Marco woke without his alarm. No kitchen clock ticking in the back of his skull. Just light slipping in through the curtains and the low, distant murmur of the street below.
He lay there for a moment, letting it register.
A day off.
It felt undeserved after only two days of work.
He showered, dressed slowly, pulled on a sweater that still smelled faintly like detergent. The grocery list waited on the table, folded and unfolded.
Outside, Paris was already awake and moving. He followed the flow without thinking too hard about where it was taking him.
The market announced itself before he saw it.
Voices overlapping. Crates scraping stone. The sharp sweetness of fruit, the briny pull of fish, warm bread carried on the air like an invitation. Stalls stretched down the street in orderly chaos, striped awnings glowing softly in the morning light.
Marco slowed instinctively.
He bought produce first, tomatoes still dusty from the field, a bundle of herbs tied with string, lemons heavy in his palm. He tested things the way he always had, gently, respectfully. The vendors clocked it immediately.
"Chef?" one asked, amused.
Marco smiled. "Oui."
Bread next. A loaf tucked under his arm, still warm enough to steam through the paper. Cheese after that, something soft and slightly tangy he couldn't pronounce properly and something hard he recognised but had never splurged on before.
He didn't rush.
He watched people instead. Couples arguing gently over apples. An old man selecting strawberries one by one. A woman balancing a coffee in one hand and a bag of flowers in the other like she'd done it her whole life.
It was strange how different people seemed.
Morning sunlight streamed across the buildings in blocks, and scattered across the ground through the trees.
At one stall, he stopped longer than intended, fish laid out on ice, clean and precise. He didn't buy any. He just looked.
Habit.
He caught himself smiling.
By the time his bag was full, his arm ached pleasantly. He ducked into a small café nearby, paused a beat too long, scanning the room.
The barista looked up. Didn't smile. She didn't look like she belonged to France, more so Berlin, where her edgy style stuck out.
"Oui?"
"Uh, salut. Un espresso, sil vous plait."
A flicker of something crossed her face. It wasn't anger, so much as tourist fatigue. She switched to English anyway as she plucked a cup from her left.
"To go or here."
Marco chuckled sheepishly, "Here. Outside."
She nodded once, already turning away.
"Un espresso." She called it to no one in particular, then rang it up. "Deux euros cinquante."
He fumbled with coins. She waited. Didn't help. Didn't rush him either, just watched, unimpressed.
When he handed them over, she slid the cup toward him across the counter.
"No milk," she added, like a warning.
"That's fine."
Another nod. Transaction complete.
He took the espresso outside and sat, stretching his legs beneath the tiny table. A minute later, she came back out with a saucer he hadn't asked for with a sugar cube. Set it down beside his cup. A small pitcher of milk sat on it, already beading with condensation.
He looked at it. Then at his espresso, dark, untouched. "Uh, merci?"
She looked back a moment, "De rein."
For a second, he left it and was almost a little irked at her presumptuousness. He tried the coffee black. Bitter, sharp, exactly what he'd expected.
He glared at the milk jug, then glanced at the waitress who was occupied with another customer. He reached for it anyway. Just a little, watched the pale ribbon bloom and soften the surface before he stirred.
He took a sip and hated that a total stranger clearly knew him better than himself.
He practiced his French quietly, testing phrases under his breath, listening to the cadence around him. It felt less like study now and more like tuning his ear to an instrument.
Back at the apartment, he unpacked everything carefully. Washed produce. Arranged it on the counter and tried to make it matter, because it did. He trimmed flowers, white tulips, he hadn't meant to buy and set them in a glass he'd repurposed as a vase.
The space looked different already.
Lived in.
He cooked simply: cherry tomatoes, cheese, herbs, balsamic vinegar and olive oil, bread toasted in garlic. He ate standing at the counter, sunlight warming his back, and for once, the quiet didn't feel empty.
Later, he opened the window and let the city in.
Somewhere down the block, someone laughed. A radio played. A scooter rattled past.
Marco leaned against the sill and breathed.
The days settled into a rhythm before Marco realised they were doing it.
After the first week, he stopped counting how many flights of stairs he climbed.
He learned which prep lists were Henri's and which were Luca's.
He stopped translating French in his head before answering and was catching on to some of the easier phrases. Here it was keep up or fall behind.
For the next weeks, the days folded into each other quietly.
Marco stopped counting them when the kitchen stopped feeling like something he had to enter and started feeling like somewhere he simply arrived.
He learned the rhythm first, who spoke early, who needed space, who liked things done without commentary. He learned Élodie's silences, Mathieu's impatience when service dragged, the way Luca could read a room before anyone else clocked it had shifted.
He was invited out again. And again. He met the others, too.
Camille, Romain, Inès, Thomas, pastry, grill, prep, everywhere in between, faces from the kitchen turning into people.
Most nights they went out, enough that it mattered and to show he was quickly being accepted into the group. Drinks after service. Late kebabs eaten standing on the pavement. Laughter that came easier each time. The kiss from Élodie became a joke, then a footnote, then nothing at all.
At work, Marco made mistakes. He oversalted once. Sent a plate a second too late another time. Reached for the wrong pan under pressure.
Each time, he caught himself or corrected it fast enough that it didn't ripple.
Henri noticed, without praise, but without correction either. Marco was no longer being assessed - he was being relied on.
He arrived early more often than not. Not to prove anything, just because it felt right. He moved with confidence now, especially when Henri lingered. He kept his voice steady when he called, hands sure when he plated. People stopped watching him to see if he would fail.
They watched him because he was part of the flow.
Somewhere in the middle of the second week, Marco realised he hadn't felt like a guest in days.
That was when the balance shifted.
The morning Sofia arrived, Marco knew something was wrong before he knew what it was.
The kitchen stiffened.
A few heads lifted. Someone muttered under their breath. Luca's mouth twitched like he was bracing himself.
Then the door swung open.
She entered like the kitchen belonged to her.
Heels. Sunglasses. Blond hair silken curled at the ends. A coat that probably cost more than Marco's rent. She took in the room in one sweeping glance, already smiling like she knew exactly what she was walking into.
"Bonjour," she said brightly.
Henri looked up.
For the first time since Marco had known him, Henri closed his eyes. "Putain."
Sofia scanned the kitchen, "Henri. Où est mon petit frère?" (Henri. Where is my little brother?)
Marco froze mid-task, watching openly now. Who the hell was this woman?
Sofia slipped off her sunglasses and scanned the room again, eyes sharp, curious, already cataloguing everything. When her gaze landed on Marco, it lingered only for a moment out of curiosity before her face lit with recognition. "Henri."
"Sofia," Henri said, flat lipped, greeting her with a kiss to each side of her face, as casual as a hug. "Why are you here?"
"Well, I wouldn't have to come all the way down here if you picked up your phone once in a while. Come, we need to talk."
Henri glanced around the kitchen, already calculating. Service was still an hour off, but prep was humming, everyone half-listening despite themselves.
"Later," he said. "I'm working."
Sofia smiled wider, the kind that didn't move her eyes.
"You're always working." She turned slightly, letting her gaze sweep the room again. "It'll take two minutes. Deux. Promis."
Luca snorted softly from his station.
Henri shot him a look that shut it down instantly.
"Marco," Henri said without looking at him, voice clipped. "Switch with Mathieu. Finish his veg. Mathieu take my place."
Marco blinked. "Yeah. Yes."
He moved on autopilot, hands steady even as his attention snagged. From the corner of his eye, he watched Henri step away from the line, Sofia falling into place beside him like she'd done it a hundred times before.
∞
Henry walked her into his office and closed the door behind them. Sofia walked ahead, coat whisking around her as she circled the desk and planted herself in his seat. As she got comfortable and adjusted herself, she smiled at Henri, "C'est sympa." (It's nice)
Henri glared at her, from the position Marco had been reprimanded in a day before. He felt like a child standing in his father's office begging him to see his side.
"Sit down for god's sake, you make me feel like papa." she scolded as if reading his mind, picking up his cigarettes took one from the pack with her teeth leaving lipstick stain marks on the cardboard.
"I already gave you my answer." Henri said, relenting, taking a seat opposite her before reaching over for his packet of cigarettes. "You didn't text because you knew I'd say no."
"I didn't text because I knew you'd overreact," Sofia replied, just as quiet. "Which you are. Look at you."
Henry leaned back in his seat, bit down on the end of his cigarette and lit the tip. The crisp scent of tobacco filled the air. "I'm not going."
She tilted her head, assessing him. "You're thinner. Are you eating?"
"Get to the point."
She exhaled, just once, and the brightness slipped. Not gone. But replaced with a seriousness Sofia didn't usually embody, "You need to be there, Henri."
"I think papa will live another year if I'm not there, so I would be doing everyone a favor-"
Sofia tsked, "Or he may not. He is eighty-two next week Henri. I won't forgive you if you ignore him for much longer."
Henry groaned, leaning back, "He won't even want me there."
"He does." Sofia's stare was unwavering. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."
Henri was silent for a moment, biting down on the corner of his nail. "D'accord. I'll think about it."
"Merci, petit frere."
"Must you insist on calling me your little brother, I was born a minute and a half after you."
"I was still born first." She said, rising out of his chair and stubbing the cigarette out. "I'm staying for breakfast."
Henri sighed, relenting because arguing was futile, "What do you want?"
"Surprise me." she turned around, hair flicking Henri's chest and sauntered off to the dining room, phone in hand.
Halfway to the dining room, she looked back over her shoulder and her gaze moved once across the kitchen and landed on Marco.
"You," she said.
Marco froze, knife mid-cut. "Me?"
"Yes." She pointed, already certain. "I want him to make it."
The kitchen stilled, and someone snickered behind him.
Henri turned. "Sofia."
She didn't look at him this time. "I've decided."
"He's not your employee, and he's busy."
"So are you," she said mildly. Then, finally, she glanced at Henri. "It's one plate."
Henri held her gaze for a long second. His jaw tightened, not anger, something closer to restraint and glanced at Marco apologetically.
"I'm happy to." Marco said, hoping to break the tension but if anything it thickened.
Henri's eyes lingered on Marco then to Sofia. "Very well. Marco, if you would be so kind-"
"Of course, chef." Marco said with a nod. "Anything in particular?"
Henri sighed tiredly as he followed Sofia into the dining room, "Surprise me."
"Yes, Chef."
As soon as the doors shut, Luca let out a low whistle. "Good luck," he said. "She's never satisfied."
"Pray for me, guys." Marco reached for the eggs, but his mind snagged. He hesitated, then said carefully, "Is she..."
Élodie glanced over, instantly clocking it. "No."
Marco blinked. "No?"
"Sister," Élodie tilted her head. "You know they're twins, right?"
Marco looked up again. "They are?"
"Unfortunately," Mathieu added from fish. "Which means she's had a lifetime to perfect that behaviour. With papa's money," he continued dryly, not looking up.
Élodie shot him a warning look. "Mathieu."
He shrugged. "I'm just saying."
Marco returned to his station, the picture rearranging itself in his head.
Not a lover. A sister. A twin.
Somehow, that made the whole thing make more sense and made Henri's endurance feel less mysterious.
The pan for Henri went on low medium immediately, butter melting slow and silky. He fried fresh ham in garlic oil and when it crackled and crisped, cracked the first set of eggs, whisking just enough to break the whites, then poured, tilting the pan with a practiced wrist.
He stirred gently, coaxing the curd, letting the eggs just set before pulling them back on themselves. Pale. Glossy. Folded clean, seam tucked underneath. A brush of butter. A pinch of salt. Sprinkle of chives and a long piece of sourdough.
Nothing else.
For Sofia, he switched pans. More butter. Still low heat, but patient in a different way. He whisked the eggs longer this time, poured them in, and kept them moving constantly, a slow figure-eight with the spatula. They thickened gradually, becoming custard-soft, barely holding their shape.
He pulled them before they were done.
Let the heat finish the job.
A spoon of crème fraîche folded through at the end. Chives, sliced fine. Just enough to lift it.
He plated them side by side, distinct but equal.
Henri's omelette was precise and contained, edges smooth and paired with sourdough. Sofia's eggs spilled softly onto the plate, paired with soft salmon and pumpkin seed sourdough toasted lightly, butter melting into the crumb.
The server appeared.
"Deux petits-déjeuners," Marco said. (Two breakfasts)
Marco brushed up beside the door as he watched the server walk to their table and place their plates down in front of them. Luca brushed up beside him and followed his gaze. Elodie peered out from between them. "If she likes it I'm personally bitch slapping her for all the times I made her exactly what she wanted."
From the dining room came the scrape of cutlery. Marco couldn't understand or see what they were saying but she wasn't bitching so that was a good sign.
Sofia cut into her food, took a bite, then sighed theatrically. "At least he can cook eggs."
Luca laughed quietly into his towel.
Marco wiped his hands on his apron, pulse steady.
If this was Sofia testing him, then fine.