses, you mean? And touching cheeks." He slowed to a stop in front of the elevator after acknowledging the bellboy with a smile and a nod. "It's a traditional French greeting, yes. Took me more than a week here to pull off a decent one without the awkwardness of it all! Locals themselves say th—you're... you're not upset about that, are you?"

I held the elevator door open.

"I suppose you are." He worked it out under his breath. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound... patronizing o-or... well. Were you surprised by it?"

I thought about it. "Just never seen you that friendly with someone else. Caught me off guard, that's all."

"Oh..." He was quiet for a couple of floors. Then, the doors slid open. "I see why that might've... though it's never really crossed my mind that the difference could be so... jarring, I suppose. Personal space is a cultural perspective, after all. The French were raised doing la bise with friends, family, and sometimes even co-workers, so..."

We came to a stop in front of his door.

"When in Rome?"

"Yes." He hesitated. "Precisely. Although if you're uncomfortable with that, I don't wish to dismiss your point of view either. Everyone has their own opinion on physical, um, space, and, well, intimacy, so... what I'm trying to say is that I believe your thinking is completely valid and that I'd be... very willing to listen. If you'd like me to. That is."

I searched his gaze. "Not now. Think I just need some time alone. I get what you're saying though."

"Oh." His shoulders fell and instant regret hit me like a truck. "Yes, of course. I'll see you at the reception in, um. In a bit." He scanned his keycard above the reader and closed the door to his room without looking over his shoulder.

Cue fifty one-arm pushups in my room. Both sides.

"Why the fuck did I say that?" I asked my dog while he watched from the bed, staring out the window at the Eiffel Tower. His tail swished left and right.

I timed a hundred sit-ups before moving to hardstyle planks. Five sets of twenty. Then, hit the shower before heading down to the lobby. Mid-crisis, I received a text from the production assistant about the bunch of them getting called in last-minute on set for tomorrow's team challenge. No elaboration. Just instructions to grab the action cams from Harrison.

The indoor workout did nothing to clear my head.

At the very least, the next couple of hours were going to be just the two of us. Alone. Part of me felt relieved to hear the news since being able to choose when to roll the cameras and when to cut meant complete privacy but without an audience to break the ice, we had no excuses not to address the cold air.

The plan? Instant apology. That, and some massive flirting.

Frankly, apologizing was the easy part.

Wrapping my head around the concept of physical, personal space being a cultural thing on the other hand, wasn't as simple. Adapting to new environments was one thing, but boundaries weren't exactly flexible for the most part. At least to me, they weren't. All due respect to those who could see things from a different perspective; it just never occurred to me that I'd see him on the receiving end of that.

If anything, this was a me problem.

I hadn't clocked my daily two-mile run since the day before and the bursts of adrenaline from the challenges so far felt moreso psychological than physical. Being tired and restless at the same time did a number on my ability to think and I was never a thinker to begin with.

Part of me regretted turning him down on the spot, but the other half knew it needed time and space to process. Funny thing was, thirty minutes of solo processing had me by the throat; I was ready to cave. All I could think of doing was putting the brakes on whatever this was.

Except the moment I arrived at reception with the action cameras from production, he was all business, no play from the get-go.

"Thank you," he said quietly after taking the GoPro I held out, glancing at the maps he'd pulled out on his phone. "We are approximately twenty minutes away from our next stop, I believe."

It was a blizzard. Practically hailing.

Leroy Cox with the weather report, just unable to able; stealing glances at the love of his life wondering what the hell he should say and not realizing that ten minutes had passed since either of them said a word. To those on the outside thinking this was a cold war—it wasn't. I had white flags raised.

"... Leo doing okay?"

"Yes. We played in my room. Thank you for asking."

Fuck the cat, I cursed the nonexistent ability to words in me. And somehow ended up doubling down. "Must've missed you."

He glanced up at me for the first time in a while as we headed down the sidewalk. "I'd like to believe he did."

Chez Léon was third on his list of recommendations. Unlike the rest of the spots he'd written down on his notepad, this one had no additional pointers. No iconic French dishes. No specialty menu. No unique experiences. Just, bistrot.

The place was tucked away in a residential neighborhood alongside bakeries and cafes on a humble street; striped awning and terrace seats. Checkered tablecloths and a wood-framed storefront.

A man in a waistcoat did a double take the moment we came through the door. Then, he lit up.

"Monsieur Cox! Vous voilà de retour à Paris! Ça faisait longtemps... you look as beautiful as ever."

At first, I thought the guy was talking to me 'cuz logically speaking, I was the Cox between us two. Made sense in my head both realistically and grammatically, but then the owner's gaze remained fixed on winter snow to my right and so it began to click. After all, the words in English could only be applied to just one person in the room and that person's ears were turning multiple shades redder by the second.

Neurons fired. Critics had the habit of booking tables under a false name, and he'd chosen Cox.

Conclusion: MARRIAGE.

I turned to him. He refused to meet my gaze out of embarrassment.

"Monsieur Carême... e-oui. Je suis à Paris pour quelques jours, pour le travail. Pardonnez-moi d'être venu sans prévenir." I didn't know what he was saying, but he had to pause to collect himself. "Auriez-vous, par hasard, une table pour deux?"

"For you, always." The owner beamed, picked up a handwritten menu, and gestured to follow. "Take as many pictures and videos as you like."

We were sat in the back by a window, among other patrons who filled the small, intimate space. The tiled floors and picture frames on the walls made it feel a lot more personal than our previous dining experience.

I sat across from him and caught, in 4K HD, the perfect view of his face before he hid behind the all-French menu with no pictures. Bright red.

For the next three minutes, we remained completely silent. No words.

The stuff on the menu looked like they would change every other week according to the season; priced affordably. Nothing fancy. Four mains; a couple of appetizers; two desserts. Classic French dishes they did best. I couldn't read most of it so those three minutes, I spent staring at the cursive handwriting that reminded me of a certain genius's.

Then, I heard him say from behind his menu, gaze peering over the top of it: "... Have you um, decided on an entrée? Or perhaps you require some assistance with the language...?"

I couldn't resist.

"Was wondering if Mr. Cox had any recommendations." "I—! No, that's... forget that ever happened, will you? Please. Oh stop looking at me." "The duck? Or the entrecôte." "Your legs are impossibly long. I should have requested for terrace seating so that we could sit side by side instead of, this, tangle of, limbs, that—" "I'll let him know Mr. Cox is uncomfortable." "You don't even speak French. And yes, the duck is immaculate. So is the turbot. Even the dessert..." "Something sweet for Mr. Cox?"

"Enough," he whisper-shouted under his breath in peak snowflake fluster. "I-it was a... an alias, alright? I couldn't possibly walk into every dining establishment I review booking tables under my real name, you know that!"

"Cox isn't your real name? I had no idea."

"Oh don't start. What am I saying, you've long committed to this in your head." He shook his head with a smile, returning to the menu. "Alright, Mr. Cox. You've had your fun. Shall we go with the duck and a salade parisienne to start?"

Two dishes on the menu that would set us back a little over seventeen euros. No complaints. He placed the order on our behalf and was about to hit record on the GoPro he set on the table when I stopped him.

"Hey," I leaned in. Held his gaze for a bit. "I'm sorry I messed up back there."

He froze, visibly surprised by the apology before melting in my hands. "That wasn't messing up. That was you expressing your opinion on personal boundaries, which I, understandably, should acknowledge and respect. I simply hoped we could've spoken in detail about it. But after spending some thirty minutes apart and doing some individual, um, processing, I realized I benefited from the momentary pause to think." He slowed to a stop, looking down at our fingertips that brushed briefly on the tabletop. "I'm sorry if I sounded cold."

"... I like the cold."

"Don't lie, you were panicking. I could see it in your eyes," he laughed quietly. The reflection of a lake in his eyes. "It reminded me of a much younger version of yourself at school."

I humored him. "Yeah, that was you leaving me on read; what else was I supposed to do."

"It was both extremely hilarious and awfully nerve-wracking at the same time. Your eyes were on me the entire journey here—don't think I didn't notice. Granted, I was walking with my right arm and right leg forward at the same time. Fortunately, no one witnessed that."

"I did." "... Ah. Pity. But, really? I—you didn't laugh." "Thought it was cute." "W-well, you should've seen the look on your face when I addressed you at the reception. Do you recall that incident with a... pink-haired student from another school, back then, over the winter season? I can't seem to remember his name..." "Yeah, that guy. Started crying at the doorstep of Cayenne." "Yes! Yes, him. Even from afar, I caught that look in your eyes the moment he closed the distance for a hug. I know now what that look means, well, after you explained the event years ago, I did, and to think I have the privilege of seeing it again, today! Priceless."

"Can't deal with shit like that," I snorted a laugh, hand going down my face. "It's different though. He was nobody; you're everything."

"Oh," was all he said. Quiet.

"You know I need my space."

"Yes." He nodded. "Even hugs..."

"Reserved for the best. Never did hugs with Rexi until she and Annie moved in together two years after they met."

The owner came by with bread and butter on the house. Traditional baguette, sliced. Fanned out in a basket. We thanked him.

"Indeed... I certainly see why you were so affected earlier. La bise is a naturally physical gesture, expressing tradition more than anything else. The two women are culinary researchers I came to know while spending time here in Paris. I'm sure you know and I don't have to be saying this, but perhaps just to assure you: gestures can mean entirely different things according to context. Physical proximity doesn't equate to the extent of one's relationship with another. For instance, holding hands with my godfather's children wouldn't leave me in a state of... o-of fluster and... general heart palpitations. And it took me years to return Si Yin's hugs the way she does them. Quite frankly, you're the only person I've ever been truly intimate with. Besides Uncle Al and Aunt Julie."

I stared.

What now, get on one knee? My brain was doing somersaults in a frozen lake and had zero complaints. His words left me reeling. They were there to shut down all insecurities—sharp as icicles but soft as snow.

I don't think he even registered what he actually said until I went: "... Ever?"

"That is what I said, yes," he answered quietly after clearing his throat; face, neck, and ears flushing red. "The only person. Ever."

Not in a million years was he getting away with that. "... You can't just say this and not expect me to come over tonight."

"You have a Zoom call arranged with your therapist at nine-thirty in the evening so no, I don't expect your company and yes, I checked. No further questions on that, if you will, and most importantly, tomorrow's challenge is apparently extremely taxing. Rest is essential, so. Tonight, we... we shall not convene." He concluded like a mathematician with the x's and the y's. Never knew what those equations meant.

We split the Parisian salad that was served first. Wasn't expecting pickled potatoes in cubes but they tasted great with the Emmental cheese and mushrooms; all local ingredients you'd find at a market like the one we visited.

And because we'd probably spend the rest of the day forgetting about the GoPros and actual work that needed to be done, we rolled them for a couple of minutes on the food and a story. One he had about the bistro.

"I'd come here nearly every day and they'd seat me at that counter in case I needed some company." He pointed out the rightmost barstool that had a view of the entire dining space. "I lived right across the street in a shoebox apartment on the top floor. They call it a chambre de bonne. Most times, work at the Times required, well, late nights. I was fortunate to have been tasked to review Chez Léon the first week I arrived in Paris, and... well. As you can see, I've grown incredibly fond of it since. Monsieur Carême kept his doors open till midnight for the residents in the area looking for a late-night snack."

Turns out, he wouldn't just sit at the counter nursing a cup of hot chocolate or tea because minutes later, a girl no older than twelve came to our table with the next dish and said in English: "Good afternoon monsieur! Here is your duck confit. Enjoy. Also, I got full marks on my English test last week. And four months ago, I won a story writing competition. It was in English!"

"I never doubted you, mademoiselle." He smiled and she lit up. "A story writing competition... well then, where can I read this masterpiece you wrote?"

"I have it in my room! And the trophy." She jumped on the spot and the other patrons in the bistro couldn't help but smile. "I'll go get it." She ran off.

"You are the mademoiselle's teacher she talks about," an elderly woman sitting at the table next to ours said in a thick French accent. "She says you write the best stories."

"A-ah... I... well." He deflected, glancing my way. Then, spoke softly in French. The conversation went on for a bit and I gave him the space to, watching the woman and her companion laugh and smile. Piecing things together, I eventually figured out who the young girl was.

The owner's daughter.

"I'd help her with homework on weekday evenings. We'd sit up there, with lemonade or orange juice, whichever she preferred, and complete our individual tasks separately while she waited for her father. She got to practice conversational English while I, conversational French."

"Did you ever burn out?"

He paused. "Sorry?"

"Did you burn out," I asked. "Reviewing place after place at the Times."

He slowed to a stop. Blinked twice. "... Yes, I suppose. I mean I never really thought about it in detail since laying the foundations for GLACÉ was all I really had in mind, but... novelty fatigue surprised me. I hadn't expected myself to miss homecooked meals as much as I did; and it just so happened that Chez Leon reminded me of a certain diner I frequented back when I was five years old. A place where a simple serving of fried chicken and lotus crisps felt... very much like the best meal in the world."

I stared.

Annie would've run me over with her wheelchair if I didn't propose right then and there. I took my chances.

Looking around, he was right. A small, intimate space with twelve tables max; all locals, Parisian, chatting over a cup of coffee or a glass of wine on a Sunday afternoon. Warm. Like they all crossed paths at some point in their lives and ended up here.

For a second, I thought of Leroy Cox returning home after a day at the kindergarten, opening the door to the smell of fried chicken and lotus crisps on the counter. Bringing them upstairs and sitting on the floor to boot up a game. Glancing over his shoulder to see if his friend enjoyed his mother's cooking as much as he did.

_______________

"This is it."

We came to a stop on the sidewalk outside a fancy storefront that hadn't changed one bit after all these years; including the reservation list managed by the maître d at the entrance. I turned to him.

"You're serious?"

"Well." He held it in for three whole seconds before a wry smile crossed his lips. "I did say the best beef bourguignon."

"Siegfried's?" I had my doubts.

"Chef Du Bellay's," he corrected. "But alas. It was impossible to land us a last-minute reservation without pulling any strings and as an individual of law and order, I decided against it. There. You may now breathe a sigh of relief."

I gave him the finger. "Almost had me."

Guess what he proceeded to do? Wrap a hand around that finger as though censoring it from the rest of the world and calmly redirecting the conversation elsewhere. "Instead, I'm taking you to the second best beef bourguignon in all of Paris—a charming brasserie down the street. They also happen to boast an incredible coq au vin."

"We have coq au vin at home."

"Your coq au vin is hardly traditional. Though delicious, yes, but, still. Some authenticity might help... alongside lessons on French pronunciation."

We arrived at Bofinger; another classic, according to him. Spacious dining room, stained glass dome, carpeted winding stairs leading to the upper floor and a menu of high quality staples priced surprisingly moderate for this level of posh. 'Emblematic' of Parisian food culture.

"It's not haute cuisine but really, the city is more than Michelin stars and fine dining," he said as soon as we were sat. "I recommend the signature coq au vin with Alsation Pinot Noir. And the beef, of course. Though I'm not sure if you have room for two mains... but I suppose we did walk the entire hour's journey here."

I wasn't listening.

"They have razor clams." In herb butter sauce. Under the appetizer category. "Eight per serving." All of a sudden, I was back on the beach foraging for razor clams with the world's greatest genius. Candlelit dinner. Drinks by the fire.

"..."

I looked up and it was full-on amusement from there. He'd altogether stopped functioning; hands by his sides like the standing man emoji.

"They are known for being the best beef bourguignon in Paris after Siegfried Cox."

"But razor clams."

"Leroy!" He was back to whisper-shouting. "I landed us a last-minute reservation a-and and and here you are refusing to order their specialty dish for razor clams. Also, I can't believe they have English on the menu now."

"You don't like cou-teaux-de-mer?" I butchered it on purpose.

"I have no issue with couteaux de mer." Music. "It's just... I simply thought you would've preferred to know the inside-outs of French cuisine for tomorrow's challenge. It... would very much be to your personal benefit."

"You are my personal benefit."

Done. Phrase of the night; poet of the day.

After closing his eyes, removing his glasses, rubbing his temples and then putting his glasses back on, he caved. "You are such an idiot."

His laugh was like watching the snow fall outside the window first thing on a winter morning.

I liked the place. Service was relaxed and didn't feel like we were meant to eat and get the fuck out. Unlike the rest of the tables around us enjoying their evening over a glass of wine, we didn't have any; but it sure as hell felt like one of those rosy nights on Valentine's day you'd see in the movies. The table next to ours caught a whiff of the razor clams I ordered and instantly asked what it was. I didn't need to understand French to know they were interested, and savored the look on my partner's face as the couple ordered two servings on the spot. And thanked me for offering a clam or two.

Wasn't expecting all these interactions with neighboring tables to happen today.

I always thought Paris was overrated when I was kid, seeing the side of the city Siegfried wanted me to see and finding it too snobby and posh for the real stuff. Guess he'd shown me the wrong side of the mountain. Here I was looking at the same thing, from a different perspective.

In the company of someone important.

"And there we have it—eight euros remaining," said the genius with his perfect calculations and insistence on sticking to the 'rules of the budget' set by the production team. "Splendidly planned, if I do say so myself."

It'd been approximately seven hours since we hopped off the train from Bordeaux and most other pairs had reported wrapping up for the day in the group chat; filming rights and locations all logged into a spreadsheet. He was fiddling with his camera, raising it to eye level in the same way I'd noticed him doing all day.

Sure, I shot on my days off and owned a couple of pre-owned DSLRs but I wasn't going to correct him. It was the fascination in his eyes and the ripples of excitement that took the cake. I'd never seen him like that. Except that one time at the museum back in London.

Already, I was craving more.

"It's a pity we had to leave out the best of Parisian boulangeries. I would have liked to see you try a classic croissant." He said for the second time, raising this earlier on the train while we were mapping out an itinerary. "They sell out within mere hours after opening, especially on Sundays. I'm glad you suggested dessert to end the evening."

We arrived at our last stop on the list, Café du Trocadéro, for the one beverage Paris was famous for: hot chocolate. Indulgent, rich, and cozy all at once; also apparently a cultural ritual in historic cafés out on terraces. People-watching over a warm treat.

He'd said something about this specific spot. That it wasn't as renowned as the prestigious Angelina but had a well-kept secret of its own known only by observant individuals walking down the street.

"Bonjour monsieur. Si vous avez une table en terrasse, côté ouest, ce serait parfait." Was him requesting a table on the west side of the café and five seconds later, I was staring up at the Eiffel Tower rising above the trees across the street. Lit up at night.

I looked around.

Mostly pairs seated side-by-side, nursing a drink alongside company out in the cold; sidewalk wet from the afternoon rain but still, the perfect view for private conversations.

"What do you think?"

"Genius," was all I said. He smiled sideways. "You came here all the time?"

"Twice, merely." He held my gaze. "Alone."

I stared. "... You say that a lot. Surprisingly."

"Because it's true. I came here for work and business, and... well. That was it, really," he gazed elsewhere. At something on the horizon; warm lights in the dark. "Here, places like these are... mostly enjoyed with company. Lively chatter. Quiet conversation. Spontaneous interaction. Things that reminded me of my solitude."

He paused at the interruption. Our drink, served in a porcelain cup and a side of whipped cream. I watched him pick up a teaspoon and add a dollop of cream to the hot chocolate. Stirring twice; and then, meeting my gaze.

"Here." He held the cup out. "The chocolat chaud you've been waiting for."

I searched his eyes. Then, the surface of the drink.

For a moment, I could feel the distant memory of sweetness in the back of my mind, on the tip of my tongue. An illusion that surfaced every now and then. A lie that used to keep me going until I decided to leave the kitchen behind for good.

I brought it to my lips and gulped once. Eager, almost.

There was instant feedback.

"It's bitter," I said. Frowning. "Tastes... good. I think." And because a flash of concern crossed his eyes, I added: "But too hot to drink. Will you blow on it?"

"I'm sure you are capable of doing that yourself." He took the cup and blew on it all the same. Gently. Like a flame that needed nursing.

"Somehow when you do it, the drink tastes better."

"Oh be quiet," he laughed under his breath, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "It is hot for a reason. The French like their hot food hot, and cold food cold. Contrast exists between courses, not within bites."

He sipped. "Many cuisines allow for simultaneity—hot and cold existing on the same plate—but here, they prefer progression. Trying to impose a concept like that onto any French dish would be a terrible mistake. It would only reduce it to something entirely foreign which, in your case, serves no purpose at all; especially if your cooking was meant to convey authenticity and emotion."

"So I thought I'd show you. Personally." He held out the cup once more. "What it is you're up against and the sort of trouble Cinder might find himself facing here. In Paris."

I paused and stared.

Then, couldn't stop my lips from curling.

"Wh... Why are you smirking? This is dreadful news. Tomorrow could very well be your final night here and if not, the day after. At least look worried." "Yeah I thought someone wanted me off the show." "Yes! Yes, yes. Of course that still applies and I'm glad you remember it. But, well, I... must admit, your company has been... um. Rather... very... enjoyable." "Course it is." "Oh be quiet. And stop smirking like that." "I can't."

I passed a hand over the lower half of my face, hiding the smirk he spoke so fondly of and looking straight at him. "Someone just spent seven hours bringing me around Paris to prove me wrong. You think he loves me or what?"

Instantly, his gaze shied away from mine and a bright shade of red seized his ears.

"I just—you—clearly, that someone is an idiot who should not have thought the mind of another idiot possibly changeable in any manner." He forced the cup into my hands.

"And yet, he still tried."

I tasted the drink again. Found that it'd... changed. Somewhat.

"Influenced by a fool, no doubt. Thought he'd point out the bump in the road and present him with a challenge of the century."

"Yeah it's so fucking hot when he does that."

"Nonsense..."

He waved the flag, turning away in surrender. And then (maybe because he thought I wasn't looking) smiled privately as he sipped at the cup of hot chocolate we shared in the cold. I watched.

Somewhere in the distance, lights on the Eiffel Tower. Footsteps down the sidewalk. Bistros winding down. Hushed voices turning into mist on a chilly evening that smelled like flowers and wine. Cigarettes and rain. Gazing up at the night sky; searching for stars.

I breathed him in. Him, and the moment.

"... Perhaps you were all he could think of while he dined alone in a city so big," winter snow picked up where he left off. "I imagine he might've realized then, the extent of his affection—much more than he'd ever dreamed of feeling."

He raised his gaze and smiled in the wind.

"Because yes. He probably loves you. Very much indeed."

__________________

[EXTRA: Over dinner at Bofinger]

After dinner, the critic produces a sleek, pocket-sized pill case from his bag and takes two beige pills, an orange, and a white one before raising a glass of water to his lips. His companion, an idiot, has absolutely no clue what he just ate. Was snow ill? Did he need more candles? And so logically, he asks.

"... Supplements." Vanilla lets in simply after a pause. Furtive all of a sudden. Strange.

"What kind?"

"The magical kind," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Stop asking. These are.. they're... simply part of a critic's necessary diet. I eat for a living; therefore, I must take good care of my gut health."

Leroy's attention is split between the moreish razor clams he ordered and the love of his life. "So like... vitamins?"

"Yes. And, well... fiber."

The second one throws him off. "... What's it do?"

"Goodness, wouldn't you like to know." Vanilla muses privately under his breath. "Google is your friend."

"You're right here."

"Ugh. Like I'm some sort of... search engine! Vanilla-dot-com."

"Is that how you eat all this and still look... like that?" "What do you mean like that?" "Hot." "What."

The conversation is nothing short of a disaster. Does anyone actually know what fiber does, nowadays? Well. For a critic who has spent much time in the presence of others in his industry, all of everything that he consumes would matter. Ultimately, taking care of his health is essential to his career and regulating one's diet as a judge on a culinary TV show is proving to be extremely difficult.

"So you've been taking these every day for the past couple of years?" Leroy is curious all of a sudden. After all, it's not like he's ever read the labels on the supplement bottles organized neatly in the critic's kitchen.

"Mostly, yes. Fiber, on the other hand, i-it's a... a recent, fairly, recent, practice of mine. Surely you've heard of, well, the things that... you know, one should do in preparation of... before the... the main event in the bedroom, per se, albeit! Not necessarily the only way to, um, and of course, optional, in a sense, depending on one's preference and and and—"

"It's crazy how we're sitting here having dinner instead of fucking in your room." The idiot says casually without warning, reaching over to pause the recording on his action cam and delete the entire clip because U N C O N T R O L L E D D E S I R E.

"This is a Wendy's." His companion's seemingly calm response is straight up exposed by his shaking hand as he slices into the morsel of tarte flambée on his plate and stabs it with a spoon. "Restraint is advised."

"Respectfully..." "You have no respect—" "Not true." "—For the unspoken rules of the universe!" "True." "Look at you bringing this up over dinner. And haven't your legs had enough of mine under the table? We've had the entire day to figure this out and still, you jest!" "True, but no jest. All facts." "Even the rules of proper English don't ever apply during our conversations. A dialogue paragraph of ten different lines going back and forth is simply unheard of. We're never going to be published!" "Sometimes, I think in all caps." "Oh. W-well, I make spelling errors when I'm thinking about you. Don't bother asking; it's extremely embarrassing." "Suddenly, I'm a poet when you're in my head." "Let me guess... something something candleflame and winter snow." "Pretty much. It gets better." "How?" "Sometimes, I get those thoughts highlighted in red and a comment dropped in." "Well, what does it say?" "Needs to be dumber."