A/N: Much fun was had writing this chapter only because I missed sprinkling some of that sexual tension, only for the spice cap to come loose and completely fall off, turning what was meant as a tiny dash of yum into a full-on meal. Vanilla and Leroy always surprise me. I never know what I'm going to write sometimes, because during those moments I feel as though they are the ones in full control and I am literally a witness of these events! A mere by-stander. A historian. Recorder of events. T R U E.

Anyways, enjoy the 6.6k word chapter after three weeks of wait ;v; Thank you for being patient while I get used to my life here in Tokyo and balance work on top of it. Some of you are still asking for my IG and here it is: hisangelchip. 

Enjoy. 

________________

On habits and cravings by V. J. White

The greatest misunderstanding of all mankind is the belief that love is a promise, made once in a lifetime and never to be broken because that was simply the nature of promises; one grand gesture, a declaration, a vow, written in ink, sealed in wax, carved deep in the minds of the ones promised. Such a belief can only lead down an erroneous path of heartbreak and disappointment, though many would argue that a thing as abstract as love cannot possibly be defined and should be left up to the minds of every individual with an answer. In this excerpt, I will attempt to prove otherwise by first and foremost, providing a claim.

Love is routine.

It is waking up to the filling of the mind that is an empty cup; the first coffee of the morning, the final breath of the day. A habit; warm as any craving that longs for the sweetness of that it craves at a specific time of the week, day, hour, second. If spontaneous, it is driven by the state of mind at its height of distraction—unable to function without the seeming fulfillment of that which it desires.

And should that craving last till the end of time and that routine, no longer a part of one's life, become dull and grey, what then, should the mind be filled with?

It is dangerous for one to fall in love with a certain dish made by a specific person because it does not matter if the world consists of a thousand other variations of said dish made by many other chefs—there will never exist one that is better made by the one special individual. After all, love is a habit.

And should that individual one day be removed from the world and the dish never again had, there would live in the mind of the once-happy man, remnants of the taste he once cherished and so loved.

But what should happen if said dish was made by no one other than the man himself, for the sake of a craving that was his own, only to one day discover that this craving of his may no longer be sated because he'd lost it all?

To the man, there is death in two parts; the one making the dish and the one tasting it. And in that death, there is to the man, the breaking of a habit. It is difficult for the common man to describe the taste of something he has never had just like it is for the blind to describe a color they'd never seen or the deaf, a sound they'd never heard. To describe a forgotten memory on the other hand, though equally difficult, would seem less impossible in the eyes of many. Reminiscing a time regardless of its nature is an attempt to clear the fog that has settled over the cold and frozen lake in the early hours of the day.

There is as much point to this heavily descriptive and abstract excerpt you are reading as there is to the first coffee of your day or your sigh of the night—this is the mere state of what I should think is Leroy's mind at present, hovering between states of consciousness. The past and the present; of all things that he loved and the taste that was his one, greatest habit.

It had taken him the time and effort of a century to finally realize or even acknowledge the very nature of his love for me. There was nothing exceptionally extravagant about his feelings. Nothing close to the fantasy of kings and queens or the magic of wizards and wands, nor did they deserve any form of worldwide fame and recognition. All time had done was given him the distance he needed to see the routine and understand that as much as forgotten memories were difficult to recall, habits were always going to last—much, much longer than any promise mankind could ever think of keeping without ever having to even think about keeping it.

There is no need to keep up with a habit. It is a habit because one does so unknowingly.

And should anyone ever wonder how Leroy felt as he brought that spoonful of his creation to his lips and tasted the habit he'd lived without for the past seven years, know that it was not the mere striking of a match or the flicker of a flame I observed, but a haunting tremor in his eyes that looked quite as though he'd been cold and asleep for the time he'd lost, waking to the sound of company and the taste that was his one, greatest habit.

To share this moment with the person I so loved was my personal, dearest honor and to be his one greatest habit was the only crime I so willingly commit time and again.

As it stands, he was my routine as much as I was his. And by god, do I sound like an absolute fool.

______________________

[Vanilla]

I wasn't going to cry in front of an entire production and have that shot of me eternalized on national TV. I wasn't. Everyone knows scenes like that get clipped and put on social media out of context or frozen in every unflattering angle for the purpose of clickbait thumbnails. I knew that. In fact, I'd spent the past two hours in the private tasting lounge preparing myself for this very moment and bracing for impact and I daresay, it paid off tremendously.

At least that was the case until, well, I caught a glimpse of Layla turning away to weep privately into her hands. It was amidst the cheers and applause and Pao going up to Leroy with open arms upon seeing him visibly fazed by the taste of his own creation that I raised a hand to hide the redness of my nose and suppress incoming sniffles. Thank goodness Amelia took notice of said unstable emotions and reached out with a handkerchief of her own, flashing a knowing smile while she did.

There were three, perhaps four, people in the room who could in some way or another comprehend the gravity and weight of the winner's smile at present. Siegfried, Layla and myself, perhaps Chef Du Bellay if Siegfried ever decided to let her in on his son's condition, saw in that moment more than everyone else did.

We watched Pao steal a spoonful of the ice cream I'd saved for Leroy when he wasn't looking because lo and behold, the idiot was looking at me and as expected of a certified criminal, the urge to speak to him privately skyrocketed anew. Fortunately, I possessed the patience of a saint and—oh. That's a finger. And another one. Two indecent fingers. Clearly, the man understood no notion of patience whatsoever.

Alas. If only he knew of the unthinkable, unspeakable things I'd done in the bathroom early this morning.

"I hate to break up the fun but duty calls, Pao. It's time for the bad news," Amelia gestured to the space between us, which Pao was meant to fill. In one sweeping moment, the atmosphere grew tense in the silence, made worse by the sound of slow, leisurely footsteps up to the platform.

"So, um—"

"It's okay Banilla," Pao raised a hand in the middle of my cue to speak. "You are always being the bad cop. Let me be bad or else people will start to think I'm goody-two-shoes. Not sexy. We all know the bad guy is always sexier than the good guy."

I could not help but laugh. Pao had decided to do away with the script just like I had with Leroy tasting his own dish and frankly, it was an unexpected but very much welcome surprise. After all, part of the production team could have found fault with every deviation I was making from their scripted prompts.

"If you made Tropical Waters, Seafood Paradise, or Happiness, please step forward."

Chef Lin, Andre... and Layla.

The entire room fell deathly quiet and even Andre who was up for elimination appeared genuinely surprised by the presence of the once-toque-blanche-wearer at his shoulder. Needless to say, Pao, Amelia and I were momentarily stunned and though Layla's gaze seemed to rest in our general direction, I felt as though her eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Chef Tenner," Amelia did not bother hiding the surprise in her voice. "Can I ask you to share some insights about your dish? Granted, we'd understand if your performance was affected by your injury."

"I don't wish to make any excuses," she sighed, smiling sadly and rubbing the sides of her arms as though she'd caught the winter cold. "It's one thing to be in the process of recovery but... the conception of a dish has nothing to do with it. I should be capable of coming up with a dish that celebrates the key ingredient I picked—which was tiger prawns, by the way, a favorite of my dad's—but there were other local proteins in the pantry and having missed out on the cook the last time, I guess I just... wanted to prove myself or something. It backfired, clearly. I overestimated my abilities and it's something I'm paying for now."

I'd expected no less from a chef Leroy and I had always looked up to. Her response was honest and admirable, without a stone left unturned and quite frankly, saying aloud all that I'd had on my mind the moment she stepped forth to reveal her cook.

"Thank you, Chef Tenner," Pao's tone was neutral as he spoke to her, nodding next at Andre. "Chef Andre my man. Tell us about your dish."

"I made vanilla ice cream with a side of chocolate fried bananas inspired by the local dish goreng pisang. And I'm gonna be honest with you here—I think there's been some unfairness going around among the judges recently."

Already, I could hear the commercial break at the end of his sentence, increasing the viewer's investment by tenfold and raking in the dollar signs while they waited on the edge of their seats. This was peak entertainment in the world of reality TV and of course, Andre wasn't going to miss an opportunity at more screen time.

"Pray tell us more."

"Cox made the exact same thing, vanilla ice cream, only in the form of some gimmicky edible candle that's pretty much a thing you'd only see at birthday parties for kids. How's that locally-inspired? I don't fucking get it. All of us here have got dishes more rooted in Indonesian cuisine than he has, so what's the logic behind this? Now, I know Cox had nothing to do with the decision made by you three and he'd done us a favor by handing our team his best catch and all, so I'm not saying he doesn't deserve the win—I'm saying there's something wrong with the decision-making here and I think we can all agree with that."

Behold, a poorly-conceived, uncogent argument. I did not quite care if the rest of the room was staring at Andre in utter disappointment, appalled by his lack of common sense and tact in front of world-renowned chef Amelia Streisand and celebrated entrepreneur Chef Paolo Enrique De Castro. It did not matter very much to the public when Andre decided to take a jab at a young, sharp-tongued critic like myself with mere baby years to his name, providing the occasional joust of viral entertainment (Twitter and water-splashing, since, after all, drenched critics made for fascinating creatures). But when it comes to a foolish blunder of choosing to wage a war against us three altogether, the man was as good as dead.

A single glance in Leroy's direction told me what I needed to know. The look on his face was akin to a boy waiting by his window for the first sign of winter snow. He must have seen in my eyes the cue to run for cover. Needless to say, I'd given Andre plenty of time but alas... he had not seen the signs.

"I see you ask for transparency, Chef Andre," I began by undoing the cuff of my sleeve and taking it up a fold. "Very well. Let's have another taste of your dessert. Jennifer, would you be so kind as to bring in the leftovers in the freezer?"

He snorted. "We don't need to—"

"Not to worry, Chef Andre. Amelia, Pao, and myself have had our fill of your dish so we will not be the ones tasting it. Your fellow contestants will."

"Wh—you're not making any sense. What for? It's leftovers from you three you can't possibly compare that to—"

"You asked for transparency, Chef Andre," I felt a wry smile upon my lips and knew. I was in my element. "I shall see this to the very end. First, there are three common categories you must know about: Taste, Appearance, and Theme. In this case, the challenge features two thematic issues—one, how well the star ingredient was treated in the dish, and two, its locally-inspired qualities. Tabulating the scores of each category would therefore yield an overall number to every dish and allow them to be placed in order of first to last and I could go into full detail about how these scores come about but Amelia, Pao, and myself don't owe you that do we, and most importantly, I don't need to tell you all that to refute your argument."

Poor intern Jennifer had returned to the set with Andre's dessert and after receiving the green from Stan and the crew on the edge of their seats for a tasty argument, presented it to me along with a spoon.

"Chef Rahman," I called upon a contestant with a quieter disposition, who seemed often neutral when it came to taking sides. "Taste this, and tell us what you think the star ingredient is."

He obliged; and after a few long seconds of frowning and thorough processing, concluded that it had to be bananas.

I turned to Andre. "Well?"

"Try it again," Andre said under his breath. Rahman blinked, but again, obliged.

"If it's not bananas, it has to be chocolate."

"Chef Andre's star ingredient is vanilla beans. Madagascar bourbon vanilla beans," I refused any further delay by cutting things short. "Chef Rahman, please tell us what you think about the taste of chocolate fried bananas topped with vanilla ice cream."

"... I don't know. There's not much I can say..." he appeared slightly perplexed. "It's missing texture and depth. And I can't tell if it's bananas with a side of ice-cream or the other way around. But overall, it fits the name of the dish because, uh, it makes me happy. I mean I like chocolate."

"You are too kind, Chef Rahman," I said flatly. "Thank you for including your preferences. I, too, have mine. In fact, I am not the biggest fan of vanilla ice cream and it so happens that the winning dish is... exactly that. No matter. At present, your dish is on the negative for both Taste and Theme but forget about appearances, let's talk local inspiration."

"You have to be blind if you think I messed that up. Both conceptually and the end product, I made it exact to—"

"Don't worry, I am not about to school you on cultural appropriation. Twitter does that for you, apparently. I imagine you'd have a field day reading the comments under every clip of this episode unless this gets magically cut. Either way, there is a difference between inspiration and recreation. The former is in the spirit of respect and honor, and is also the basis of fusion cuisine, acknowledging the influences of a specific culture and infusing that into a new recipe. Recreating something and branding it with the term 'inspired by' for commercial purposes—as many amateur restaurants do—is akin to tracing an original piece of art and claiming it to be mere inspired work. Some people call that stealing but fret not, we will not be going into the specifics for the sake of your sanity. Chef Cox incorporated the subtleties of Indonesian sweets in his dessert: the use of ingredients like tapioca flour, grated coconut, and blue-pea flowers; applying the appearance and technique of roti jala to the chocolate casing, so on so forth. You put chocolate on pisang goreng. It has already been done. And by locals, no doubt—oh but yes, you added to that, ice cream. Ingenious. Never would have thought. Andre, you have a Michelin star. Cook like you do."

*

"We can't eliminate Andre."

Amelia, Pao and I stared back at the director with the straightest face we could manage. Things were going exactly as Pao had anticipated.

"Look, Stan," Amelia tried to reason again. "We know he's on the list. But if we pick someone else, it's going to make things look rigged to hell and back. I'm putting my foot down on this. It's not going to give us a good look."

The director sighed, glancing at his watch as the conversation dragged past the arranged hour. "I'm sorry folks. We've got money on this and people to answer to. Viewership is going to dip without this guy and I can't have that happening so I need you to pick between Tenner and Lin."

"Neither of th—"

"Hey hey," Stan held up a hand to stop me mid-sentence. "I know this isn't ideal. It's not for me either and guess what, I've already given in to you three deciding to hand the toque blanche to the least experienced guy on the block only because he's a wild card and people enjoy that narrative. Keeps them on edge. At the same time, it could've gone to Du Bellay and created a whole new rivalry thing. Aight? If you want Cox to wear the toque, Andre stays."

*

I sighed.

"That said, some of us had decent things to say about your dessert, so I suggest you take this all within stride and give us good reason to preserve that thought," was all I added after a moment's pause. Tight-lipped.

With the receding avalanche came confusion and surprise from onlookers; even the supposed casualty himself had blinked in the face of danger inches away from taking him out cold. Either way, I'd done him enough damage to last a century. If this goes out on national TV, he could very well bid his Michelin star farewell.

"You heard him," said Amelia to a blank-faced Andre, holding back a smile of amusement and instead flashing me a look of fine approval. "Phrased everything better than I could ever imagine of doing. Take my word, dear chefs. It is one thing to make an enemy of Chef Pao and myself, but attempting the same with Vanilla will get you nowhere because as far as I know, only the best are worthy of standing on equal ground as him."

"O-oh. I um, that is quite... flattering, Amelia. Thank you."

"Save your breath sweetheart," she sighed. "It's time. Chef Andre, step forward. Please."

He did as told; hands behind his back and frowning still.

"Though your dish was by no means exceptional or worthy of any restaurant, it was... edible. And therefore, you may continue your journey and join us in Japan." Amelia gestured toward the row of chefs standing out of the way and at once, he broke into the widest smile of relief. Which quite frankly surprised me because I'd always dubbed Andre as a narcissist with an unwavering confidence in himself. To think my words had put in him, a sliver of doubt.

I should really think about taking up a full-time position at some boarding school as the discipline master. How they'd tremble under my very gaze!

"Chef Tenner. Chef Lin," Pao had his hands clasped behind his back in unease. "Both of your dishes were... below our expectations. Chef Tenner, you served us an underwhelming dish with no direction. Prawn, fish, mussel, clam, every protein treated in the exact same way and with no emphasis on your star ingredient. Chef Lin, a poor estimate of time led to plating your agar-agar before it sets and... way up there for presentation but every element just, bland. Ay, no... I'm sorry but one of you will not be joining us in our next destination."

Unable to stand the absolute horror unfolding before us any longer, I spared the chefs further suspense and pulled the trigger. "... Chef Lin, thank you for your time. Unfortunately, it seemed clear to us that your dish was not complete. And though it may seem like this is going to be the last dish of yours we will taste, I shall drop by your restaurant back in London to personally see that it isn't. Thank you, again."

____________________

[Leroy]

"He's lying."

Du Bellay looked up from her phone and stared for a bit. "Who?"

"Vanilla. He was lying near the end of the take. When they sent Lin off."

We were the only ones in the elevator, hanging back after the end of the shoot while everyone else headed off to the beach for the cocktail party. They'd asked for a couple of volunteers to clear the stations in the cooking arena and because I thought this was where they'd have the judges briefed for the interview shots, I'd offered a hand. Unlike myself with ulterior motives and 200 IQ that eventually fell flat because Stan decided to round up the three judges and put them elsewhere, Du Bellay volunteered out of pure goodwill.

"... I know you're dying to see him but the least you could do is not make things up that could've been part of your fantasies."

"I'm not making things up," I felt like a kid trying to explain how he knew the floor was lava. "He never lies. It's obvious when he does."

"Okay then, how so? And why would he lie about Chef Lin's dessert? It's... not like he was wrong any way. She told me she messed up the timing of the agar and redid it twice before realizing she hadn't enough ingredients for the third time."

"I don't know."

"So it's all instinct, you're saying."

"..."

I didn't know how else to put it and couldn't think of any other solution except asking him straight up later in the evening. How did I know we'd meet later in the evening? Because I knew.

"I mean, instead of worrying about all that, for now, you could just... enjoy the toque and the rest of your time in Bali." "... I will." "Alright, good then." "How did you know I'm dying to see him?" "Well, um, it's... plain as day, Leroy. Nothing holds a candle to the way you look at Vanilla." "Siegfried told you." "N... no. Maybe... yes." "When?" "The last time I sp—um... nothing. Months ago, I suppose. I can't recall." "Okay. Thanks for helping out."

The elevator doors slid open at the ground floor but she seemed rooted for a moment, standing stock still in the middle. "Oh. Oh, it was nothing. I tasted your ice cream... twice. That's practically nothing. And both times, you'd hit the nail on the head as though you... already have it all down by heart or something."

I mused over that. It certainly didn't feel that way while the clock was ticking and the pressure was high, but these sorts of things were known for slipping under the radar.

We split ways at the villa for a change of clothes and I picked out something illegal before heading down to the beach, hoping to spot a snowball looking out of place amid sand and heat.

"Hey man, congrats on the win," Saito came over with two glasses of champagne, holding out the one on his right. I accepted it with a nod of thanks, gaze sweeping the party without any intention of drinking just yet. Still no snow.

"Not a champagne kind of guy?" He raised his glass and clinked it against mine. I didn't budge.

"...generally don't drink stuff handed to me by a stranger. No offense. Just precaution."

"Oh what?" He laughed. "You think I put something in it? Come on. Live a little." Never thought I'd hear him say something like that but judging by the redness of his cheeks, I'd say he was at least three glasses in. "If you're not gonna drink that, I'm giving it to the next person who shows up to the party."

"Leroy?"

I turned.

He was in dress pants and a polo shirt that was white. If anyone doesn't know what that means, just understand that this was his first forearm reveal in a very long time and you know how Victorian men get when they see ankles for the first time? Somehow, I was able to relate. Either way, I'd seen much more than his forearm but thanks to the Bali magic and the midsummer heat, I felt the striking of a match the moment I met his gaze.

"Mr. White! Just in time." Saito slid the glass of champagne out of my hand and held it within reach. "Cox was refusing a drink. Maybe you'd like one instead?"

"O-oh. Thank you, Chef Saito. That is very kind of you. But, um," he tucked a stray fluff of hair behind his ear. "I'm not exactly here for the party. I'd just like to have a word with, um, your counterpart." He gestured toward me.

"Just one word, huh." I mused. He cleared his throat.

"It's a figure of speech, Chef Cox. Keep that up and perhaps I'd really have just one word for you."

"Okay let's hear it."

"Wh... why are you like this."

"That's more than one word."

"What a lively conversation," someone with the nerve to come between us in the middle of our fun broke things up. "Mind if I joined?"

I saw the light in his eyes shift without turning to look at whoever it was speaking to the three of us and made a wild guess. Not recognizing his voice off the bat would explain how little we actually interacted the past couple of year; or how little I'd bothered to remember any bit of it.

"Chef Cox! Yes of course. Join us, please," Saito held out his extra glass of champagne for the third time, seemingly relieved by the interruption. "Thanks to the producers, the cast and crew get to enjoy at least a night off in every destination."

"All of you deserve it. I was telling... the other day..." I tuned out the moment I realized Siegfried was back at it with the small talk. He was a natural. Got along with everyone—or at least knew how to. It's about pushing the right buttons. Was what he used to say all the time. "...and most importantly, the winning chef right here."

There was really only one person I wanted to get along with in the room (on the shore, beach, thing) and I was looking at him. We exchanged some kind of unspoken plan, or so I like to think, and I wasn't exactly listening to the conversation between Saito and Siegfried.

"Congratulations, Leroy." "Yeah man, that challenge is going down in history. You had just one ingredient to work with." "Yes... it would be difficult to top that. I'm looking forward to seeing what else you have in store for us."

"I, um. My apologies gentlemen," he fixed the angle of his glasses and bowed his head shortly. His hair looked soft and tuggable. What? "I'm starting to feel a little, um, peckish, and Pao tells me they just brought in an entire platter of local delights minutes earlier. Excuse me while I... go... indulge myself in..." he gestured to some sand in the distance. Very cute. "Goodbye."

To see him reduced to a walking dictionary after a day of illegal stimulated brain activity thanks to yours truly brought me nothing short of happiness and horn. There's something wrong with the English right there but I'm not going to correct it.

He'd given me the cue I was waiting for and I wasted no time in tapping out of the group conversation that thankfully did not involve much of my input.

"Leroy?" Of course, Siegfried would have problems with me doing that. "Where are you going? I was hoping we could talk for a bit. Privately."

"I'm going to enjoy the rest of my evening." I told him.

There was no need for any further explanation. Enjoying my evening meant doing the things I liked (oh fuck what a pun, but you know, not wrong) and it was clear spending extra seconds with Siegfried talking about the recovery of my tastebuds and future plans did not fit the bill. He knew, and decided now wasn't the time. At least he did. They let me leave in peace.

I was heading straight for the refreshments when I saw him standing idly from afar, picking up an empty plate in the slowest, most deliberate movement that gave away every bit of his intention to wait for me. I was ablaze, marking that spot beside him and making a beeline only to be stopped, cock-blocked, again, by boring side character C for the third time of the evening.

This time, it was Pierson. Him of all people, getting in the way of my evening full of fresh, fallen snow.

"Leroy!" "Yes." "Congratulations on—" "Thanks."

He froze, smiles and all, as though someone had hit the pause on his video. The interaction clearly hadn't gone as he'd planned. "So uh, as a professional pastry chef, I was um, surprised by your... ability to come up with a dessert that's complex and performative. And to actually deliver in the end, it's... it's very impressive, coming from a chef without an extensive background in sweets. You should be proud of yourself."

"I am."

"Oh! Um, great! I, um, thought you looked deep in thought when you tasted your dish so... you liked it?"

Even with my limited vocabulary, I could spend an hour putting together words to make sense of reliving a forgotten taste and actually enjoy doing it because knowing me, there was really only one person I wanted to be hearing the impossible in my head and it wasn't Pierson.

"Yes. I did."

"I'm so glad. It's great when chefs have each other's backs. Like how you had mine in the last challenge, and when I picked you for the team segment. Helping each other out will get us far! Speaking of which, do you... have any plans for the upcoming challenges in the next destination? Um, team-wise."

"No."

"Oh. I was thinking, since we work pretty well together..."

"I lost us the advantage on the boat," I pointed out, struggling to make sense of his logic. Why would anyone team up with the person who'd basically thrown away a free win? I felt the phone in my back pocket buzz from a text, giving me the perfect reason to cut the conversation short and never return. "I gotta take this. See you around."

Turns out, it wasn't the text I was expecting. The buzz was a notification; my phone was connected to a bluetooth device in range. I tapped for details. And details I got.

Nights before, on the boat ride here back in his room I was given VIP access to, I looked up the product he brought along. Besides specs, features and all, I was pleasantly surprised by an app they came up with. It functioned just like the remote did. Customization and sliders were an added plus.

I connected the dots.

It did not take very long even for fools like me to test things out. I brought the slider for speed up to a two and observed. Several feet away, the clinking of his fork against his plate. He'd dropped it by accident.

"Genius." I nearly forgot to breathe.

Wasn't exactly my first time pleasantly surprised by the experience that was Vanilla Julian White—he had a knack for knocking the breath out of me every now and then—but out in public was definitely not on my list of predictable outcomes.

I watched him stare into space for a good second or two before slowly reaching for the fork, resting his other hand on the edge of the dinner table for support. No one seemed to notice the pink dusting his ears and it took him less than half-a-minute to recover completely, returning to the selection of local bites laid out before him.

So he handled that pretty well.

Turning back to my phone, I cycled through the options for 'rhythm'. There were at least four different pulses. And three drives. Whatever that meant was for us to find out.

So there we have it: the V. J. White experience; a single taste and my head had gone from sentimental thoughts and cute midnight chats to long evenings of winter snow, all the better to sink into. The effect was immediate.

I made my entrance without a word, appearing by his shoulder and counting the number of treats he'd considered worthy to be on his plate. One.

He jumped when he noticed a presence right beside him but breathed a sigh as soon as he realized it was me and no one else. He said nothing; only got back to surveying the rest of the table and reading every label like his life depended on it. None of the first half seemed to interest him very much and when he made a non-verbal expression of interest in the second half further down the table on my end, I made no move. On purpose.

He cleared his throat, glancing up at me and adjusting his glasses with a stern look on his face. I pretended not to notice. The side of his arm brushed against mine, leaning to imply movement down the line. I met his gaze, musing privately while he struggled elsewhere.

The tension was insane.

"If I didn't know you, I'd think you were being impolite, Mr. Cox."

I hummed, glancing down at the topmost button of his shirt before going back up to his eyes. "Why is that."

"Hm! I wonder," he was in the mood for some play, side-stepping the obstacle that was me and moving down the display to look at the desserts. I watched him add a tiny square of blue-white cake to his plate.

They had a pumpkin pudding topped with vanilla foam dessert. I pointed it out.

"It does sound rather inviting. But I must say," he picked up the label, read it, and placed it back down. "It wouldn't surprise me if every other dish with vanilla in it starts feeling a little dull and lackluster. Not after the phenomenal Company."

"... Never thought you'd suck my dick out in public."

"I—that... an interesting analogy for subjective praise but unfortunately for you, I was merely stating the truth. No amount of boot-licking should be tolerated in my lifetime, and I shall see that to the very end."

"More dick-sucking. Nice."

"Oh, be quiet." He huffed, feeling the smile tugging on his lips and giving in for a brief second. His eyes then went to my hands and seemed to notice I wasn't holding a plate. "You're not getting anything? I was sure they hadn't provided refreshments to the cast during the shoot... a couple of side dishes wouldn't hurt. And I-I mean, now that... well, the sweets, too. Perhaps some of the local desserts here might even appeal to you now. It would be a pity not to—"

"The real pity is if we don't hurry the fuck up before I have you bent over on this table," I laid out deadpan, cutting to the chase before the heat hits a high. The tension was insane.

His jaw dropped on cue and his entire frame froze for a moment before hastily looking around and thanking the heavens under his breath that no one was within earshot. A hand reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. Redder than before.

"Chef Cox," he paused right after, as though to collect himself. "That was... that was completely, indisputably... this is a public space! You cannot stroll into the room and start a conversation with words like that. I-it's simply not allowed."

"Really." I unlocked my phone, bumping up speed to a four. "I should say the same for you."

"—?!"

The effect was immediate; he started like a deer, bottom lip quivering and teeth sinking right down for control. His eyes flew shut for two whole seconds, coming to terms with the new sensation and helping him connect the dots.

"It was you?"

I knew I was smirking. It was impossible to hold back from one.

He had a hand on his chest to regulate his breathing while his gaze raised to meet mine. "How... how did you—"

"There's an app that tracks the rhythm," I scrolled, "speed," scrolled again, "temperature," again, "and strength." I leaned over with the screen of my phone in full view, playing with the sliders in front of him while he watched. Helpless.

"Wh... but."

He eventually had to put his plate down—both hands on the edge of the table for support. "It can't be. This comes with a remote. A-and I have that stored in my suitcase. Locked! I'd assumed there was something wrong with it when the... when it started... all of a sudden... well, clearly the remote is nowhere... within the... stop... playing with that... mhn—!"

I shut it off.

The sound that nearly made it past his lips was a whimper and going any further than that was bound to take things a little too far.

"Wh..." he breathed and seemed to recover. Eyes slightly wide in surprise. Then half-lidded in disappointment. "You really turned it off."

"What else should I have done?" I was ablaze; he was good at this. And then I maxed speed in one go. "This?"

"No—Leroy," he held on to my arm, abandoning all party plans and whatever else on his plate that he thought he was having for dinner. I'll say it right now: that's not dinner. "God, you're... such an... I should've known. Y-yes, you win, alright? Now let's leave. Please."

"After a goddamn century, Mr. White finally admits—" "Oh be quiet you knew what I wanted from the very start." "Did I? Someone was hard bent on having tiny bites for dinner. Forgot who." "I! That was a show of manners, Leroy. If you knew a thing about them, you'd see I was being polite and respecting th... the chefs who... goodness. I can't think. I've got nothing! I can't argue. And don't you give me that look; this doesn't count as a win." "Tell me this and I'll turn it off: what'd you rate my dessert?" "Resorting to threats now, are we. I see you've hit a new low. God you're infuriating but yes, I was exceedingly impressed. I shan't tell you any numbers, all I can say is that I wholly wished to kiss you after tasting it and as a result, considered myself insane for a good minute! There. Happy?" "What happened to the kiss?" "Leroy! Y—would you prefer a chaste, barely-present kiss on the cheek or a night's worth of heated romance to your desire?" "... Whatever the second one is." "As I thought."