A/N: Would you look at that! An hour early! /.\ Thank you for waiting the last two days hehe it bought me enough time to finish this chapter and also plan well for the next one coming up on Sunday. I think talking about my writing to someone else also helped to fuel and renew my strength a little to press on. 

I'm planning to finish the Brave Love manuscript for publishing over the next two weeks and make the deadline for the cover design and putting it all together ;v; 

Again, thank you for waiting and for those who commented and showed their care and concern for me last week, I really, really appreciate you. I read all comments by the way, and I also try to respond to DMs on Instagram if I can ;-; 

If you did like last week's steamy chapter, I was intending to do a special for Leroy's birthday (13 August) but I don't think I can make it because I want to get chapter 46 out first. I might then have the special chapter after chapter 46 HAHAHA. Am I in the mood to write some plot-heavy-but-maybe-also-steamy-AUs? Maybe.

Enjoy.

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[Vanilla]

There is something one must understand about seducing a partner—things don't necessarily always go as planned. In fact, I'd say they never do; or at least I haven't quite personally experienced an instance of planned seduction, no, though I quite like to think myself capable of it. After all, what else should be required of the seducer apart from well-simulated conversations, some thorough reading, and light research supported by real-life observations and demonstrations?

Well. Quite frankly everything.

As it appears, I am terrible at seduction. Only a fool would fall for those silly little tricks of mine (if there were any in the first place directed not at said fool) powered by the passion of wine and the past, contingent upon circumstances like Italian doors and comfy duvets. The latter was what kept me in bed, listening to the muffled voices coming from the hallway and briefly registering the soreness of my thighs.

I glanced over at the loveseat not far away, taking in a little Leo curled up and fast asleep against his canine companion—who'd surprisingly taken notice of my waking consciousness. His tail wagged once. I laughed and reached out to pet him but remained slightly out of reach.

"You're awake."

Alas, the criminal made his entrance. I turned to see him with laundered clothes fit snugly in garment bags, one labeled with his name and the other with mine. He draped them carelessly over the desk chair, one on top of the other, before crossing the room with a glass of water.

"How's your head?" He held out the peace offering and with his other hand, supported my back as I straightened up.

"I'm..." My mind struggled to start. "What time is it?"

"Past midnight." "Dear god. How long was I..." "More than an hour. You passed out in the tub while we were cleaning up. Had me going there for a bit." His laugh was short but affectionate. I mused privately. "Well. You couldn't have expected that not to happen after coercing me into ejaculating twice within the span of a... a minute or less." He was smirking now. "Coh-erse." "Yes, it means bullying." "No it doesn't." "Hm! I'm surprised you know that." "...only because you clearly fucking liked what I was doing—" "Oh be quiet. This is getting quite out of hand, you being so full of yourself. You were a menace alright. Twice! In the span of a minute!" "...wasn't very hard." "Wh—! H-how dare you. How... how d... that's not... stop looking at me like that." "Okay, tell me how I should look at you." "Don't look at me." "I like looking at you." "And I really need to draft that arrest warrant." "Been at it for years haven't you."

"Y—just—ugh," I caved, setting the glass of water aside and sinking back under the covers. "We're putting this on hold; I refuse to hand you that win on a silver platter. Just you wait. Tomorrow, I shall be superior."

He snorted, fluffing my pillow and adjusting the duvet so that I was tucked in and comfortable. "Mr. White needs an excuse. I see."

His eyes were gentle with a lowered gaze, carefully brushing aside stray locks of hair covering my ears. It was hard not to stare. "Frankly, I do. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, Leroy. Sleep is vital, for me and you, both."

"Agreed," he rose from the edge of the bed, grabbing the glass of water I left aside and finishing the rest. "You feeling good enough to head back to your room then?"

I paused, faltering. Blinking twice. "W-well. Um." Naturally, I'd assumed, after all that we did, we'd be spending the rest of the night together like how we used to, back in my apartment. This caught me off guard. "I might be, but. But I suppose I'd prefer, um... prefer..."

He looked over his shoulder, smiling. "I know."

My fuzzy head came to a stop altogether before rebooting and piecing bits of the present together—allowing relief to settle and stay. Still, there was no resisting a show of grumpy sulking. "Hmph. Why ask, then?"

"Just a little tease."

"What an idiot."

"I like your pout."

"It's not a pout." I was in the mood for resistance but increasingly so, my eyelids appeared to function apart from the will of my mind—weighing heavier by the second. "Aren't you coming to bed? And was um... was Leo... well-behaved while I was away?"

I heard him hum from the hallway, dimming the lights and getting ready for bed. "Not too bad."

"He must like you very much then."

"...I had the feeling we'd be rivals." He couldn't resist a final tease before making his way to the other side of the bed and getting in. To think it'd been some time since we'd last slept in the same bed. How strange; I hadn't noticed before, but there was something about his company... something about it that felt like an extra blanket over my shoulders.

How strange it was to miss a feeling I'd never noticed. A feeling that was safe yet with nothing to hide behind; raw, and intimate.

"I suppose you were the bigger person, then. No doubt Leo must have taken a liking to you giving in to his demands," I turned sideways a little, hiding in the pillows.

He met me halfway, turning too. "...think his owner's gonna reward me?"

"Unfortunately, the reward has already been redeemed and is no longer available," I quipped, smiling under the covers. "Now good night."

________________

Hours later at the break of dawn, it was rock, paper, scissors in bed that decided which one of us got to sleep in and take their leisure time getting ready before heading to the docks where the interview set was. My local idiot had the brilliant idea of throwing 'rock' thrice, abandoning all unspoken etiquette of games like these and thereby cheating his way into a win. I say 'cheating' because really, by the end of three rounds, he had me in shambles—unable to comprehend the sheer shrewdness of his plays and complete lack of common sense. He'd laughed and said something about learning this from his crew members back at the firehouse while I scrambled to get dressed and head out.

The idea was to avoid having anyone else assigned to a room on the same floor witness the two of us leaving Leroy's room together. At the very least, it would've spared us lengthy explanations and potential mess-ups; though in the case of a questioning, I did provide Leroy with a proper script for the sake of corroboration and clarity.

I made it to the docks with twenty minutes to spare, greeting the camera crew and several members of the production team before joining Chef Pao in handing out sandwiches and bottles of water.

"Banilla!" He looked surprised to see me but the energy soon simmered into something akin to worry. "You're okay? I knock on your door last night because, you know, you left early saying something about a headache but you didn't respond. Did you use the white flower oil I gave you?"

"Oh yes. Yes I did," I came up with a vague response on the spot. "I'm so sorry—I must've been in the shower when you came by. It might've been the drinks I had last night... how was the cocktail party?"

"Good good," he nodded, grabbing more bottles of water. "It was fun and everyone had a good time but Banilla, don't change the subject," he stopped all of a sudden to face me straight on. "I know a lie when I hear one. I am old now—you know, I hear the word 'uncle' and I turn! I have many children. And all children, one day, will learn how to lie.

"But you are not a liar. I know it. And I know you don't like to lie. So when you lie, I know you maybe have a very good reason for lying and that is okay. I can accept it," he clapped my shoulder twice, looking away. "You ordered a cocktail last night and didn't even finish it. Amelia told me. I know this has nothing to do with the drinks. So if there is anything you want to tell me... anything, at any time, I will do my best to help you."

How incredibly warm. It was a pleasant feeling; an instance of home far away from it and yet, the last thing I would've liked was to rope him into something he might've been better off not knowing.

"Thank you Pao," I felt my shoulders relax and soften. "That is very kind of you. I appreciate you reaching out to me like this. Really."

He nodded with a smile and we left it there, continuing to make our rounds with sandwiches and water for the cast members and everyone else on set. While doing so however, it was nearly impossible not to be on the lookout for a certain idiot. Thank goodness there was an arrangement for the dress code (wearing yesterday's clothes for the sake of continuity), otherwise Leroy and I would've opened ourselves to much, much questioning.

"Psst," Layla started our conversation with the sound of a secret and quite frankly, I'd seen this coming a mile away. "You weren't in your room early this morning. I dropped by to check on you and stayed outside your door for some time, knocking, and you never responded. You spent the night at Royroy's?"

"Yes I did and I can barely walk or sit as a result—is that what you'd like to hear, Chef Tenner?" I returned under my breath and she reached out to deliver a pinch on my arm.

"That sounds like nothing but the truth! Nillie, you need to be more careful about this. I know it's not something that would faze you but there's... a plan. Roy's. Something like that. He didn't get himself into this blind, is what I'm saying. None of us want his hard work to go down the drain... I mean I'm sure he's told you about this."

"Actually no," I blinked. "He hasn't. And he would have fair reason not to. I'm sure he's considered he possibility of us being found out and factored that into a probably plan B but regardless, it doesn't seem to appear very important. Still, out of respect to the rest of the contestants, I am obliged to keep my distance from him in front of the camera... so. I know what you mean. And thank you for the heads up, Layla. I will take heed."

"Alright," she breathed a sigh, smiling nevertheless. "Fair enough. Two little gremlins... all grown up now. Also, you're walking weirdly. Just in case you didn't notice." Was all she said before exiting the conversation with a wink over her shoulder and heading towards the makeup station.

I had to actively lift my hand up to my face to close my mouth. W-was I really? I paused to give my body a mental scan, privately calculating all previous actions of the day and going through the number of people who'd seen me walk thus far. The only outliers were the knots on my lower back and the soreness of my thighs. And perhaps if I'd paid a little more attention, the surface of the skin on my inner thighs were oddly sensitive under the friction of my dress pants as I walked. Could it be?

Cue the timely arrival of an idiot, the grand mastermind of my woes. He was greeted first by the other chefs who'd turned up before him but we soon locked eyes over a distance of several feet. The very next moment saw him discreetly presenting an indecent finger my way—supposedly an exclusive matter for my eyes only, which of course had me shaking my head at once, fighting a smiling nevertheless.

"Aight' early risers, grab your copies of the new schedule and spend a minute reading through," Director Stan stood on elevated ground with a loudspeaker in hand. "Not many changes. We're starting with the judging panel for the first lineup and then moving through the pairs listed on the second page. We sent a bunch of general questions on the digital copy last week and these are going to remain the same throughout the production for every confessional, so you might wanna get yourselves familiarized with that. We good?" A short pause. "Great. Shoot starts in ten. Judges, places please."

I made my way to the beautifully-arranged set in a greenhouse by the docks, complete with a view of the Ligurian sea and colorful houses lined up down the street. Pao and Amelia appeared equally impressed.

The idea behind confessionals in productions like these (or interviews, so to speak), was for editors to cut between actual footage of our day-to-day activities and challenges to a personal, proper explanation of whatever it was the chefs were tasked to do or their sentiments toward said activity.

Director Stan however, had a surprisingly unique take on such interviews. Apart from the main subject of the confessional in the foreground of the camera frame, he wanted a co-subject—a partner—placed several feet behind the main subject in earshot of their responses to the questions asked. This would provide a secondary option for editors looking for a reaction to a possibly controversial or emotional remark made by the main subject. All for the sake of added entertainment.

"Okay but we are quite boring actually," said Chef Pao with the straightest face he could manage, eventually dissolving into a fit of laughter when Chef Amelia feigned offence. "It's true! We are not drama, we just some nice people who like food and cook very well. Banilla included, of course."

"You are too kind. I've had my history of... burning down a kitchen."

"Now that is the opposite of boring."

"You cannot just say that and leave Amelia and me hanging, Banilla. What is the story? Quick, tell us before they roll the cameras."

Needless to say, this dynamic of ours lasted throughout all three confessionals—Pao's, Amelia's, and mine. Our questions were tailored rather aptly to the activities we organized and headed yesterday at the olive farm; with one or two exclusive questions about specific chefs to draw out potentially amusing reactions. Unsurprisingly, I was asked about Chef Andre's performance.

"What performance?" I asked, genuinely confused. Behind, I swore I could've heard Pao and Amelia stifling a laugh. The producers had to specify an instance of attention: the moment he'd doubted my abilities and switched the samples of olive oil, insisting I had the answers in my head.

"Oh. Well... quite frankly, I thought nothing much of it. Chef Andre's never missed a beat. Always in character." Naturally they attempted to tease more out of me but I stood my ground rather stubbornly. The only reason I got away with this was the amusing reactions from my fellow judges eavesdropping several feet behind me; thereby increasing my fondness for Stan's unique style of filming these confessionals.

Still, one could see a potential for downsides.

Of which included the next pair of individuals arranged to be interview partners: Chef Du Bellay and Chef Andre. Truth to be told, I'd considered the possibility of Stan having Leroy and Andre put together but there was no proper rule about the pairs being fixed, and judging from my experience with entertainment over the past couple of days, I could see them 'saving' the best for later.

Chef Andre was up first, responding to general prompts about his experience at the olive farm and how he 'hadn't signed up for unimportant tasks like olive-picking.' Not forgetting his continued disbelief toward the whole 'blind taste test hoo-ha' and general distaste for critics like myself. In fact, he'd taken every opportunity to reinforce his supposed relevance by keeping my name in every five or so sentences of his.

Then came the odd subject change with little warning; Chef Andre had decided to refer to Chef Du Bellay by first name. More specifically, the name she no longer associated with. And he'd done so by suggesting her lack of participation had to do with being perpetually 'safe' from elimination. Thanks to her title as Siegfried's sous chef.

"..."

Not many besides the camera crew and select others on set had stayed behind to watch every subsequent confessional. Pao had excused himself to take a private call and Amelia was away at the restroom. Every other contestant was to remain outside the greenhouse before their interview.

Neither Stan nor the producers called for 'cut', and as such, the cameras continued rolling and of course, Chef Du Bellay was not given the opportunity to speak for herself until it was her turn to take the chair up front. Andre was then instructed to take her place, which was several feet behind on a bench.

"What are your thoughts on deadnaming?" One of the producers fired without a second to spare and needless to say, the air dropped with the weight of her words. "Are you comfortable with that?"

This being the first of many prompts further proved the issue at hand. Not far away, Chef Andre had his face angled sideways away from his interview partner but it did not stop him from snickering.

There was the option to interrupt and tell whoever had posed the question off for failing to prioritize Chef Du Bellay's culinary experience but that, too, would have been an act of taking control away from her. At present, she had the attention of the room and all the time to speak.

"Anthony is a nice name. And so is Antoinette. Both are beautiful names. All names are beautiful. But to be honest, I would be wasting my time paying any attention to the people I don't care about. I am here as a cook, not a celebrity. And there is good reason for my role as sous chef at Siegfried's for the years I've spent in his kitchen. Eat my food, and you will see. Very simple." She said quietly, hands on her lap and legs crossed. "But maybe also learn to give others some basic respect. They actually teach you that in elementary school."

A tiny smile crossed her features when the prompter appeared impressed by her answer. Andre merely rolled his eyes.

Clean. I could not help but think; relieved I hadn't stepped in and possibly denied a calm, mature response everyone else in the room needed to hear. Perhaps the complete opposite of her partner, Chef Du Bellay's tone was free of bias and subjectivity. She'd explained her point of view without the use of emotive words and delivered an apt, albeit general message across.

And most importantly, she'd done it on her own.

The question-prompting was then taken over by another producer, who thankfully kept the conversation focused on Chef Du Bellay's contributions to the culinary challenges from yesterday. Her responses had near zero relevance to Chef Andre, thereby leaving him perpetually ignored. Practically décor on set.

"Chef," I approached her privately while we were at break, offering a bottle of water. She accepted it with a smile. "Do you have a minute?"

"Many for you, Vanilla. Conversations with you are always enjoyable... wish I could say the same for others," she laughed a little, shaking her head with a sigh. "I assume you're here to talk about Andre."

"Well... I'd be lying if I said otherwise."

"Hm! Honest as always," she took a sip of water, gazing out of the greenhouse far into the distance. "I can manage. Thank you for your concern."

"Actually, I was referring to... something along the lines of speaking with the production team for a content review. Not specifically about the comments made by Andre, but also possible sequences—including interview prompts, of course—and references they are intending to make in the final cut of the production. Oh, and general contestant behavior, while they're at it." Since your fiancé has apparently not taken the liberty to do so.

"Oh Vanilla," Chef Du Bellay breathed in deep, shoulders relaxing. Her smile was tired and she sighed once more. "I've said this long before. I know exactly what I signed up for and this, including Andre and, you know, the producers, the script, and all that... I expected everything.

"You're right about one thing though," she admitted. "Being prepared doesn't mean I've eliminated all unhappiness and discomfort, so. Yes, I don't necessarily like or see a point to any of this but if it makes Siegfried happy and I am occasionally given the opportunity to demonstrate my craft..."

I understood.

Either way, it was never going to be a clever decision to meddle in the affairs of a couple. "I presume you're not inclined to voice this... discomfort, then?"

"Not at this level, no. I'd rather let the child make a fool of himself," she smiled simply, then turned her attention to the next pair of chefs scheduled for the shoot. "Learnt it from Leroy, actually." She nodded at him from across the room and my gaze followed. "Chef Andre doesn't know what he's doing half the time. As long as you judges acknowledge my culinary skill... he doesn't faze me as much as you think."

I merely listened. There was a pause when we lapsed into an odd silence of watching the people on set ready themselves for the camera. She spoke after some time.

"Sorry I might have... crossed the line with that last part. That was silly of me. I hope you don't think I'm trying to win some sympathy points from you. I'd hate that."

"There is no need to apologize, Chef Du Bellay," I nodded curtly. "Fortunately for you, I am far too removed from the heat of the kitchen to fall prey to things like fire and emotion. So rest assured."

I took my leave soon after, afraid I'd let slip the catastrophic question of just how Siegfried had once won the love and affection of two beautiful souls in his lifetime. Either he was an extremely lucky man or the definition of a flame, bewitching to moths.

Funny how one could see the two as father and son; Leroy and he.

_______________

[Leroy]

Was he walking weird? No. Was I looking out for him the entire day? Maybe. Did he end up shooting me warning signs from across the room about the staring? ...yeah.

Confessionals took the whole morning to shoot and by the time lunch was over, we were a little behind schedule for our ride back to Florence. The plan was to have cameras rolling for the final challenge at six o'clock sharp. Supposedly, we'd be wrapping up at ten in the evening and heading to bed by midnight for tomorrow's flight to our next destination. Supposedly.

Most people spent the ride to Florence fast asleep. Including Chicken. I'd snapped a pic of him balancing a treat on his nose earlier and sent that to his co-owner. Eventually, our texts messages were reduced to pics of our pets being cute and I was having none of the cat all snuggled up on his owner's chest. So I came up with a plan; it mostly involved making a deal with Leo. More details when it actually happens.

Hours later, we were back at Villa Cora with our day bags and things, standing around the driveway for further instructions. Chicken was going slightly crazy for the flowers in the garden but I held him back with some spare blueberries. He didn't like them very much because he knew they were part of this morning's leftovers but my good boy got the message and behaved.

"Folks, we're a bit behind schedule but not to worry," Producer A, didn't know his name, got things going while several other members of the team headed in first. "Everything's under control. We had some people arrive ahead of time, and now we have more of the crew setting up for this episode's main challenge, so. We should be done in, say, forty minutes or less, which means we're looking at seven-fifteen-ish. Get your bags up to your rooms and meet Julianna outside the gallery room for light refreshments and wardrobe before seven o'clock. Any questions?"

I looked around. Most chefs were looking hella spent. The tight shooting schedule was starting to take a toll on us and heck, if spending an entire day in the kitchen expediting and dealing with all that heat and adrenaline wasn't enough to prepare these people for a production like this, only firefighting can.

Thank fucks I was used to forty-eights. That, and I kinda had a nice little extra something from last night's snowstorm. Might've been the only thing keeping me in check, actually.

So all that happened... and I spent some time taking Chicken on his second walk and playing with him for a bit, hopped in the shower, headed down to the gallery room and waited to be dressed. Turns out, more shit had gone down while we were away and they were delaying the start of the shoot by a full hour. The judges were nowhere to be seen.

I sent Braised Chicken a text but knew I probably wasn't going to get a response what with the no phones on set rule but he surprised me with a ':c'. Cute and short.

"Hey um," some random dude came up to me. Chef... oh right the guy who did the bamboo shoots alongside Du Bellay and I. "Do you know what's going on?"

"Not really. Thing's delayed for an hour, that's all."

"Oh... wow. They must have something really big prepared."

"It's the main challenge, so."

"Yeah..." He filled the seat beside me. It reminded me that he was also the dude who asked if the seat next to me on the bus was available when Chicken was already in it.

He was about to say something else when one of the makeup artists called me in for a wardrobe change. I gave the guy a brief nod before taking my leave. I didn't look over my shoulder but for some reason, I could imagine some sort of disappointment. Like when you're about to surrender.

*

"Ay you all look like you sleep at ten p.m.," Pao laughed when he saw us filtering into the gallery at nine sharp, a whole two hours later than what was originally scheduled. I overheard one of the makeup artists groaning about the possible all-nighter we were about to pull and hell, I wasn't sure if anyone had signed up for this. "Come on, chefs. Okay now go back out and walk in again for the real thing. Crew wanted to check volumes and lighting."

I think the entire room sighed. Frankly, I didn't care as much. Nothing was getting to me and we pretty much stole a free nap earlier on the ride to Florence on top of a night's worth of good sleep. This was nothing compared to my shifts at the firehouse.

They had someone fire us up outside the gallery room before the official take and some people were even allowed to shout out loud to get the adrenaline pumping. It was all pretty amusing. I gave Layla a nice finger for luck. She returned it straight.

"Places." The assistant at the door snapped her fingers for us to get in line before raising her hand with three fingers up. Our countdown. The hallway fell into complete silence when she sort of froze in place and listened for the cue in her headset. Then the fingers changed to a 'two'.

Then 'one'.

Doors opened and Andre led the group inside, enjoying the privilege of having his last name start with an 'A'. They'd adjusted the lights and dimmed the ones on the sides for a clearer focus on the stations in the middle and the aisle, all the way down to the raised platform where the judges stood—only now, Vanilla wasn't one of them.

Pao. Amelia.

The last, I met his gaze and felt the chill in my hands, knowing he'd have his eyes on me just like how he did back then; back when he timed the dicing of my onions down to the very millisecond and back when he told me that oil splashes were something I'd eventually get used to. Siegfried was just that kind of person, with that kind of gaze.

And sometimes I'd catch myself wondering if I do too. Have that kind of gaze.