Luca was at Marco's shoulder, voice low and fast, already in motion.
"Okay," Luca said, tying his apron and shoving a laminated menu into Marco's hands. "Listen. Don't memorise it, understand it. That's the trick here. No-one expects you to remember everything on day one but you have to understand the components of the dish."
He pointed as he spoke, guiding Marco through the stations.
"Starter one is a sea bream crudo. You'll garnish with fennel pollen and the citrus oil, this yellow bottle here. Not too much. If you think it's enough, it's already too much. Watch how it's done before doing, yes?"
Marco nodded, eyes scanning the prep.
"Second is the pigeon. You won't touch the protein, but you'll finish the plate. Roots go clockwise. Sauce only after Chef checks it."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then you don't plate," Luca said flatly. "Ever."
They moved again.
"Duck course, herb salad. You bruise the leaves, he'll know. He always knows." Luca glanced sideways at him. "When in doubt, breathe. You're not slow, you're careful. That's good."
The printer crackled to life, the familiar sound that haunted every service workers dreams.
Luca clapped his hands once. "Alright. Stay close. Watch first round, then I'll put you in."
Service hit like a wave. Luca was suddenly rattling off orders in French, translating fragments as he worked, while Henri stood at the front, checking every entree with unsettling focus before it left the pass.
The kitchen shifted, bodies tightening into focus.
"Two bream, hold garnish. Marco, watch my hands."
Marco did. Every movement was economical, practiced. Luca placed each element like it mattered, which here, it did.
"Okay," Luca said, stepping aside. "You're up. Same thing."
Marco's fingers shook once, and he glanced up to see Henri's eyes already on him. His eyes flicked away quickly, heart jolting, just once, before muscle memory kicked in. Zest. Oil. Fennel pollen, light as breath.
He'd done work like this a hundred times.
Luca leaned in. "Good. Again."
Plates blurred past. The heat built. Marco lost track of time, of everything but the next movement, the next call.
"Marco, duck garnish, now."
"Yes."
He plated, adjusted, wiped the rim. Luca checked it in a heartbeat.
"Send it."
The plate disappeared.
Marco exhaled.
Then the space behind him changed.
He didn't need to turn to know Henri was there.
"Pause," Henri said quietly.
Marco froze, heart thudding.
Henri leaned in, close enough that Marco could feel the heat from him, smell the scent of soap and laundry detergent. He adjusted one leaf with the tip of his finger, wiped the corner and underside of his plate.
"Better," he said. Then, to Marco, "Proceed."
That was it. No rebuke. No praise.
The kitchen surged on.
Luca bumped Marco lightly as they reset.
Marco let out a breathless laugh.
"You're doing fine. Keep your head."
By the time the last ticket printed, Marco's hands ached and his shirt clung to his back, but he hadn't missed a plate. Luca corrected him where needed, but Marco was in his element.
"Last call," someone shouted.
The kitchen began to slow. Burners clicked off. The hiss of pans faded. Someone stacked plates with a tired sigh that felt almost reverent. Another made a flat joke that earned a tired grin anyway. The rush drained out of the room slowly, leaving behind sweat, adrenaline, and the low hum of people who'd survived something together.
Henri wiped his hands on a towel and stepped forward.
"Alright," he said. "Before anyone disappears, good work."
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
"The dining room felt it tonight," he continued. "Plates went out clean. The room stayed calm. That only happens when you take care of each other. Thank you. Good finish, bonne nuit, everyone."
A chorus of bonnes nuits followed as people peeled off to change, to smoke, to pour wine.
Henri stayed behind, helping Luca wipe down the pass.
Marco watched him from his station, surprised by how ordinary it felt, how right. He wasn't a man ruling from above, he was someone who'd built the room brick by brick and still carried the weight of it willingly.
Henri handed Luca a towel, speaking in casual lilting French. "You did well with him."
Luca grinned. "I know."
Henri's eyes shifted to Marco. Marco straightened.
"Your station is clean," Henri said, more observation than judgment. "You didn't rush. You still kept up. Mostly."
"I didn't want to miss anything."
"That's good." A pause. "Sometimes."
Marco hesitated, then met his intense gaze. "And sometimes it's not?"
Henri smiled, not kindly. Something competitive flickered there.
"Sometimes," he said, "you'll need to move faster than you're comfortable with. We'll see how you handle that. We'll also see how you handle keeping up in French."
Not a threat. A challenge. His eyes glared pointedly at Marco, in a way that told him he better start learning quickly.
Henri clapped Marco once on the shoulder, brief, the warmth of his palm solid against him. "Go home. Get some rest."
Marco nodded, pulse humming. "Good night, chef."
Henri watched him for a second longer, then turned back to help Luca with the floors.
As Marco grabbed his bag, Élodie leaned in. "Careful," she murmured. "He only pushes people he plans to keep."
Marco glanced back once, just in time to see Henri laugh at something Luca said, head tipped back, utterly at ease in his own kitchen.
Then Luca grabbed his bag and jacket and caught up with Marco at the door.
"First service," he said. "You survived."
"Because of you."
Luca snorted. "Because you earned it. Where are you staying tonight? How's about a drink?"
"I got the keys to my apartment, I haven't even seen it yet and I'm so tired I could fall over. But thank you."
"Let me drive you then." Luca said.
Marco slipped his jacket on and grabbed his suitcase, slipping out the service entrance and into the chill of the Paris night.
He stared up at the apartments surrounding the ally, the dim lamp lights from within windows five stories high.
Luca's tiny red Fiat 500 sat park around a small corner.
A grin split Marco's face when he saw it. Luca immediately caught on.
"Don't you start."
Marco laughed, low and soft. "I wasn't going to say anything."
"You were absolutely going to say something."
"I was going to say it's...charming."
"It is efficient," Luca shot back, unlocking the door.
"It looks like an ladybird." Marco snorted, sliding into the passenger seat, knees brushing the dash. The door shut with a light, tinny sound. He squeezed the suitcase in the back and exhaled.
"See?" Luca said, his shoulder brushing Marco's half proving his point. "Perfect fit."
"For who? A baguette?"
Luca snorted. "Exactly."
They drove in silence for a beat, the narrow street opening into something wider, lights smearing across the windscreen. Marco watched the city pass, the way everything felt closer here, buildings leaning in, windows glowing.
"Thank you," Marco said eventually. "For tonight. For...all of it."
Luca shrugged, one hand on the wheel. "Of course. You are a great chef, Marco. You showed up. On time. Most people don't."
Marco smiled at that, resting his head back against the seat. The tiredness finally caught up with him, heavy and full-bodied.
They stopped at a red light. Luca glanced over. "You sure you don't want that drink?"
"Tomorrow," Marco said. "If I stay upright that long."
Luca nodded. "Tomorrow, then."
The light turned green, and they moved again, deeper into the city, the night folding gently around them.
"Where are you staying again?" Luca asked, turning onto the main road.
"Near Canal Saint-Martin. Tiny place. Fifth floor. No lift. R.I.P my legs."
Luca laughed. "Welcome to Paris. You should come visit me, I'm on Rue Oberkampf, just off Fontaine-au-Roi. If you're still smoking I have some contacts. Just weed though. Maybe some mushrooms if you're in the right headspace..." He glanced over, casual. "So...I've been meaning to ask. How's home?"
Marco let out a breath through his nose. "Same.
"That's not an answer."
"It is," Marco said. "Nothing's changed."
Luca glanced over but didn't press right away. "Your mum?"
"She's...okay." Marco hesitated. "Not worse. Not better."
"Mm," Luca murmured. "I'm sorry."
Marco shrugged, staring out the window. "I stopped hoping for different a long time ago."
Another stretch of silence. Not awkward. Just full.
"And, what about..." Luca began, then stopped himself. "I know...I mean, you don't have to–"
"I know," Marco said. "It's over. It's been over for a little while now."
"But?"
Marco smiled without humour. "Turns out 'over' doesn't mean gone."
Luca's jaw tightened. "He still trying to contact you?"
"No," Marco said quickly. "No. Nothing like that. I just-" He searched for the word, then gave up. "I don't think I've recalibrated yet."
Luca nodded. "Relationships like that messes with your internal compass."
"Yeah," Marco said quietly. "Everything feels a bit...off. I swear my hearing is still off in one ear even though the doctors tell me it's fine."
"I should've killed that motherfucker," Luca's jaw was set. "I should've come home the second I saw your bruised eye."
Marco felt a crack in his composure, "I don't want to get into this right now. I'm here, I'm happy to be here and I'm grateful for you my friend. But I lied to you about how bad it was. You couldn't have known."
Luca looked sideways at him, taking a reluctant breath. He reached over and took Marco's hand in guilty affection, "Never again, Marco. As your best friend, I'm laying out any fuck who puts their hands on you."
"Thank you, Luca." They stopped at a red light. Marco drummed his fingers against his leg, then smirked. "On a much lighter note-"
"Oh no."
"Henri is way hotter in person."
Luca groaned. "Absolutely not."
"Like, seriously. You could cut a steak with his jawline."
"I don't care if he's carved from marble," Luca said. "Do not even try to go there. He's his own barrel of issues."
"I said he's hot, not that I wanted to fuck him."
"Is that not the same thing? He will bite your head off."
"That's not a deterrent for everyone."
"For you, it should be," Luca shot back, smile cracking his face.
Marco grinned. "So you're saying he's single."
"I'm saying I don't even know if he's gay."
That gave Marco pause. For some reason Marco didn't even consider if he was straight. "Really?"
"He's very private. He comes from a very private family too. I heard rumors that the reason the restaurant burned down was because of his ex. Though, no one knows who it is. Besides, you deserve someone fun. Someone laid back. Someone who matches your energy."
"A little telenovela isn't it?" Marco leaned back, hands folded in his lap, smiling, softer this time. "You're doing a terrible job of selling the city."
Luca smirked. "You already moved here. My work is done."
They pulled away as the light turned green and on the right was his building. Just as he'd seen it from Google maps.
"Thank you for the ride, my friend." Marco said as he slowed in front of the building.
"Of course, mon amie. How are you getting to work tomorrow?"
"I was gonna walk. It's not too far."
"7am, sharp, remember?"
"Yes, yes," Marco said, clambering out of the tiny car. If he closed his eyes for too long, he could feel his body tilting, the pavement slanting beneath him. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Bonne nuit, mon ami. Don't forget to brush up on your French."
Marco tapped the roof of the car in farewell and watched Luca pull away, the Fiat disappearing down the street with a soft growl. The night swallowed it quickly, as if it had never been there at all.
He fished his keys from his pocket and pushed open the front door. It creaked inward onto a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of dust and old stone. A single bulb flickered overhead. To the left, an elevator sat dark and silent, a handwritten sign taped crookedly to the door.
EN PANNE.
The stairs rose immediately, steep and unforgiving.
Marco sighed. "Five flights," he muttered, to no one.
The first was manageable. The second burned. By the third, his calves trembled, the long hours on his feet in the kitchen finally collecting their debt. He paused on the landing, one hand braced against the wall, breathing through the dizziness, the echo of too much adrenaline, too little rest.
Just tired, he told himself. You're fine.
The fourth flight felt endless. The stairwell narrowed, the walls closing in, his suitcase thumping rhythmically behind him. Somewhere above, a door opened and shut. Footsteps faded. Life continuing without him.
By the fifth, he was laughing under his breath, thin, incredulous. "This is insane," he murmured, though there was no one to hear it.
At last, he reached the top. His key scraped clumsily against the lock before sliding home. The door opened onto silence.
The apartment was quiet in a way that felt almost unreal after the kitchen — no clatter, no voices, no hum of machinery. Just stillness. He stepped inside, flicked the lights on and closed the door behind him, leaning his forehead briefly against the wood.
His heart slowed. The world shrank.
The apartment was bigger than it looked online, but still half the size of his flat in London. His ears still rang with phantom sounds, orders, steel on steel, Luca's voice cutting through it all.
Marco kicked off his shoes, dropped his suitcase by the wall, and stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the quiet seep into his bones.
The place was simple. It smelt of old leather and books, and the scent of the bathroom, perfumed with hairspray and sanitiser wafted through the room.
A bed. A table. A chair that wobbled if you leaned wrong. But it was clean. Empty and his.
He locked the door twice and then sat on the bed, the steel coils creaking underneath, and peeled off his socks, flexing sore feet.
His phone buzzed.
Luca: You did good today. Don't overthink it.
Marco stared at the screen, then locked it and plugged his charger in.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling.
Henri's presence pressed into his thoughts again, the calm authority, the quiet intensity, the way he'd stepped in close without raising his voice.
Marco closed his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him under.