A/N: I needed two weeks to write this chapter because it... was just so important. Too important to leave it at just a two-scene thing and I figured I'd lay off last week's update to release everything at once because the build-up from the last chapter to this is just a crucial part of this story that is far, far too close to my heart. 

Enjoy.

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[Leroy]

I think I saw the look in his eyes before turning to face the person dumb enough to call him out in the streets like he was the one who'd done something wrong and deserved to be punished. For a moment, I thought I saw fear. Then he all but froze over, taking with him the box of doughnuts and starting in the opposite direction.

The next thing I knew, the guy across the street neared us with a phone held up, directed at Vanilla, mainly, but judging by the distance, I would've been in-frame.

"Hey. Hey, why do you hate Andre so much?" People who couldn't afford to mind their own business for a second of their lives had the mental capacity of a rock so I tried to brush stuff like that aside as much as he did; although I hate to admit, he did seem like he was used to it by this point. Which sucks.

I picked up my pace to match his, blocking him from view but already, heads had turned and people were staring. Some other dude smoking by the sidewalk got in our way before holding up a phone in our faces with a laugh; likely high on something and didn't actually know what was happening so I shoved him out of the way. Gently. Not really. Then we turned a bend and the rest of the way back to the ride, said nothing until we were alone in the car.

He sighed first.

"I should have seen that coming. If waiters and waitresses in every other food establishment have taken to recognizing me by face, I wouldn't be surprised if members of the general public have begun to do the same. I'm sorry our lunchtime turned out this way. Just when everything was going so well, too. I should have been more cautious."

I let him breathe, handing over some bottled water and taking the box of doughnuts. "This happens every now and then?"

"In restaurants and places that warn their staff about critics and Michelin inspectors, yes, but... not in public spaces like that." He looked up, apologetic.

"You did nothing wrong. Don't be sorry."

He smiled behind a sip of water, shaking his head. "There's something magical about chefs that charms a general audience. People tend to take the side of emotion at stake over some... supposedly cold critic giving his opinion on food that has always been viewed as a subjective matter. Influenced by factors of the heart."

I picked out the doughnut filled with pistachio cream, holding it out to him. "So they side the madman?"

"Because anger is an emotion they can relate to, unlike the seeming... lack of it?" He laughed a little, taking a small bite of the pastry from my hand. The gesture surprised me. I had expected him to receive it first. "Hm. Not bad. A subtle, albeit fragrant nuttiness despite the cream that is light. A decent dough to filling ratio. Try it. If you'd like to, I mean. You don't seem very fazed by what just happened."

I glanced down at the load of overflowing cream; empty calories, as long as I couldn't taste them. "Those people don't really matter to me. And I know you're not the kind of person to waste your time and energy on... low levels." I finished, blazing a little. He rolled his eyes, smiling all the same.

"How blunt. And yet I daresay you believe food to be a matter of the heart, too. No?" He reached over for the doughnut and this time, I handed it to him. "That the best meal of our lives doesn't solely depend on the objective deliciousness of the food served."

We never really talked about this before. Stuff like the best meal of our lives that back then, felt like too deep a conversation for the kid-versions of ourselves and yet, the answer that came to mind was one that I'd experienced after mere four years of existing.

"Know what's mine?" "Not braised chicken, I hope. Dear god, spare me."

I laughed, reaching over for the usual on his forehead. "It was with Siegfried... at an ice cream place. I wanted some crazy-ass flavor they invented. Edamame and chocolate chips. He refused. Got me the vanilla instead and said the thing I'd remember for the rest of my life." I turned to him. "Best meal ever."

The look in his eyes was something I'd never seen. Something like ripples on the surface of a quiet lake but this time, reflecting the light of the sun.

"I... was not expecting that answer," he said frankly, averting his gaze. "Thank you for sharing. Unfortunately, I have yet experienced the best meal of my lifetime. I suppose you could say I am still waiting for it."

He left me hanging. A strange feeling of being open and closed at the same time because it wasn't as though I hadn't cooked him a meal in the past and part of me had been... hoping for an answer I was familiar with. But then another part of me was glad that he'd left that seat unoccupied. The throne.

"On that note, I'd say we're in for a hard time out in public for leisure. Especially in restaurants or any food establishment, really. I wouldn't be surprised if certain places decide to turn me away thinking I was on a mission to destroy them with an undercover review or something. Though I really wouldn't mind homecooked meals and pizza delivery every now and then. Even microwaved meals! If, um, you're okay with that, at least."

I snorted, turning the keys in the ignition. Watching the leather 'V' dangle from the keyring. "Says something about their food if they're desperate enough to do that. But I'm good with ready-mades. Or anything. Plus, staying in just means more... y'know." I flashed him one of those criminal smiles. The kind that disarmed.

His ears turned red on cue. And remained that way throughout the entire ride back to his office.

*

I was due at Andre's bistro right after dropping my snowstorm at the lobby and feeling the car return to a stale afternoon drone. Siegfried and I had a deal; and though I was sure about honoring it on my end, I couldn't say the same for him. I would spend the afternoons on my days off heading tea service at Andre's bistro with an improved menu. In exchange, he'd steer clear of personal interaction with Vanilla and forget about getting to me through him. The last thing I wanted was Siegfried breathing down his neck about me returning to the culinary world and then him having to blame himself for it. Again.

Yet, I had a feeling. A smoking. The bad sort. That something else would happen and the flames would be discovered; a little too late.

I came through the kitchen doors from the back alley into the restaurant section and Andre was right there with a pissy look on his face. Nothing new.

"You're late, shitface," his spit was going everywhere. "Your father isn't here to back you up like always, you know."

I snorted, grabbing my whites and heading to the locker room where the sous chef waited. He brought me over to the bistro-side kitchen and introduced me to the service crew on the afternoon tea shift and then, the line cooks. Nothing seemed very different from the several other production kitchens I've worked my ass off in and the menu was boring. No surprises there.

"Last night's service was bloody awesome by the way," said the sous chef with a clap on my back. "So Andre's pissier than usual. You know what I mean. Anyway, Chef Cox called and said you were coming in today for tea service. Uh... you know the drill. Two hours to come up with the Chef's special. Everything else on the menu remains the same."

I got the line cooks of each station to run me through each and every one of their dishes on the menu and made some corrections to their technique, swapping out a condiment or two for enhanced depth in flavor before coming up with a special for the last item on the afternoon menu.

Frankly speaking, whatever they served in the afternoon did not differ very much from the morning bistro service. Except an additional three-tier-stand of savories and sweets and the special, everything else remained. Unsurprisingly, this was the exact menu I remembered from my time in Andre's kitchen. Which said a lot.

"Mate, you sure about this?" The line cook for the cracked pepper turkey sandwich questioned my decision to swap out the black pepper for yuzu kosho, a Japanese citrus-y pepper that worked magic on red and white meats. "It'll be a whole new flavor profile."

I grilled a handful of shredded turkey on the spot with the condiment he was doubting, nothing else added, not even salt. He was sold after one bite. The fragrance had also attracted a couple other line cooks from the other stations and thirty minutes before the start of service, we somehow devolved (wow, English) into a bunch of hungry motherfuckers picking at strands of shredded turkey.

One of them said something about finding this all hard to believe. That they were goofing around in Andre's kitchen. I made it clear that we weren't goofing. Just proving a point. Another one asked me what was on the menu for the special.

"Fried chicken." I told him.

They all stopped to stare. "Fried chicken?" Their eyes looked like they were about to pop and it was actually kinda funny. "That's like—" "Wait, at a Michelin star bistro?" "Andre's gonna flip for sure." "Boneless, right?" "How much are you charging?"

"A basket. So a wing and a leg. Two tenders. Two chunks. A basket for... five quid...?" I turned my attention to the deep fryer, starting it up and getting out two tenders from under the counter for a test run.

"Five quid?" The guy who initially doubted my decision about the pepper swap was grinning. "Mate, nothing on the menu goes for anything less than fifteen, you know that, right? Are you saying I can actually afford something here?"

I shrugged, returning the humor. "Okay then make it six. Or seven quid."

They exchanged looks, as though struggling to believe I wasn't some figment of their imagination. I minded my own business, prepping the batter for the chicken.

"Are you... really, like, actually the mystery chef guy?" Someone asked and I snorted.

"Up to you. I don't care for that title."

"No, like, Angie said you hadn't stepped into a kitchen for years and we were expecting someone... I dunno, fancy and shit? Like Chef Cox. You know." They nodded, agreeing. "Plus, the five-course last night. We heard from the evening shift. Sounded like you were an expert at fine dining."

I sort of paused. In the middle of dredging some chicken in the batter I made.

Funnily enough, I'd expected this kind of resistance in the kitchen. It didn't matter if Andre was never the nicest head chef around or if they actually hated being part of his kitchen. Production lines had a pride of their own; an ownership, really. They weren't just going to listen to some random-ass dude without the credentials to back himself up except his father's name. And honestly, I couldn't give a fuck whether or not they did.

"If by that you mean I know my techniques and how to deal with expensive ingredients, yeah. I learned all that instead of... memorizing multiplication tables and shit. I diced onions for hours. Knife skills for days. Weeks. Months. Flambé. Sous vide. Torching. I still don't know how to spell favorite." I laid the tender the deep fryer. Heard the sizzling of the oil. The aroma of the batter. Crisping. "But that doesn't mean I think good food is something only the rich are entitled to."

*

I wasn't expecting them to actually like me. Somehow, it happened. After hearing what I had to say and then sealing the deal with a bite of heaven in the form of fried chicken, the kitchen was mine.

It helped that the crew from last night put in a good word for me, including the dishwashing girl who ended up assisting me with dessert. Mainly for the taste. It was the only thing on the menu that had mixed reviews.

Either way, service started off smooth even with the slight improvements I made to certain boring-ass items on the menu. The line cooks were flexible and good at adapting, which was the only thing I could think of as an upside to the situation and Andre's leadership in general. At the very least, he was good at picking out the best. Service crew came in time to time with compliments. Morale was high in the heat of the kitchen and not one station was buried or in the weeds. I was calling out table orders. Expediting. And at a steady pace. Almost relaxed. It felt, pretty much, like an ordinary afternoon shift.

Until someone came through the doors with a return.

"Table three. Smells weird, she said." The waitress shrugged, holding out the plate at the window. I received it, taking a whiff.

The order was a smoked salmon eggs benedict with avocado on toast and the dish looked exactly as I remembered it looking when I sent it out. Which meant that table three hadn't so much as touched the food.

The sous chef came over and the waitress said the same thing to him. I held out the plate. He sniffed at the it. "Smells alright to me."

Line cooks who had their heads turned out of curiosity went back to minding their own business, losing interest. Either way, I took the dish apart and gave the individual elements a quick check before it went into the bin. Strictly speaking, this was the golden rule for all food establishments. Untouched or not, return plates had to be binned. No questions asked.

I went up to the guy responsible for the dish, stopping by his station for a word. His first reaction was to get all defensive, which said a lot about Andre's management. I assured him he wasn't dealing with a kid who liked throwing tantrums.

"There was nothing wrong with what you made," I told him. "Just a picky customer. Refire the dish. And for the toast, maybe crank down the heat a little and use a cloche to steam it instead of just slapping it onto the grill. Torch the salmon a little before it goes to the window. Get another avocado. This one's a touch under."

He looked surprised, nodding and getting straight to re-firing the eggs benedict. I kept an eye on him, but got back to expediting dishes and sending orders through the window. Minutes later, he came back to me with a new plate and it looked pretty good. Just from the texture of the toast, I could tell he'd done as I said. Steaming it on the grill retained the moisture inside the bread while crisping up the underside.

I sent it out.

And then one motherfucking minute later the waitress comes back looking pissed as hell and already, I knew what she had to say. "Again?"

"She didn't even touch it." She slid the plate across the window and I stared at the perfect-ass poached eggs, the nice smoked salmon, the ripe creamy avocadoes and the improved toast. I couldn't see a problem with any component of the dish.

"What did she say?"

"The salmon's overdone."

Okay, she doesn't want it aburi style; fine. Should have said that from the start instead of complaining about the smell. I told the waitress to bin it and let the customer know that it'd take another ten to fifteen minutes for her dish. And that this time, I was the one firing it.

She nodded and I got to work, taking over the line cook's station while he subbed in for some quick expediting. Though when it came to sending dishes out the window, he'd bring them to me for an eye.

It wasn't a complex dish. Smoked salmon eggs benedict on avocado toast was the kind of thing you'd see on every other bistro menu. I whipped up a completely new batch of Hollandaise sauce, poached the eggs to perfection, got out another avocado because I wasn't gonna fucking deal with another return and wasting another batch of ingredients, and made sure every component was irresistible before sending it out the window.

The only concern I had was a slight misbalance in flavor but since the dish had no sweet element, I figured there was nothing to pick at.

I was wrong. Not about the flavor balance—'cuz again, table three hadn't even bothered to taste the food—but the fact that human beings were generally reasonable and had nothing to say about perfection. Because this one sure did.

Either way, this had attracted the attention of the whole kitchen crew. I called some over to taste the dish. It was fine. Good, even.

And I was pissed. Some guest, money enough to spend twenty-two quid on an eggs benedict, was wasting time and expensive ingredients without even touching the food or giving an exact reasoning for a return plate.

I checked the restaurant layout plastered to the side of the kitchen door before heading out to the terrace for table three.

Through the indoor dining area and past the entrance to the garden was when I could make out the back of difficult guest. A woman seated at table three wearing some fancy fur coat with an expensive-looking bag on the chair to her right. Just her. No one else.

She had her back towards the walkway and was looking out onto the street when I arrived at her table. When I finally caught a glimpse of her face, all I could see was her dark shade lipstick and a pair of sunglasses. Gold plated.

I asked her what she thought of the plate I'd fired. Like what was wrong with the food. "What's your problem?"

So be it. I'd tossed my entire dictionary of service etiquette out years ago and couldn't, in that instant, think of anything else to say. Luckily, the waitress attending to table three came had made the clever decision to run after me and arrived seconds later, breathing heavily, to defuse the situation.

That was before the guest removed her sunglasses. And when she did, I felt the anger and confusion double.

Erlynn must have been expecting the opposite from the way she was smiling, as though triumphant that she'd successfully lured me out of the kitchen for a joyful surprise and then failed to recognize her in expensive clothes but I couldn't give a fuck about that. Right this moment, she was a customer who'd wasted three portions of smoked salmon, three avocadoes, six eggs, and three thick-ass, premium-standard toasts. Knowing this was her only made things worse.

When she did nothing to dismiss the waitress, I sighed and turned to her, telling her I'd handle this quietly. The staff glanced between us both before understanding we were personally familiar with one another and left the table with a nod.

I struggled to put out the flame in my eyes before returning Erlynn's gaze. Otherwise, I could have very well exploded.

"What do you want."

Her smile faded a little; turned into something playful. "I came to see you. I know everything. Since last night." Her chin, slightly raised. Proud. The way she was dressed—I couldn't even tell if it was some guise of hers or if this was what she actually wore on a daily basis. And if that was the case... she must be loaded as heck.

"You wasted food to see me?" It wasn't even a question. I knew I was pissed. And I didn't bother hiding it because what the fuck. I did not know this person. This, and whoever it was who stopped by Vanilla's apartment last night—I did not know these people. The Erlynn I knew for a good three and a half years wasn't like this. And the fact that she somehow knew about my deal with Siegfried; the fact that I was gradually stepping back into the kitchen; or even Vanilla's address. How the fuck did she know all that?

The look on my face and the tone of my voice did not sit well with her, judging by the frown that was wearing. She tossed her sunglasses onto the table. It made a loud sound. Heads turned.

"Hm. Just another occasion of you not appreciating me or the effort I put into us. Okay. Sure. I mean, I even took a day off for this, thinking you'd be pleased with the surprise but okay. Should've known."

"I don't think you're getting the point."

"Roy." Stop calling me that. "Let's face it. We need to talk."

"Last week? Yeah. Now? I don't even want anything to do with you."

"What? Roy, do you hear yourself? I did this for you I-I had good intentions I don't get why you're so mad about nothing in the first place! I didn't do anything wrong. Why are you treating me like this?" She stood up. Her chair dragged.

More eyes.

"Don't cause a scene."

"A scene?" She scoffed. "Roy, I'm talking about us and all you care about is me causing a scene? I'm not even—"

"Either you turn it down, or I'm asking you to leave."

"Leroy!" Her tone was disbelief and it was loud. Already, I could feel the day weigh on my shoulders and as though lunchtime and the staring hadn't been enough, this was double the number; eyes fixed on me in my chef whites. Ah, fuck. "Why are you—how can you not realize you're doing the exact thing you never wanted to do? And now you're blaming me for wanting you to pull the stops and then now, for trying to support you? Weren't you the one who said you'd give up on this and leave the kitchen behind?"

The way she was now, she wasn't going to listen. Wasn't even going to understand how things weren't as simple as she thought they were.

I did say all those things. Back then, when all I needed was a simple enough solution to get rid of all that sadness. That hole.

"Erlynn." I looked her in the eye. Quiet. "I need you to leave."

She left. Fur coat, bag, sunglasses and all. I returned to the kitchen.

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

Just when I thought the day couldn't get any worse.

There were pictures. Of me—of us, Erlynn and I—all over culinary tags online and just googling Andre's bistro had me scrolling through badly written articles that speculated to no end and fuck were things going downhill.

Had he seen them?

I was in my whites. Erlynn's face was in clear view. He'd piece last night together and think that I'd been hiding it from him and that even some random-ass neighbor knew better than him and he'd break. For sure. Because I'd lied to him.

Again.

And he was going to find out from someone other than myself. From his secretary, from a tweet, from some other food writer or culinary thing fuck. Worst of all, this could all very well have been some part of Siegfried's plan since all he ever wanted was for his culinary genius son in the spotlight and here he was, revealed as the mystery chef all because he'd slipped up and made a dumb-ass mistake and landed himself in deep shit. Deep fucking shit.

I was home before I knew it. Funny how I started calling his place home so casually. Like it was natural or something when really, one stupid mistake and all of it could come crashing down, slipping through my fingers after years of imagining us together—perfect against all odds. Different from the us in the past.

I had to switch the lights on and wait for him to come through those doors. This wasn't last night. It wasn't a mad rush of hopping in and out of the shower, turning the TV on, cracking open a can of coke and a bag of chips for company, lounging on the couch in a way that made it seem I'd been there the entire day, no. Today was a long, painful wait. The kind that ached.

Chicken could tell something was up. He looked up at me with those eyes and his tail just... limp. I filled his food bowl and he ate while I stood in the kitchen. Just, idle. Zero idea what to say. How to say it; how to face him, again. It was hard if he knew, even harder if he didn't.

And then I heard the beep of his keycard; front door unlocking with a click.

All at once, I killed the flame and froze on the spot, staring at the entrance to the living. He appeared at the doorway, glasses slightly fogged and half his face hidden by a knitted scarf, briefcase in hand. His eyes had lit up and softened after meeting my gaze and I knew he hadn't checked his phone; probably headed straight for home in a rush after work just so we could spend more time together, leaving the messages and emails unanswered.

I watched him cross the room.

Time slowed.

"Goodness, the weather today has been nothing short of unpredictable. I was going to stop by the store for some tea but then it got so cold I figured coming home for a quick fix would've been a better... I'll just get the kettle running while you... um." He paused. Several feet away. Removing his scarf. Leaving his briefcase by the couch. "Leroy?"

I said nothing.

He neared, glancing around for clues. "Is something... are you... okay?" The look in his eyes.

Ripples. Worry. I didn't need to touch his hands to know they were cold.

"Did something happen to Annie?"

I shook my head. That was how much he trusted me. His first thought about something going wrong had nothing to do with us. Between him and myself, he saw nothing wrong. Nothing that could go wrong and fuck, I was going to ruin it all. Burn whatever we'd rebuilt to the ground, hell and back.

Ash and smoke.

"W-well then, what is it?" He put everything aside, phone and all. I could hear it on the counter. Ringing once. Twice. Notifications flooding in. His eyes never once drifted from mine. "I have all evening. It doesn't matter if it's a long story."

He was the one who reached out for touch. I didn't even dare. Afraid any form of contact would just give it all away and he'd see right through me. Right through the flame.

"Vanilla."

His eyes cleared at the sound of his name. As though eager to hear me speak. He then searched my gaze and found little response, which made him a little afraid. I could tell from the way he stepped back like he'd wandered too close to the very thing that destroyed, turning his attention to the electric kettle on the counter. He filled the silence with action.

And right then and there, I think I stopped functioning.

"If you're not ready to talk about it, um, that's quite alright and you know I'll be waiting so take as long as you need but perhaps something warm would—"

"The rum raisin cake kinda sucked, huh?" I laughed.

The look in his eyes.

Everything froze over. Slowly. Like frost on the window of a winter morning. I registered the laugh only after it happened and felt the ache in my cheeks that was the remnants of a smile I could not figure out the source of. The thundering, the sound in my ears was gone and all I could hear was his breathing and the sound of his phone every now and then. The cold; it sharpened as he turned to face me, raising his lowered gaze in a way that made everything seem null and extinguished.

He said my name.

I bit down. Hard. Just to prevent anything else from escaping while the smile all but disappeared and I knew I had to put it out. Trap the fire within while his gaze regained its vigor and searched mine, left and right, then anything but me—recalling, piecing things together. He reached for his phone and the first thing on my mind was him seeing all those images, reading all the shit they wrote about me but he'd picked up his phone to turn it off. Put it down.

Back to me.

He swallowed. Long and heavy. "Last night," he managed. "She was telling the truth, then. Erlynn."

I just looked at him. I could hear it. Hear it falling apart.

"She was right, then? All that she said yesterday, about you... about me, she was right. My returning to your side has only brought you back into the culinary world and caused you more pain, more suffering, so that was what she was referring to. It makes sense now. You were in the kitchen a-and your father, Siegfried, he found out, and... and you were hiding it from me because I'd blame myself if I found out but for this to have happened in the first place. Probability-wise, I'd say you were not expecting it. The first time would have to be... would have to be weeks ago unless... before...? But no, your father wouldn't have... it was me. It has to be me."

"Vanilla..."

"I can't believe it," he met mine. In those eyes, I saw cracks. It was mirrored in his voice. "The... the exact same thing. It's happening again. It's seven years ago, all over again."

I did not know what to say because he wasn't wrong. I was in pain; but it wasn't because of him it was never because of him. I said this.

He looked away and I could see it in his fingers. Trembling. "I'd like to say that with confidence, too, Leroy." He paused. Swallowing. "It is unfortunate. I can't do that. Because the truth is, had I not... had I not returned, you'd be... in the firehouse. Right this instant. Enjoying your evening with crew members and perhaps playing a game of cards or or watching a basketball match all while waiting for your next call but here you are. Here you are... doing the very thing you despise."

The last word was broken and he let it crack. Tears streaming like it was the lake because the ice was gone and how else could it have held up against the fire, the flame, the ash the smoke that destroyed it all. Just a candle. But so much. So much gone.

"I don't know what to say." He sobbed. "I had hoped things would be different."

"It is. It is different—"

"Why did you keep me in the dark?" He did nothing about tears streaming down his face and I'd never heard him ask a question he knew the answer to so that, too, began to break me. And there it was. The water. Putting out the flame.

He didn't look surprised by the lack of reason in his words and entire demeanor, like this was a side of him that he'd acknowledged and known the existence of, deep beneath the surface and that was when I realized—beneath it all, beneath the ice and the snow and cold, bitter winter, Vanilla, too, had struggled as much as I did during the years we'd spent apart.

"Yesterday. You, you lied. The past couple of... I asked you. I asked if—"

"I don't know how the fuck I got myself into this," I whispered. "But I did it because I wanted to and no one else made that decision for me. Okay?"

"No." Was all he said at first. "No. No, something must have willed you to... to make that decision, to step back into the kitchen, to put on those whites to, to... all those dishes—it doesn't work like that, Leroy. A five-course meal doesn't just make itself! Everything you did... everything you did was for me." His voice was so soft. I could barely hear him.

As though nothing was left. Just the wind.

And like the wind, it swept up the words and took everything I thought I could have said because, again, he was right. He was right about it all and yet, it hurt that he was. But I couldn't understand why it did. Why it hurt. Because I'd done it all—I'd done everything right. I'd followed my heart like they said to do, I HELD ON, I DID WHAT IT TOLD ME TO DO. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO WIN; LOVE.

It did not.

He turned to me, then, with a trembling lip. Three words slipped past. Three words that hurt to hear and looked as though they hurt even more to say and he was, at this point, just, caving in. Gone was the lake. It vanished.

"I love you." He backed away. "But it appears to be true. The heat of a flame ruins ice and the water, in turn, extinguishes the flame."

He left the room.

And the candle.

It vanished.