A/N: Omg omg omg omg the feeling of this chapter, if I were to use one word to describe it: mature. Just that. The entire chapter makes me feel like these two taste like the most expensive bottle of wine or something I don't know why but it was certainly the mood I was going for and I'm so sorry it took me some time to write this!

I actually already wrote part of the next chapter thinking I'd be including it here but LOL I wasn't going to cut the climax short just because I can't finish it on time so I decided that'll go up next week instead so that I don't leave you guys on a worse cliffhanger. 

Please enjoy! ^^ I hope the words take you elsewhere this time. This one's just really unique. I really adore this chapter. 

___________________________

[Leroy]

It wasn't the kind of bar he would have liked.

Or maybe over the years, my idea of what he 'liked' had, somewhere along the way, smudged and blurred along with those feelings; mere smoke among the clouds. The place was small, slightly out of the way but not too far from the hotel. The producer's party down by the docks on the other hand, must have been quite the walk.

There was something cheap about the handle under my grip as I was opening the door and the interior was nothing impressive—dimly lit, smelling vaguely of tobacco and beer. It wasn't the kind of place one would go to enjoy a nice glass of wine with live jazz playing in the background for some peace and quiet at the end of the week. The only thing that ticked any of those boxes was the quiet part, which made the search that much easier.

He was the only one sitting at the counter. And the only one without company on an evening in Portofino, known for its romantic views of the Ligurian sea. Come to think of it, I hadn't exactly seen all that. Or taken any pictures.

Seeing him alone from afar had me placing him in the middle of a busy table filled with seafood, cocktails, champagne, and laughter. It didn't suit him.

Seated on a bar stool, legs crossed, a glass of red between his fingertips and a gaze that looked as though he was watching the falling of snow—that alone was enough to raise the bar of any shady place. He looked unreal.

Like this was a dream, one of mine. The kind that would always end before the kiss.

I'd cross the room, testing the waters. Run my fingers along the surface, watch the ripples fade before making a move. In the dream, it'd always been easy.

Looking at him now, I could see the faintest shade of red brushing his nape even at a distance. Approaching made it clear as day and as soon as our eyes met, I could tell this was no touch-and-go. Standing a seat away would've suggested a short stay, filled mostly by his words and more listening than talking—a safer option that made temptation much, much easier to resist. So I sat carefully, leaving a seat between us.

The bartender stopped by for my order, asking what I will have. He spoke English; possibly inferring from my proximity to the only bar-seated guest, and that I'd come to be his companion for the night. That, too, wasn't something I could be sure about.

Until he spoke. "A glass of bourbon for him, signore," he raised his gaze from the wine glass between his fingertips. Slow. "Anything will do. And on the rocks, please."

It was what I would have said. He had it in him to remember stuff like that: things I once mentioned in passing, like the first dinner we had in a while, or over at his place for nights and days. Funnily enough, I could do the same for him.

Something about the place smelled like snow the moment he turned—a sideway glance, my way—as I watched his legs, crossed, shift in low light toward me. Eyes, half-lidded, reflected something dim but warm; gaze the shade of a winter evening above a lake that was still, and condensed into a single word.

"Surprised?"

His top button. It was undone.

"A little," I stared, across the bar seat between us that remained empty. Right there sat the fattest fucking tension I'd felt my whole life. "You're alone."

"Good observation. Well the party was dry," he said with the hint of a smile on his lips. It would've tasted sweet. "Pao and Amelia made things bearable for an hour but no longer than that so I sought out a place for some peace and quiet. To think about the day. But who would've thought... the noise of a certified idiot came to mind as soon as things started becoming a little too peaceful."

It had me feeling a little electric. His words did.

They were honest, which I should have known and expected with the time we spent together in our heads. He wouldn't know, but I always thought of it like that. That I was spending time with him always, even when we were apart. It's bad. I know.

"Guess I'll be your noise," I snorted. His eyes rippled behind those glasses.

"Hm. Let's get started then... what do you think of a little pop quiz? Spelling. You haven't quite hit your daily quota of poor English today."

I sent a finger his way, watching as he raised his glass to his lips and sipped at the wine. Soundless. A part of him opened up as he did, revealing a slender neck that was smooth and untouched. To think the undoing of just one button could make all the difference in the world.

"V-a-n-i-l-l-a." "There was no question, Mr. Cox. You were not asked to spell that." "W-h-i-t-e." "You may proceed to spell out the colors of the rainbow if you insist. I'd like your take on Indigo." "How many colors?" "Seven." "... thought there were five." "How intelligent." "Doesn't matter." "Hm? Why not. A rainbow's a rainbow." "I know just one color." "One?" "White."

Our eyes levelled. I turned to receive an old-fashioned glass that the bartender slid across the counter with a nod, the crisp sound of ice breaking the pause as I took a swig. It was good.

Over the top of my glass, I saw him watching. Openly. And then he must have realized he was staring because he averted his gaze, offering up the alternative view of his right ear. A hint of red.

"I assume you've been taking good care of that book you loaned?" "Been scribbling in it. Think the librarian's gonna forgive me?" "Only if the scribbles match the original handwriting in the book, complete with uneven lines and spelling errors. Though I'm sure I wouldn't have to worry about that." "...fair." "Never knew virgin could be spelled with a 'j'." "You learn something new every day."

"Indeed," he dared a glance my way, picking up his wine glass and swirling once. The movement had me by the eyes—fixed on his fingers, lingering on their slender shape and smoothness under warm light. "Such is the nature of living. And for you, I hope."

I said nothing in return. There wasn't much to work with. And I wasn't as good with words as he was, even with the help of a glass or two.

"You were a natural," he sighed. Something lonely reflected in his eyes, masked by a smile. "No one would've guessed deep down, you... never wanted to be a chef."

"I liked today," I laid out in simple terms, taking another swig from my glass. "It wasn't about being a chef. Maybe that's why I liked it."

"I'm glad you perceived it that way. I'm sure not many others would have. After all, in the grand scheme of things, the show is about... well. Identifying the best chef among the lot of you."

I laughed a little, choosing to leave his words up in the air. He was right. Before the plan, I would never have thought about surrounding myself with people like that. A conscious choice. Annie did always talk about taking control.

Looking down at the old-fashioned glass in my hand that held a smooth, rich, liquid the color of malt, something crossed the back of my tongue. It felt familiar; the taste of something once loved and gradually forgotten. I felt him follow my gaze.

There was no thinking in the time he took to slide into the seat between us, filling the space that was empty and closing the distance that felt like a mile. The bar seats had little to spare in between them. Our shoulders brushed and I felt the chill of snow at the sound of our glasses clinking.

Wine against bourbon.

"To the you who liked today." He raised red to his lips, finishing the rest of his glass in a go. I watched. The feeling was like a spell; there was no looking away. I hadn't expected to ever see him drink so openly. Freely. Almost recklessly.

The act shaved layers of his composure that would've otherwise kept him in a pristine condition of reserve. Fuck, that was a bunch of words. Where did they even come from? Hell. Must've been the spell.

The sound of him placing his glass back down on the counter was what brought me back. His lips curved along with the sideway glance that had his eyes—closer now—setting my nerves on fire in a single look. "Are you not going to drink?"

I reached for my own. Slow. No surprises, it was fuel to my flames. I respected his toast, finishing mine in one go just as he did and setting the old-fashioned aside once I was done.

He'd shifted to rest his elbows on the counter, the side of his head leaning against the back of his hand that was loosely curled. All he did was look at me. Dazed, but looking.

There is music in the bar. It was nothing big, nothing loud. They had something playing on a couple of old speakers; muted and unclear. I figured it was all part of my imagination since the other sounds weren't any better—the clinking of glasses, creaking of floorboards, billiards, clacking, the crushing of ice. It all sounded apart. Like they existed in some other place, some other dimension outside of me because all I could hear was the single sound of soft, fresh snow. Breathing.

I did not need to look at his lips to know the danger I was in but I did. His lips were tinted the shade of wine and they sparked inside, an urge to take him whole.

Click.

Hunger was cut short by a sound. It put out the flames and left a smog in my head that, upon clearing, had me identifying the sound at once.

The only reason I could was because I'd used cameras like that countless times and the click of a shutter, as far as they could be from their subject, had an ability to cut through every sound in the world.

"Leroy?"

I'd stood up. Eyes trained in the direction I thought I heard the sound coming from. I left it up to my instincts to pick the scene apart and identify the source but lighting was dim and even other guests who were slightly farther into the room seated around stray tables and chairs hadn't stirred. No one else but me seemed to have noticed the odd clicking sound of a shutter.

"Leroy." His fingers brushed my arm and had my attention falter at the sight of his head resting on his arms, folded against the countertop, stray hand wandering. "Are you alright?"

"I heard a camera," I breathed, sounding a tad bit distressed even to myself. The last thing I wanted was more trouble. More to our plate of problems that was already full. Like I said, the one with wars should deal with them afar before returning victorious and peaceful. I couldn't be sure if this was someone with plans up their sleeve, out for him just to get to me. Even Erlynn, I'd offended; anyone with her kind of money could hire all sorts of shady people.

Or it was just the alcohol and this was all a hallucination.

"And what harm would a camera pose?" He dared, teasing. Yet the look in his eyes said the exact opposite. "Pictures? Evidence? ...blackmail?"

All thinking came to a halt. Was he hearing this? Did he say those words, fully aware of what they meant? Surely, someone like him would know the consequences of a judge and a contestant being... someone with that much reason and logic could never miss the fact that his reputation would take a—

"That all sounds to me perfectly unoriginal. Outdated, even. Clearly these people haven't even bothered Googling me. Had reputation been anything close to important in my list of priorities, those poorly-written articles about my lofty ideals and embarrassing clips of Andre and I in his restaurant would never have surfaced," he held out his glass for a refill in the middle of his rant. "Don't they understand? My reputation is already ruined. I stand to lose nothing from more negative publicity penned by interns from clickbait media sites. At the very least, I am being true to myself! Unlike... unlike those petty little... those insufferable... buffoons. I can't stand not saying the truth. No reputation is solely built upon words of truth—everyone's got to lie to keep up with it. As such, I have none! Nothing at all. Forget what I said about my reputation being ruined, I had none in the first place. Today was absolutely frightening. It's been barely forty-eight hours since the start of production and already, I feel the weight of scripted words. You on the other hand... a complete natural. How I envy the likes of you."

I moved the little angy snowstorm's glass quietly out of his reach, musing privately. "You don't mean that."

"And now you're calling me a liar," he laughed tastefully, moving away from the counter and now facing me straight on. His head tilted sideways—half-lidded eyes smiling through those glasses before giving up all vision and closing entirely. He leaned forward, and into my chest. As though finally surrendering to comfort and forgoing all attempts at sitting straight. "Unguarded, yes. A little. With a drink or two, I sometimes am, depending on present company. But a liar?" He breathed. "No."

A dream. I drank from his glass, appreciating his choice of wine. It had to be. "Did something happen with the team?"

"Oh they loved you," he sighed, smelling of chamomile and red. "They loved you very much. In fact, everyone did. The assistants, the producers, the camera crew, sound, even the farm owners and their workers watching from the sidelines." His head tilted ever so slightly, angling up to meet my gaze but I wasn't looking at him. I didn't dare. One glance and I knew I'd be done. There wouldn't be much holding back. "Everyone loves you."

I finished the rest of his drink, raising a hand and asking for a glass of water and napkin from the bartender. He didn't speak very much while I minded my business, downing half the water and wetting a corner of the napkin to dab his lips that were stained red. Remnants.

"You?"

It was a question I wasn't expecting him to answer. The time between his last couple of words and mine was about five minutes. He would have had to be thinking about it the entire time to know exactly what I was talking about.

"And so do I."

He did. And there was a smile in his voice, as though he was having a pleasant dream and these were words from another world. He'd always been good at catching me off guard. "All that's left to do... is wait."

I knew his answer. Somehow, I did.

It wasn't very like him to have an extreme, different view on something he'd set his mind on several weeks ago. He'd said it before so of course, he'd say it again. I knew he would be waiting.

Thing is; what was he waiting for?

This was on me. I knew what I wanted: a house, two pups, a gym, a farm (if possible), and him. There was no argument. An ordinary life was what I'd been working towards with the exception of there being an additional cat or two but even then, still, that was ordinary too. It wasn't even that I didn't love him anymore; all I did was put that love on hold to figure myself out. Everyone knows: the last thing they want was for their own problems to become that of the one they wished to spend the rest of their life with.

Flames that killed the snow.

The question: was love really something so easily paused and brushed aside in one moment and resumed in the next? I'd expected this to be much, much easier. Some distance between us and boom, I'd be back in the seven-year-pause—holding off on 'us' for the priority of self like how it'd been for a time long and dark. A time I felt looming over my head.

Now, presented daringly on a silver platter was a gift of snow, nuzzling into my shoulder and fingers running down my arm, leaving a soothing chill of words behind. Words that, one by one, undid the heart and had me feeling the heat of a midsummer night.

"Were you happy about that?" "Hm... about?" "People loving me." "...well of course I was." "Not jealous?" "Never," he paused. Then, as though hiding, lowered his gaze and nuzzled deeper into my shoulder, voice muffled. "That's a lie, in case you didn't know." "Let's hear the truth." "Maybe next time, Mr. Cox." "Thought you never lied." "Oh be quiet for once..."

I laughed low, taking in the last of the night. Before I noticed, he'd fallen fast asleep on my shoulder in the quiet evening calm. It was after waiting for moments to pass that I realized I should be taking him back to his room at the hotel, thus ending the dream. The bartender came as soon as we made eye contact and, after receiving my credit card for the bill, asked if we enjoyed the drinks.

I told him we did. And then, to scratch an itch I hadn't thought very much of, I asked if he'd added something special in the bourbon he served. It took him some time to get what I was referring to, but the moment I mentioned a spice or an ingredient, he smiled; said something in Italian that I didn't understand. All but one word.

It was a word I would've known, only because it'd been barely a day since I'd last said it—ordering my fix at that gelato place for some peace and quiet.

============

The walk back our hotel was enough to kick my mind into restart. I had him on my back the entire time and hadn't really thought about the most important thing that should've crossed my mind from the beginning. Where the hell did he put his keycard?

It wasn't in his back pocket. Nothing in his front. He had his chest plastered on my back so not his breast pocket. All I could find on him was his phone and that for sure wasn't going to unlock his room. Bothering concierge at the front desk also wasn't the best answer since they'd probably note a record of this and despite everything the little angy snowflake had said, I wasn't going to have a bunch of people questioning him, so.

I brought him back to mine. Cat was mewling the moment I opened the door, running in circles around me while I made my way to the bed and set the sleepy figure on the covers.

The kids were fine when I checked on them; water bowls filled and sleeping area comfy. In fact, Chicken was busy leading his small friend back to the cushions so that I could properly deal with the very inviting invitation without losing my shit.

I removed his glasses and set them on the study before taking off his shoes and then his blazer. Next, I ran a face towel under some warm water and wiped down the parts of his arms and legs that were exposed. That was when the doorbell rang.

I looked over at my boy on instinct. He displayed nothing hostile or alert, which meant that he probably knew whoever was at the door but didn't like them enough to feel excited or anything. Cat on the other hand started mewling non-stop.

The debate in my head lasted for a couple of seconds before the thing rang again and I thought, fuck it and got the door.

It was the intern girl. The one who'd been in charge of the behind-the-scenes shit on social media. She had a couple of garment bags—the long, black ones for keeping pricey clothes straight—in one hand and a cart full of laundry bags in another. They had names on them.

"Hey. You have your clothes ready?"

I stared for a bit, having a hard time understanding what exactly she was referring to. "Uh... what?"

"Mr. Director said to have today's clothes prepared, remember? I'm making my rounds collecting everyone's stuff on set to get them washed and ready for tomorrow's shoot. You have to be wearing the same thing for continuity. He said that like, two hours ago, come on. I'm Julianna."

Oh right, fuck. He did say that.

I glanced down for a bit to recall what I was wearing. Just... stuff. Normal clothes. Easy fix. I told her give me a sec and closed the door to take my shirt and pants off before getting back to her in less than ten with whatever she asked for. I wasn't thinking very straight or very much, which was the norm, so when I handed my stuff over to the intern, she starting saying a bunch of curses after turning very red.

"Holy shit what are you—where's the—never mind that holy fuck put them in the laundry bag with your name on it hurry up!" She turned away so I guess I had to search for the bag with my name on my own.

I sifted through a bit before fishing out one with my name on it and while all that was happening, a thought crossed my mind. Wouldn't judges have to be wearing the same thing too?

Looking down at the bunch of laundry bags in the cart, I couldn't see one with his name on it. The long garment bags though, had an exact total of three. If one of those were meant for him, then good luck to her, I guess. There was no way she was going to get a response from his room since... well, since the owner wasn't even in.

"Just the chefs?" I asked.

"I-I mean, yea—no, judges, chefs, basically anyone who's, uh... anyone on set, really. Like I said." Julianna said all this with her back to me. I thought for a bit.

"...one minute."

Then closed the door again and headed back into the bedroom, standing stock still in front of the king-sized currently occupied by a certain sleeping snowstorm.

He slept on his side, curled up a little—breathing slow and silent into one of the pillows. Completely unguarded. Carefully, I sat on the edge of the bed and said his name, leaning over him to check for signs. No response.

"Vanilla," I tried again, brushing aside a lock of his hair and stroking a part of his cheek by accident. He stirred, eyelids moving a little before finally giving way to a lazy blink. I backed up while he rose to seating position.

"Leroy...?" He hummed, half-awake and rubbing his eyes in a blur. It was the cutest fucking shit I'd seen in a long time.

"Hey. Need your clothes for a sec," I laid out. All truths. No lie.

"My clothes...?" He glanced down with a pause. Dazed. "What... what about them?"

"We're wearing the same shit tomorrow for conti... new... something," whatever that word was.
"There's an intern at the door waiting to collect to our clothes."

"O-oh. Oh. Right. Julianna." He seemed to remember, nodding vaguely before squinting at my torso. "Those, aren't, clothes."

"Yeah I took them off."

He had the gall to reach out and run his fingers across my abs. "They're... bread rolls."

I held back a laugh, grabbing his hand and guiding it away from me so that I could somehow conceal the fact that I was horny as fuck. "Julianna's waiting outside. I need you to focus."

"Oh. Oh yes... you're right." His gaze lowered once more, slowly reaching for the buttons of his dress shirt to no avail. I couldn't tell if it was his fingers giving out on him or if his mind was fuzzy and messed up the whole 'how to undo a shirt button' thing.

After failing three times to do anything with his shirt, he altogether gave up and reached down to take his pants off instead but thanks to his godly eyesight and clumsy fingers, he couldn't figure out a way to unbuckle his belt and fiddled at the thing on his waist for seconds that were painful to watch. Long story short, snow was incapable of undressing himself.

"...need any help?"

He paused, considering the offer. After blinking twice, he looked up. "That would... be nice, I suppose. Yes. Please help."

That whole thing was enough to test my limits; not as though they weren't already being tested but giving my hundred-and-one-percent not to stare was eating away at any form of reason I had left in that head of mine. I started with his dress shirt.

Big mistake.

The back of my fingers brushed the surface of his skin by accident, right in the middle of his chest where the second button was and I felt him shiver. His split-second reaction deleted every single thought in my head and left me hopelessly hard. No apologies, no shameful averting of my gaze just full-on, open fucking staring.

And as though over-sensitive just from that bit of contact, he would flinch as I worked my way down, unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt and then removing his belt. It was impossible to turn away, to lie about not wanting to cave and have him whole.

A single glance was all I needed to appreciate the view without scaring him away. He had his eyes closed after the third button, lips drawn in as though preventing the escape of something dangerous. The contact had red brushing his ears, half concealed by stray locks of hair while the rest of him felt like fresh snow, responding to every slightest bit of heat.

I was out of there in a blink with his shirt and blazer over my shoulder, dress pants folded as neatly as I could with the fuzziest fucking mind before grabbing a pair of sweatpants on my way out so that Julianna wouldn't combust. Though... wasn't like the pants were going to help very much for the state I was in. The solution as not having the door wide open. Just a crack.

"Oh my god, what took you so lo... wait," she stared at the clothes I handed over, squinting a little. "Aren't these...?"

"Yeah. White's," I did my best to spin something on the spot. "He passed out at the cocktail and I happened to be around nearby. Someone said to take him back to the hotel so I did. He's resting now but I'll tell him you came by once he's up."

"O-oh! Right," she breathed a sigh. "Makes sense. Thanks for taking care of that; I'd be in trouble if I missed his clothes." She put his stuff up on a hanger and slide the garment bag over before wheeling the cart down the hallway. "See ya."

Closing the door behind me had a huge weight lifting off my shoulders. The relief even made me momentarily forget about whatever was going on below my waist. I grabbed a bathrobe from the closet for his use before heading back into the bedroom but he'd already made good use of the covers, wrapping them around his bare skin with only his head and a bit of his neck exposed.

My dick felt a little conflicted about that. It wasn't sure if I found this cute and safe or dangerous and provocative. Or both.

Either way, he was occupied with petting his kitten who'd somehow managed to climb onto the bed and pad across the sheets. When he noticed me standing by the door with a bathrobe in hand, he looked away as though I was on fire.

"I am... very, very sorry about... all the trouble I've caused. I should head back to my room," he started, sounding a tad more sober than he was minutes before. That said, he didn't seem to show any actual intent on leaving at all, as though my response would ultimately determine the outcome.

I took a moment to piece things together before realizing the exact problem. "Where'd you put your keycard?"

"Oh, just..." he seemed confident about his memory before faltering and then altogether coming to a halt. Slowly, his eyes went wide. "The inner pocket of my—! Good god. Is Julianna...?"

"...yeah." I went with the flow, not quite bothering to go back out into the hallway to check if she was still around. For obvious reasons. "You can stay here till she returns. I'll look out for messages on the chat."

"I... alright. Thank you. And goodness... I'm so sorry," again, he sounded upset.

I poured him a glass of water and handed it over. "How's your head?"

"Better now. I think," he accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. Sighing. "I hope I didn't... sound like an absolute fool saying the things I said."

"Sure you did." I sat at the end of the bed, a safe distance away. "Kept going on about my 'bread rolls' to everyone in the bar and even recited the alphabet."

"I did not." He blushed hard. "In fact, I... recall everything I said. In clear detail."

I blinked. Surprised he'd said all that despite being perfectly sober. It was nearly impossible. "... like what?"

"That I was... oh for the lack of a better word—a jealous fool, a-and and, that I... that I still... oh you know what I said." He set the water aside, hands clasped in front of him and resting on his lap.

"I thought it was the wine talking," I said honestly, surprised. It stretched the strings that were holding me back a little. Not that they weren't already taut to begin with.

"They were truths, Leroy." He seemed, for a moment, disappointed in himself. "I understand what I'm doing now does nothing but ruin the progress you'd built up, holding off on... us. In that sense, I am your very villain, and I am sorry for that. You have your reasons for agreeing to be a part of the show but... but having you right before me and yet feeling as though you're quite out of reach is, frankly, unbearable. Wait, I... that's not what... that only makes matters worse, u-um, no, delete the past few seconds. What I'm saying is that I have to keep my distance and you can rest assured. I will not have your hard work go to—"

I made short work of his words, swallowing them whole and tasting wine on his lips that were parted midsentence and in surprise.

Needless to say, I'd caved and it did not take very long before he did, too. He sank into my arms faster than I'd expected, matching the rhythm of my lips and tilting his head a little just like I'd taught him to. I felt him shiver at the contact—gasping a little when my hands came up to cradle his face and I went back in for more.

The kiss was a tale, remembered once told. I knew what I was doing; that in this instant, more than a month of complete distance was filled and we'd gone from nothing to everything in mere seconds of longing. The heat was incredible. Almost unrivalled.

Still, this wasn't something I'd actually prepared for, so despite the heightened senses, I knew we had to stop somewhere down the line. It was hard to pull back but eventually we did and it was amid soft breathing sounds that he managed an invitation with those pleasured eyes of his.

"I'd... like to take a bath," his gaze shied away for a bit before returning to meet mine. "Unfortunately, I don't quite know how to lock an Italian door."

I stared, processing this long and hard until a smile found its way to my lips and on to his. "Fucking English lessons. Every single time."

"Look who's enjoying them."