Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jamie wakes up, bleary eyed and head pounding. Her pillow is so soft, and her body is heavy and still swaying a little bit. The light peeking through her curtains is too bright. Her nuisance of a cat is sitting primly and fatly next to her on the bed, swatting at her face. The fucker is probably starving. Jamie can’t remember if she fed him when she barrelled in last night. She probably did, but he’s got to eat more than once a day, even if she doesn’t. She reaches over to her bedside table and checks her mobile for the time.

“Shit.”

It’s already 10:28, and she’s meant to be at the restaurant at 11 A.M. She must have slept through her alarm. There’s a back corner of her mind that remembers it going off, vaguely remembers telling herself she’ll be getting out of bed any second now to start the day… and now it’s almost two hours later and a nauseous roil curls through her belly when she stands up too fast. That’d be the rum… and the tequila. Bottom shelf, all of it. She should know better.

Jamie dumps her water glass from her nightstand into her herb garden on the windowsill in her kitchen before dropping the cup in the sink—it’ll have to do until she has time to properly tend to it.

She refills her cat’s bowl, tries to give him a little pet to soothe his irritation toward her, but it’s useless—he bobs his head away from her hand and just gives an angry growl before tucking into his food. In the bathroom, Jamie splashes water on her face, brushes the taste of alcohol from her mouth, thinks, maybe, she might vomit, but it passes. It might make the day easier if she did, but a bitter pill in her belly tells her maybe she deserves to be sick to her stomach today. She tosses back two paracetamol with the hope that it will dull the thudding in her skull, and doesn’t think about how it will make her stomach ache worse, and grabs a clean shirt from her wardrobe and jeans from the floor, even though they’re all dirty—shit, she hasn’t done laundry in weeks.

When Jamie grabs her phone, it’s at twelve percent battery because her drunk ass forgot to plug it in, and there are four texts from Owen, reminding her that today is the new sommelier’s first day. As if she could forget. As if it wasn't the very reason she was in this shitty hungover predicament to begin with.

Half an hour and one ice-cold shower later, Jamie walks through the back door of the restaurant. A steady thrum at her temple that sets her teeth on edge leads her straight for the espresso machine, packing the portafilter full of fragrant grounds. The wait for the shot to pull is an eternity. This is not a day for tea, unfortunately, even though it feels like she’s playing with fire when her stomach churns at the sight of the bitter caramel-colored liquid pooling in the demitasse.

“Morning, love.” It’s Hannah, and she comes bearing a large slice of buttered bread offered up on a serviette.

“You’re an angel,” Jamie groans as she takes it from Hannah’s hand and pulls a crusty bit off the edge, popping it into her mouth and letting the sweet herby butter melt on her tongue.

“Eat up. You’ll need your strength today.”

Jamie leans back against the counter, letting the delicious bread sink to her belly; it’s the first real food she’s put in her body in almost eighteen hours. She chases it with a sip of steaming hot espresso, letting it burn all the way down, and she can practically hear Hannah’s eyes screaming for her to take better care of herself.

“Have you, uh… heard from her at all?” Jamie says, as she looks into shallow depths of the cup in her hand. It’s all Jamie can think about today. Hoping beyond hope that maybe she’d come back, with the start of the new sommelier imminent and final.

Hannah shakes her head, “Not since her call, no.”

“Fucking cunt,” Jamie mutters under her breath.

“Jamie,” Hannah scolds softly, and there’s a sympathy in her eyes at the situation. She knows that Jamie doesn’t mean it, is just angry and burned. “Give today a chance. Owen’s quite excited about this new one. He’s trying to make the best of it. Try to look at it as a chance to start fresh.”

“No one likes to start fresh, Hannah. It’s fucking miserable.”

“He needs you to make this work. We haven’t had a proper sommelier in-house yet. How we’ve managed without one, I don’t even know. He’s thrilled. You should be too.”

“We would have had a sommelier in-house…”

“Well, Rebecca made her bed, didn’t she?”

Jamie sighs out “Yeah,” takes another bitter sip from her cup and, finishes off the last bite of bread. Even though her stomach is fuller, it still churns.

Hannah places her hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“Get to work. It’ll distract you, at least.”

Jamie nods, knowing she’s right. “See you at family meal.”

//

Jamie keeps to herself when she can for most of the morning.

The hours leading up to the restaurant’s opening are demanding in their own way: inventory must be reviewed and final tweaks made to the menu, depending on what suppliers had delivered that morning and whatever ideas Jamie and Owen got into their heads; preparing her mise en place in the gleaming kitchen, scrubbed clean overnight; and cooking family meal for the restaurant’s ravenous and discerning staff. It gives Jamie something to focus on, a goal, and leaves little room for anything else, unlike those hours when she’s not at the restaurant and left to her own—usually self-destructive—devices.

Today especially, Jamie has no time for the anger and hurt that weighed her down like an anchor for the past several weeks; any intrusive thoughts are kept at bay as she makes her way through the seemingly endless list of tasks she needs to complete before the first seating at the restaurant promptly at six o’clock.

Jamie extracts a plastic tub from the fridge, carefully prepared the night before. When she opens the lid, an intoxicating aroma hits her: wine, garlic, thyme and bay, with some white peppercorns for a little bit of sharp, gingery, earthy spice. Carefully, she lifts several hanger steaks from the marinade and pats them dry before letting them adjust to room temperature.

While she waits, she whips up a béarnaise sauce, rich and tangy. It had taken her ages to master this particular sauce when she was first training; the precise timing and chemistry of it was an endless source of frustration, especially at a time in her life when she lacked any sort of patience. Now, it’s second nature.

Next to her, Tony and Paul laugh and joke about last night’s escapades as they prep the salad and Brussels sprouts for family meal. Before her stomach starts roiling again, Jamie tunes them out, instead focusing on the loud and chaotic riffs of some seventies punk band playing on the ancient, shitty speakers across the kitchen.

Jamie places a large pan on the range, twists the knob, the burner clicking a few times before a plume of blue and orange flames encircle the metal. The hunks of tender beef, rubbed with decadent oil, sizzles the moment it hits the hot metal griddle.

This might be the moment Jamie loves the most about cooking. The moment something hits the pan, all the prep behind her. The moment it changes, when the flavors start to emerge. The moment she has a chance to well and truly fuck it up, or turn it into the best meal someone has ever had.

The sound it makes is intoxicating. The assurance that the temperature is just right. The diligence and the timing of it all. From the second it hits the pan, she’s on the clock, watching it like a hawk, making sure it’s cooked to perfection.

Several minutes later, at just the right moment, she flips them, letting the other side cook and sizzle. The sear on the edges is perfect, and Jamie carefully removes the steak from the heat of the griddle, setting them aside to rest. Instead of catching her breath, steeling herself for the busy night ahead of her, she seizes these spare moments to look over her station, keeping careful tabs on what prep still needs to be done.

Wisps of conversations float around her. Mostly typical shit—the last time someone got laid; bastard landlords raising the rent; the server who was definitely eye-fucking Paul in the middle of last night’s service. Usually Jamie would join in, but today she really has no patience for it (and besides, that server was definitely eye-fucking her—not Paul). However, when their conversation turns to the new sommelier, Jamie can’t exactly help listening in as she slices the steak into thin strips at a rapid pace.

Ultimately, she doesn’t get much information out of it. She learns that the woman is American (“Great,” Jamie thinks), she’s been in London for a while and is sort of hot shit. Owen apparently won’t shut up about her, how great of a catch she is for the restaurant. When Tony starts talking about how pretty she is, how he’d caught a glimpse of her when Owen was touring her around during her interview, Jamie decides she's had enough, slapping a bar towel on the counter. The guys at the station next to hers jump.

“What the fuck, Taylor?” Tony looks at her reproachfully, like she’s grown another head.

“Look, I get it—you all have a raging hard on for her, now can you just bloody well shut up? We’ve got shit to do. Family is in ten minutes.”

“What crawled up your arse today?” Paul shoots back, tossing the salad greens in a large metal bowl.

“Nothing, I just”—Jamie leans over her prep station, dropping her head into her hands—“this whole fucking Peter and Rebecca business. Giving me a goddamn headache.”

“Sure it wasn’t the tequila last night?” Tony snickers, elbowing Paul in the ribs as they poke fun at her. Jamie cracks an eye at them.

“Well it sure as shite didn’t help, that’s for sure. Christ, I need a smoke.”

//

When Jamie emerges from the kitchen—one hastily smoked cigarette later—a metal tray piled with hanger steak drizzled in béarnaise sauce in hand, the dining room is filled with restaurant staff.

It really is a beautiful space. The warm but fresh atmosphere that Hannah and Owen cultivated in Le Manoir’s aesthetic is distinct and rich. The high ceilings, grand but tasteful lighting fixtures, and exposed brick walls with bright light shining through the tall windows make the space feel like it is holy, like each and every guest is entering divine territory. The thoughtfully selected wallpapers and deep accented paint colors pair perfectly with the light plush fabric of the long single bench stretching the wall, the silky light blue velvet of the dining chairs, and the warm and sturdy wood of the tables between them. The linens on the set tables are crisp and white, and the bright gold accents throughout the room dazzle with a perfect amount of gilded charm. It’s hard to not notice the posture change, the demeanor shift, the manners dialed up, when guests and staff alike walk into the space, which demands a certain amount of elegance from anyone who enters.

The first time Hannah and Owen brought her here, it was just the three of them in the cavernous, undecorated space. It felt so empty but so filled with potential, like the place would swallow them whole and give them everything all at once. Owen asked Jamie to join her as his sous chef that day. She said yes on the spot, as Owen knew she would, and they opened a bottle of champagne he bought for the occasion, and they toasted together to this incredible venture.

Now, Jamie places the tray of steak onto the table for family meal—Paul and Tony following close behind with the veg and salad—and the restaurant's servers, backwaiters, and bartenders descend on the food like locusts, hungry from morning prep and needing the boost for the promise of a busy night ahead.

Jamie glances around the room—not quite feeling up to the prospect of food, yet—to see who’s working this shift. It’s Friday, so the full staff is in, everyone on deck for a shift packed start to finish with reservations. Hailey’s here, and so is Anna. Simone, the lead bartender, mutters a half-yawned, “Hey, Taylor,” as she brushes past to serve herself a heaping plate of food.

Hannah eyes Jamie across the room, her eyebrows raised with a question, clearly wondering what sort of state Jamie’s in by now—ever the protective mother Jamie never had. Jamie shrugs nonchalantly in reply, before grabbing a plate for herself.

When she turns around, about to find her way to any open table to sit down and eat in peace, she freezes. Across the dining room, an unfamiliar woman stands, hanging back slightly from the crowd. She’s not tall—probably Jamie’s height or a fraction shorter—but she has a presence nonetheless. She chats with Owen, her head tipping back slightly as she laughs at something—probably one of his stupid puns, Jamie thinks—showing off the jut of her jaw. Jamie swallows—hard. So this was Owen’s new sommelier. Rebecca’s replacement.

Jamie takes an open seat at the long table, wedged between Clare—the new entremetier replacing Peter, thank fucking god—and a commis whose name she can’t remember right at this moment. She hunches over her plate, glaring at the tender slices of steak that she really still has no appetite for. She spears one with the sharp tines of her fork and pops it into her mouth. It’s perfect, even though it’s been sitting out on the table for several minutes now.

When she looks up from her plate, the seat across from her has been taken, the once-empty space now filled with waves of blonde hair and bright, cornflower blue eyes. The woman catches her eye for a moment, offering Jamie a smile, her perfect white teeth flashing.

“This is delicious,” she says, motioning to the steak as it oozes juices on the white porcelain plate when she slices a small piece off, the sharp knife cutting it like butter. “I was too nervous to eat this morning, but now I’m starving.”

Her accent is grating. So fucking American, Jamie thinks, corn-fed and wholesome—like she just came from a farm somewhere with a straw hat and a chicken. How the fuck did she end up in London? In this restaurant? The woman smiles again as she pops another bite into her mouth, and waits, like she expects Jamie to answer her in kind. Or at least accept the compliment of her food. She must know who Jamie is, at any rate.

Instead, Jamie returns her smile with a scowl, eyebrows knitted together. She watches the woman’s smile flicker and fade before she turns back to her own food, hastily shoving the remaining slice into her mouth before Owen calls the staff to attention. Instantly, conversation fades and stops. Owen grins as he looks around his staff who wait for him to speak with rapt attention.

“Alright, you lot,” he begins, clapping his hands together. Owen has always spoken to the staff like they’re generally his equals—or on occasion, his ne’er-do-well children. It’s one of the things Jamie appreciates about him—always has. There’s other restaurants she could be at where at best, the Chef de Cuisine would hardly give anyone the time of day, and at worst… well. Jamie’s just fucking glad she’s here.

“We’ve got a busy night ahead of us. Booked solid for both seatings—a nice mix of new and returning guests. Some VIPs, as well. Hannah,”—Owen tips his head toward his fiancée, standing along the dining room wall, and Jamie wonders if she’d even sat down, found time to eat a bite—“will go over all the reservations in a bit. First, I’d like to welcome our new in-house sommelier, Dani Clayton.”

The woman—Dani—looks around the room and waves at the staff, half of whom, Jamie notices, seem to be looking at her with suspicion. Good. It was always an uphill battle to be the new kid in a restaurant; the staff needed to know you could pull your own weight, wouldn’t fuck things up for everyone else before trusting you.

Owen continues, still managing to hold the staff’s attention, despite murmurs floating around the room at the news of Dani’s arrival. “Dani will be working to grow our wine program so somm-day soon”—the staff issues a collective groan and Jamie rolls her eyes—“we’ll have an amazing wine pairing menu alongside our developing spring tasting menu.”

Fuck, Jamie thinks and nearly catches herself muttering it aloud. Owen had given Jamie the chance to fly solo for the spring tasting menu, and she had suggested that they develop a comprehensive wine pairing to go along with it. It was supposed to be hers and Rebecca’s. They had spent countless late nights and glasses of wine planning it out, debating, testing. It was supposed to be theirs. Not hers and Dani’s—this blonde thing, imported from America’s heartland with no clue how shit is done here.

Before Jamie knows it, there’s a scrape of a chair against the wood floor of the dining room and Dani is getting up, standing in front of everyone—and god, she’s actually tiny, Jamie realizes—and it’s all Jamie can do to not send another glower in her direction. She stares intently at the remains of her Caesar salad instead as Dani begins to speak.

“Um, hi everyone,” Dani starts. That accent again. Her voice wavers a bit, tinged with nerves. She clears her throat before continuing, and Jamie just manages to look back up at her. “I’m so excited to be joining all of you at Le Manoir. I’ve been lucky enough to dine here a few times and it’s such a great, good place already. I have so many ideas for this wine program that I know will compliment what you guys have been doing so well already. And hopefully we’ll get that second star this year!” She ends her little speech with this dorky little fist pump before taking her seat.

Jamie looks around the room, expecting everyone’s faces to reflect her own suspicious scowl. Instead, the staff now seem to be charmed by Dani’s compliments, intrigued by what she may have to offer. Paul even starts a little clap, the fucker.

Hannah steps forward next to begin reviewing the reservations for the evening, the servers and backwaiters taking careful note of who will be sat in their sections. Jamie half-listens for mention of any particularly difficult guests who have been known to request substitutions, send their food back to the kitchen for no good reason at all or who—god forbid—demand something to be made vegan or low-carb.

Finally, the interminable meeting reaches its conclusion. Jamie practically springs from her chair, plate in hand, fast enough that this Dani woman doesn't have time to say anything else to her. Jamie’s got shit to do; she glances at her watch after she drops her plate in the bin—food only half touched. Dinner service is imminent.

//

She’s everywhere. All the time.

Jamie is just trying to get through dinner service without wanting to throw a knife across the room, and Dani being here—with her nervous laugh, and her polite questions, and the delicate wine glasses hanging between her fingers, and expensive bottles of wine Jamie only dreams of tasting grasped by the neck in her casual and firm grip, with her corkscrew tucked into her side pocket—is not helping at all.

The stairs to the wine cellar are just past the kitchen, and Dani’s been speed walking up and down them all evening, servers trailing behind her as she chatters away, suggesting this or that bottle for a guest’s order. A handful of her suggestions are up-sells, some of the more expensive bottles in the cellar, but others are just good choices. The right choices, for the food. She knows her shit, Jamie thinks grudgingly as she finishes off a plate of braised duck with salt-baked swede and samosas, carefully placing several parsnip crisps on the plate.

Every time Jamie looks up, it’s like Dani is back in her line of sight, and that’s the way it is, she supposes. That used to be Rebecca, standing at the small station with the computer that has the seating chart for the night, referencing each guest's order and pulling bottles from the cellar inventory. It was nice, when it was Rebecca, always there to toss Jamie a taste of something delightful, even if she was getting her ass grabbed half the time by Peter when she would pass by his station.

Jamie looks around the room again, and sees Dani standing there at the workstation, her eyes puzzled as she scrolls through the inventory for the wine cellar. She turns to the server passing beside her. Jamie can overhear; it’s a relatively large kitchen, but everyone is quiet and respectful as they work, for better or worse.

“Hey… Chris, right?”

Chris, one of the servers on Jamie’s good side, turns to Dani.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“How familiar are you with the inventory system for the cellar?” Before Chris has a chance to reply, Dani continues, nervous but curious. “I just noticed that the numbers we have in the system don’t match what we have downstairs for some labels. Does this thing just take a little while to sync? I just need to know, so I can make sure the lists are as accurate as possible. I need to tell people if what they order is our last bottle, if it actually is.”

“Oh—no. They were, um… they were stolen. We have to take stock and update the system. We just haven’t had someone with the bandwidth.”

Dani’s eyes go wide, her mouth goes thin. “Do we need to worry about security?”

“No… it was someone who worked here. He was fired.”

Jamie tries to tune out Chris as they go into the broad strokes of the ‘fiasco’, as it’s been lovingly dubbed by the staff. Peter ‘jackass-egoistic-all around headache’ Quint got his grubby hands on Rebecca and her sanity, then got his grubby hands on thirty grand worth of wine, and ran off with both of them in one fell swoop.

It still makes Jamie’s head spin, even several weeks later. Jamie shakes her head to clear her mind, focuses instead on the task before her, finishing assembly on two plates of tender duck breast with a tamarind and ginger Espagnole.

When she looks up, just as the plate gets taken to Owen at the pass table, Dani’s eyes meet hers from across the room. Jamie holds her gaze, easily beginning her next task from muscle memory, not even needing to look down at her station. Dani’s not smiling this time; instead, her eyes track Jamie’s rapid movements.

Jamie can practically see the gears turning in her head as Dani watches, roving from the food in front of her, the blur of Jamie’s knife and—Jamie’s stomach does a bastard little swoop—to the tattooed skin of her forearms, flexed as she works. Jamie quirks an eyebrow at her and Dani’s eyes skip away before she rushes back down to the wine cellar, her blush unmistakable as she goes.

//

When the night is almost over, the last guests finishing up dessert, and the kitchen closing, everyone is busy cleaning up their stations and wrapping up the prep for tomorrow. Jamie glances up from her station, nearly finished with cleaning her knives and sees Dani out of the corner of her eye. She’s holding a bottle of sweet Sauternes, a small glass with a splash of the deep yellow liquid pinched between her fingers. She brings it to her lips, takes a small sip, her eyes slipping closed, and a delighted little ‘Mmm’ slips from her before she places the bottle back on the counter for the servers to bring back down to the cellar.

She swirls the deep yellow liquid in the glass, and catches Jamie’s eye with a small smile before Owen swings in, places his hand on her upper arm and congratulates her on her first day—a success—before sharing in a small toast between the two of them.

Jamie turns away, her stomach twisting into knots, and she catches Nadia, Paul, and Tony chatting about grabbing a drink at The Two Faces, one of the only godforsaken bars near King’s Cross open past eleven P.M. She maybe shouldn’t, her eyes are heavy with exhaustion and her muscles ache from another long day with little rest, but then Owen and Dani laugh loudly in the corner of the kitchen and suddenly a shot of tequila sounds like just what she needs. Before she knows it, she, Tony, Paul, and a handful of Le Manoir’s staff are walking into the darkly lit bar for shift drinks after close.

Dani had not come along—despite being invited by Paul—much to Jamie’s relief. Two nights in a row of going out was flirting with danger, and she didn’t trust herself not to haze Dani with something unnecessarily mean which most definitely would have resulted in some sort of sit down with Hannah to discuss “professionalism in the workplace” or some such bullshit.

The bar is loud, everyone shouting at each other across the U-shaped booth and only catching snippets of what they all have to say. It’s exactly the way Jamie likes things, even though she knows her ears will be ringing from it until morning. She didn’t really want to talk, or be talked to most of the time, but it was nice sometimes, just being around other people who could understand this crazy fucking world she existed in—the pressure, the stress, the chaos and beauty of it all—and let her fucking rest with a shot and a beer in each hand.

Anna slides up to her—fucking predictable—and starts chatting about dinner service that night. What guests liked, any particularly difficult patrons, the same usual boring jokes everyone says to them that they have to laugh at despite having heard them a thousand times (“We hated it!” as they gesture to an empty plate). Once it becomes clear that Jamie isn’t really in any mood to end this night the way they sometimes do, Anna orders another vodka soda and heads over to a small group that’s formed in the darkened corner. It’s only a matter of time before they start doing bumps of coke and making their way to one of the neighborhood’s after-hours clubs to continue their night.

Tony catches Jamie’s eye from where he’s leaning against the wall. He lifts his chin up at her—an invitation. Jamie shakes her head and he shrugs. It wasn’t long ago that she’d have taken him up on the offer, would be the first one crammed in a filthy toilet stall with at least two of her coworkers for a quick line. Just enough to take the edge off, blur things a little bit. She looks over at Tony again, throwing his head back in a laugh. It wasn’t too late to join them; it would be the easy thing to do, after a long day like this—

“Can I get you another?”

Jamie startles out of her reverie and looks up to see Sophie, one of the pub’s bartenders, standing over her table. She’s gazing down at Jamie expectantly, eyes peeking out under her fringe.

“Erm, no—I’m good, thanks. I should get going, anyway.” Jamie moves to grab her leather jacket from the pile at the end of the now-empty booth.

“Early night? Seems unusual for you.”

“Stayed out a bit past my bedtime last night and, uh—” Jamie glances over again at her friends across the room. Sophie follows her gaze. Although she doesn’t really seem to give a shit about what Jamie’s coworkers are getting up to in the darkened corner, she nods in understanding.

“Fancy a bit of fresh air? I’ve got a few minutes before I’ve got to start closing.”

Jamie pauses for a moment, considering. Finally she says, “Sure,” because she’s on her way out anyway and it sort of feels like Sophie is doing her a favor. She downs the rest of her drink before sliding on her jacket and following Sophie out of the bar.

Outside the air is frigid—the end-of-March cold still yet to make way for any promise of spring—but Jamie doesn’t mind. It clears her head and sharpens her senses like a knife, even after a couple drinks. She and Sophie chat a bit as they take deep pulls from their cigarettes, blowing smoke out into the night. Jamie half expects Sophie to pry, to ask about her reasons for needing to escape her coworkers. But she doesn’t. They’re both in this industry where powder and pills are common as dirt and anyway, Jamie figures that Sophie probably has her own reasons for needing to get away as well.

“No Viola tonight?” Jamie finally ventures; the bar owner’s absence on a busy Friday night is conspicuous. Viola’s face on the other side of the worn wooden bartop is one of the few constants in Jamie’s life, serving up her sharp wit and scathing opinions about whatever company Jamie’s found herself in alongside stiff pours of whiskey. They’re friends at this point—sort of. Friendly, anyway.

Sophie shakes her head, blowing a cloud of smoke. “Nope. Had a family thing come up. Something to do with her sister.”

“Mm,” Jamie hums, nodding. Honestly, she doesn’t really actually know much about Viola, outside of the bar.

Finally, Sophie stubs out the end of her cigarette on the rough brick wall behind them and motions to the door. “I should get back in there. God only knows what your friends are getting up to now. Coming back in?”

Jamie shakes her head. “Nah—thanks for this, though,” she says, holding up her still-lit cigarette.

“Anytime. See you ‘round, then.” Sophie smiles at her one last time before disappearing once more into the noise and chaos of the bar.

Jamie takes one last drag before crushing the filter underneath the toe of her boot, pulling her jacket around her as tightly as she can to ward off the chill. With one last glance at the bar, she walks off into the night to the nearest bus stop.

//

Jamie wakes up the next morning with her alarm, and she feels better than she thought she would after barreling home last night, falling into her bed and passing out with just a sleep shirt and underwear on.

She lays there for another half hour though. Her cat, Weed, named for the wiry bush she found him tangled up in a few years ago in the back of a dingy car park, is curled up beside her in a little circle. He was a starving little scrapper when Jamie picked him up, half his ear gone and bloody, cuts and scrapes all over his body, his fur so matted and filthy that Jamie was surprised when he was finally clean, that he was a lovely orange. He’s tough though, like she is, and maybe that’s why it always feels like they’re mad at each other, but at times like this, when she rubs his back, and he purrs and twists around with his eyes still closed, it’s nice to have the company.

A sense of fond mischievousness fills her though, and she flicks her finger to his ear, the scarred over spot that always makes him wake up with disgruntled growl, and maybe it’s a little mean, but it’s almost like a joke now, and he opens his eyes and claws at her hand, bites playfully at her fingers. He swats her away when she tries to go in again, and he leaves his little paws up like he’s ready to fight her, and she giggles a little before she finally sits up and pulls the covers off her body.

Jamie stretches her arms above her head, soothing the aches in her sides and her back from another long day on her feet yesterday. It still feels like she’s been through the ringer even after a bit of sleep, but her stomach growls, and she thinks it’s the first time she’s actually been hungry in days.

Weed follows closely at Jamie’s heels as she pads out of her room and walks through the living room and into the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator, assessing everything she bought from the farmers market down the road a few days ago and pulls out some ingredients to make a simple breakfast—at least by her standards.

Weed whines—little beggar—until Jamie washes out and refills his bowls, and then she gets to work pulling down the pots and pans she’ll need, as her stomach growls louder at the thought of the delicious meal to come.

She fills a pot with hot water, a squeeze of lemon, and a hearty pour of vinegar to get the chemistry of the water just right. She sets another small pan on her stove and twists the dials, the first few clicks of the burners ticking away before the gas catches and ignites. She sets the electric kettle to heat, as well. The thought of a hot cup of delicate white tea soothing her stomach is too good to resist.

The pan gets warm and the water in the pot starts to heat and boil as Jamie scrapes a large pat of butter from her butter bell on the counter and plops it into the pan, before switching out the water to keep the butter as fresh as can be. She mixes the butter with a little paprika and some freshly chopped garlic, letting it bubble and froth, the creamy, garlicky and smoky aromas hitting her senses, before she places a thick cut of sourdough face down, letting the mixture seep into the grooves, crisping up the edges and warming it through.

She pulls a light blue egg—the best tasting, she thinks—from the crate on the counter, and cracks it into a ramekin, before swirling her spoon quickly around in the boiling pot of water on the stove, creating a vortex in the center. She gently pours the egg into the pot, watching it as it swirls around, cooking instantly with little wisps floating in the water. While the egg cooks, she flips the bread and rubs it against the bottom of the pan, gathering up any remaining bits of crispy garlic and butter before setting it on a plate. She opens up her refrigerator, and pulls out some fresh ricotta she got at the farmers market a few days ago, scoops some into a bowl and mixes it up with the rest the of the buttery mixture from the pan, a healthy glug of oil, and a tasty pinch of salt and pepper, before spreading it on top of her toast.

When exactly three and a quarter minutes minutes have passed, Jamie takes the egg out of the pot with a slotted spoon, immediately dabbing it with a towel to remove the excess water before placing it gently on top of the toast, the white part giving the ideal bounce, the yolk perfectly gooey inside. She heads back over to her herb garden to cut some fresh microgreens to scatter on top, with some extra flaky sea salt for a sharp salty crunch.

Jamie eats her breakfast at the little table by the kitchen window, looking out at Weed romping around like a lunatic in the little garden behind her flat as she takes a relaxing sip from her tea. Fucking cat, she thinks, as he starts thoroughly attacking a twig.

It is still fairly cold outside, and most of the plants are still bare and dormant this time of year, but the garden is prepared enough for Jamie to know that when spring rolls around in earnest in a few weeks that it will be bursting with color and life. She can already feel her generally grumpy demeanor improving at the idea of having her morning tea surrounded by the lush foliage. The garden is, outside of cooking, Jamie’s pride and joy. She’s lucky as hell to have it in the first place—normally the likes of her couldn’t afford anything like it in this neighborhood. But somehow, she had managed to charm the landlady when following up on the advertisement, beating out a whole horde of tech bros and PR managers for the flat. The fresh made bread with a couple small jars of her special made herb butters she brought to the showing definitely didn’t hurt. Over the last few years Jamie managed to transform the yard space from a scrubby patch overtaken by ivy, to an oasis she looks forward to every morning during the warmer days.

Her phone buzzes against the table as she takes a bite, and her hand darts out to grab it. Maybe it’ll be Rebecca this time, she hopes, but she knows it won’t be. She’d called and texted Rebecca a handful of times in the last couple weeks, but was met with nothing but silence. She doesn’t really expect anything, honestly, since there’s an active search for her and Peter, and Rebecca’s not a fool, even if she is. She knows whatever she says to Jamie will be shared directly with Owen, which will be shared directly with the police. It’s not even about the theft at this point—although it’s been a bloody headache for Owen and everyone at the restaurant. Jamie just wants to know where her friend is, whether she’s okay. If she’s sorry.

Instead, it’s just Owen, texting to ask if Jamie can take her motorbike to the restaurant today, and pick up a last minute order of black garlic from their vendor just on the outskirts of the city.

While anyone else might be annoyed at having their morning cut short, Jamie can’t help feeling a little bit relieved. For as hard as she’d worked to turn the little flat into some semblance of home—the first one she’d ever known, really—sometimes she couldn’t shake that restless feeling, like being anywhere but in the restaurant was just killing time. Especially with all this Rebecca shite, it was best to stay busy, stay focused.

Jamie taps out a response with one hand as she finishes her toast in one last bite. She does the washing up quickly, taking care of her breakfast dishes and the large pile that had stacked up in her sink throughout the week. Her mind already spins with the tasks ahead for the day; the small tweaks to the menu she’d suggest to Owen are already becoming a list as she scrubs out her prized cast iron pan, carefully inspecting it for signs of rust.

Morning chores done, Jamie makes her way to the bathroom, dropping articles of clothing as she goes. Once inside, she turns on the shower as high as it will go. As she waits for the water to heat up—an eternity in this ancient, Victorian flat—she can’t help but look at herself in the mirror before it fogs over completely. She’s a bit of a sight, she’ll admit, curly hair now fully alive with the humidity, and a lifetime’s worth of scars and tattoos painted across her body. Hannah would say she needed to eat more, but she’s one to talk, and it’s not like Jamie doesn’t taste test everything she cooks each day—she wouldn’t have this job, otherwise. Finally, with a sigh, she looks away and steps under the scalding water, hoping it will refresh her in a way she knows it won’t.

//

Two hours later, Jamie pulls her bike up the narrow alleyway behind Le Manoir, parking it by the dumpster. She’s hardly gotten off the thing before Owen’s flying out the backdoor, coming to help her unload the saddle bags stuffed with the fragrant bulbs.

“Jesus, Owen,” Jamie exclaims, wrenching off her helmet. “What’s the fucking hurry?”

“It’s another full house tonight, and we had to squeeze in another few seatings as favors,” Owen replies, already sounding exhausted from a morning of prep. He shoulders the bags, as he makes his way back inside, still talking as Jamie follows beside him. “Surprisingly, that article in the Times about the theft didn’t exactly hurt business.”

“Well, thank Christ for that,” Jamie mutters. “At least something good can come of it.”

The theft had garnered Le Manoir the most press it had received since being awarded its first Michelin star two years ago. Back then, Jamie had darkly joked that the hype would die down in a few months and it would be all over from there. Instead, the restaurant had built up a steady clientele of newcomers and regulars alike, as well as foodies, eager to work their way through their London food bucket lists. But the recent press had brought renewed interest in Le Manoir and the glowing write-ups of how the food had evolved in the last two years helped to fill the reservation books night after night. Jamie would be lying if she said she wasn’t dead chuffed about it.

Jamie shoves her jacket and her helmet into her locker, grabs a clean apron, ties her hair back into a bun, and starts her day.

The early afternoon hours pass quickly. Jamie’s still training Clare, showing her the ropes of the entremetier station between her own prep work and check-ins with the other chefs de partie. It’s nice to have the energy of the kitchen set right again without Peter there to poison the atmosphere. There's a lightheartedness and a quiet trust back and brimming as everyone works diligently and respectfully in their own stations.

Clare has already far exceeded Peter in her ability and her personality, and Jamie’s glad that at least one of the replacements is worthwhile. She hasn’t spotted Dani all morning and she snidely hopes that maybe she’s missed her alarm and will show up late to a stern talking-to from Owen. It’s petty and mean, but it’s hard not to be angry at Dani when she’ll be coming in and taking credit for all of the planning she and Rebecca have done for the spring menu.

Jamie tries not to get too riled up about it early in the day, and instead takes to prep for family meal, getting lost in the sharp sounds and precise cuts of her knife against the chopping block, the repetition and precision bringing her back to center.

Jamie watches for Dani out of the corner of her eye, waiting for her to make an appearance, as the clock ticks deeper into the afternoon. She’s only become more annoyed with each passing minute that Dani doesn’t show her face, doesn’t at least say hello to her own fucking coworkers. Only her second day at the restaurant, and she clearly thinks there’s no need to put in the effort. It gets to the point where Jamie starts making stupid mistakes in her prep work, and has to step outside to smoke a cigarette in the back alley, the singe of the smoke in her lungs contrasting the sharp cold of the air.

It’s just before the pre-shift meeting when Jamie finally finds Dani. Paul grumbles that the tub of flour for his sauces is running low, and Jamie has no clue why she does it really, it’s certainly not her fucking job, but she offers to run down to the dry goods storage in the cellar to replenish the supply.

Downstairs, the light is dim and the air is cool and dry, a stark difference from the gleaming white subway tiles, chrome appliances, and bright lights of the kitchen. Jamie rarely comes down here if she can help it, so she’s busy trying to figure out Hannah’s organizational system when a light rustling in the back of the wine storage scares the shit out of her.

“Hello?” Jamie calls out and moves in the direction of the noise. She reaches blindly for a bottle on the shelf next to her, determined to have something heavy at the ready in case it’s a goddamned rat.

Bottle in hand, she rounds the corner, only to find Dani, sitting cross legged on the floor, headphones in and completely oblivious to Jamie as she takes notes on a pad of paper in a loopy scrawl.

“Jesus Christ!”

At the sound of Jamie, Dani looks up with a jolt.

“Oh my god,” she says, plucking the headphones from her ears. “Did I scare you? Sorry—I didn’t even hear you come down here. Just in my own little world, I guess.” Dani eyes the bottle in Jamie’s hand, now lowered at her side, the neck still clenched in her fist. “Wait… is that—that’s a bottle of Dom Perignon? Were you going to club me with a five hundred pound bottle of champagne?”

“Thought we might have rats,” Jamie mumbles, feeling like a complete and utter fucking idiot. She squeezes the neck of the bottle in her fist. “Besides, haven’t seen you upstairs at all today. Thought maybe you’d done a runner on us already.”

“Just working on the inventory. I’ve been down here since nine and”—Dani glances at her watch—“how is it nearly three already? Shit. I need to get changed. Anyway, Chris mentioned the… theft, yesterday and it turns out this place is a complete mess. I needed to know what we actually have available.” She stands, brushing off her jeans and holds out a hand. “Um—I don’t think we’ve actually met. Not like, officially, anyway. I’m Dani. Dani Clayton.”

Jamie stares at it for a beat before reaching out to shake it. Dani’s skin is soft as butter but her grip is firm. “I’m, uh, Jamie Taylor. Sous Chef.”

“I know.”

“Right. ‘Course you do.”

Dani pulls Jamie in a little closer by their joined hands, and it sends something sparking through Jamie’s chest. For one terrifying moment, she thinks Dani is going to hug her when her other hand comes around to Jamie’s other side, brushing her hand, but then she tugs the bottle of champagne from her grip.

“I’ll take that,” she says, and she walks down the wall and places the bottle next to several others of its kind, all separated by year. “Don’t want any more of this going missing. Can’t trust anyone around here, apparently.”

There’s a lighthearted lilt in her tone, like she’s already in on the dark humor floating around Le Manoir about Peter and Rebecca, but it turns a spark Jamie’s chest into white hot flames, getting under her skin like fire on oil. What the fuck does she know about betrayal?

Jamie guffaws and crosses her arms across her chest, the indignant noise traveling across the chilly dark space of the cellar, and Dani looks back at her, eyes a little wide like she knows she crossed a line.

“Well, you’ve been here for, what… a day and a half? Maybe you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I just meant… with the theft and all.”

“Yeah, I know what you meant. But it’s not as black and white as it may seem. Okay?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I’m sorry. It was a bad joke.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe don’t joke about shit you know nothing about,” Jamie tosses back casually, with a shrug, and she knows it lands harder when it's casually cruel, because Dani goes rigid, caught. “And, I don’t know. If you want us to trust you, maybe say good morning, show your face upstairs once in a while before burrowing away in the cellar.”

Dani doesn’t say anything in response, but Jamie thinks that maybe she feels bad about it. Good.

Without another word, Jamie pivots, grabs a bag of flour from the pantry, and heads back upstairs. She can feel Dani’s eyes on her the whole time she goes.

//

Family meal goes on as usual. The staff scarfs down fragrant saffron rice and delicate korma and aloo gobi while Hannah updates the staff about their sections, and Owen gives the ‘busiest night of the week’ pep talk. Friendly chatter fills the space, and Jamie hears from down the table that last night’s after-work revelers were out until four in the morning, and she’s grateful she’s trying to steer her sanity away from all that, but she can’t help but feel a pang about missing out on the fun… even if she can’t remember the last time she actually had enough fun out with them all that she didn’t regret the next day.

So family meal goes on as usual, except this time Dani sits on the opposite side of the room as Jamie. She puts as much space between them as physically possible, and it’s almost funny, even if Jamie does feel a little scummy about the territorial nature of it all. But she doesn’t want Dani near her, and it seems like the feeling is mutual.

Just as Jamie is about to finish her last bite, Owen comes by and sits in the seat next to her, leaning back casually against the chair and surveying the space and the people within it.

“What do you want,” Jamie deadpans. Owen doesn’t just swing by to shoot the shit with her at family meal, not when they're at work and not when the countdown to the first seating has begun. It’s something that they have an unspoken agreement about. Their friendship is separate from their jobs here. It definitely helps their working relationship, their trust in each other, and their commitment to the success of each and every dinner service, but when they’re at Le Manoir, any personal life questions, any casual conversations, wait for another time.

So when he sits across from her, eyes a bit pinched with a smirk, she knows it's something about her menu.

“I need you to set up some time with Dani. I’m excited to see what you two will come up with.”

The hopeful bubble in her mind that maybe she and Dani could stay away from each other for as long as possible pops definitively.

“Set up some time? What is this, an appointment with my gynecologist?”

“If you talk to your gynecologist about fine wines, then yes.”

Jamie shoves the last bit of a samosa into her mouth, looks over to Dani, who is sitting next to Chris on the other side of the room, laughing at something as they chat animatedly. It makes Jamie itch. She looks back at Owen, who stares at her expectantly.

“I’ve got prep to finish. We’re overbooked tonight, like you said. Maybe tomorrow?”

Owen nods, because it’s true, and it didn’t really seem like he meant for Jamie to go chat with Dani right now.

“Just when you can,” he says, getting up with Jamie as she picks up her dishes and makes her way over to place them in the bin.

With a final ring of porcelain on porcelain, Jamie drops her dishes and heads back toward the kitchens to wash her hands, suit up, and brace for the exhilarating chaos of dinner.

//

Jamie finds herself out with the shift drinks crowd two nights later, despite her better judgment.

It’s a night for reveling in some of her vices; things had been fucked from the get-go this morning. At pre-shift, Dani decided to switch up the recommended wine for Jamie’s signature braised duck, a long standing item on the menu, even though Dani has never tasted the dish. Jamie may have snapped at her, after the meeting ended, stalking across the room, feet creaking on the spotless hardwoods. She may have had to step outside to let herself cool down after, and it definitely didn’t work.

When she got back to her station, there was a small glass of the wine just sitting there, and Jamie almost laughed at the audacity of it, before she brought it to the sink and dumped it right down the drain, and she’s not dense enough to have missed the sigh from Owen at the pass table. The following refrains beat in her head the rest of the night, thrumming between each dish she cooked: Why is Dani messing with consistency? There are people who come here regularly, who expect a certain amount of assurance in this particular dining experience. So why is she fucking with things that don’t need to be fucked with? . She couldn't seem to escape them and her ire only grew.

So when a small buzz formed during cleanup about heading over to The Two Faces, Jamie joined in, and it felt like she was relenting, like she knew she’d only regret it later, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

But now, sitting here once again in this dodgy pub, she doesn’t regret it at all. Not when she has a beer in her hand, cold and soothing against her skin after another day working with her fist tight around a knife, tight around a clench. She doesn't, not when she gets a chance to catch up with Nadia, their extremely talented poissonnier, and Nat, a server who’s been with Le Manoir since opening, for the first time in what feels like weeks. They all chat with Viola, hear about her days off and her insane sister, about the drunk lad she had to kick out of the bar last night, laughing wholly when she tells them how she held him by his ear like a sack of grubby laundry before kicking him to the curb.

As Jamie downs the last bit of amber swirling at the bottom of her glass, she’s actually kind of glad she came out tonight. This is what shift drinks are supposed to be, she remembers. Chatting with a coworker or two over a refreshing pint. Sucking down a buzz so sleep comes easier after another night of high stress and being on her feet since eleven in the morning.

Across the bar, the door swings open, and Tony, Rakesh, Paul, with a few other servers straggling behind, pour into the dark space, raucously pushing each other as they go. They had gone to another bar beforehand, something a little classier, Jamie thinks, probably that place with good craft cocktails that’s a few blocks west before they closed for the night.

Viola places a fresh pint in front of her, and Jamie is grateful for it for exactly two seconds until she sees Dani in tow, laughing loudly with Clare and Chris, a slight flush in her cheeks and her chest. Of course it was only a matter of time before Dani ended up here in this pathetic little refuge, looking to blow off some steam from a stressful-as-fuck job like the rest of them. Still though, Jamie can’t deny that it irks her, that Dani’s clearly been welcomed into their rag-tag group so effortlessly.

“Jamie, hey!” Tony shouts, and motions for her to come sit over at the booth they’ve claimed.

“She’s new,” Viola says casually from behind the bar, nodding toward Dani as she takes her seat with the others, and Jamie rolls her eyes.

“She’s the new Rebecca.” Jamie takes a long sip of her fresh porter.

“Ah.” Viola arches an eyebrow. She gets it. Everyone came here the day after it happened, to gossip about the whole shitstorm and to finally publicly complain about Peter, professionalism no longer a barrier to everyone’s most obvious thoughts. Viola gave them all a couple rounds on the house that night. “Shot?” she offers.

Jamie considers, then nods, and Viola laughs, commiserating. She grabs two shot glasses and fills them both to the brim with whiskey, and slides one toward Jamie. Viola picks up the other, holds it up and waits for Jamie to grab hers. They clink them together, and Jamie tosses back the shot, the liquid burning her throat, warm and smoky, her mind already growing hazy from it.

“Thanks, Vi.” Jamie slides the empty glass toward her on the counter. “Can’t say I won’t regret that later.”

“They always do.”

Jamie picks up her pint and nods over to the crowded booth. “Better head on over.”

“Shout if you need anything.”

Even though the last place she wants to be right now is at a table across from Dani, Jamie doesn’t really have a choice but to sit with them, especially since Nat and Clare have already joined their group, so she squeezes into the booth with the eight or so others as more beers get passed around, sloshing all over the sticky table. She almost spits her drink out from a laugh when Dani suggests they go around and name their favorite dish on the menu, like this is some team building exercise to bring them closer together as fellow human beings. Only three people go, managing to answer with straight faces before it all falls to shit when Rene starts going on emphatically about the robust nuttiness and decadent creaminess of the brie currently on the cheese plate before collapsing into laughter. Dani goes crimson, even in the dim light.

Conversation shifts, people focusing in on chatting to the people nearest them, and Jamie dips in and out of it, a little drunk and distracted. Tony’s next to Dani, and he has his arm around the back of the booth behind her, not enough to be direct, but enough for her to know it’s there, and he does this with everyone, so who’s to say if he’s trying to lay it on with her, but Jamie sees Dani’s shoulders bunch a little, her smile more pinched, and Jamie’s not an idiot. She’s also not the only one to clock it. They’ve all had to be on Tony Patrol at some point or another when there are new women around. Nat gets everyone’s attention, asks very loudly who wants a refill before getting up to head over to the bar, tosses a casual, “Can you help me carry everything back?” to Dani, who jumps up like she’s been bitten on the arse.

Jamie’s not surprised, honestly. Tony, bless him, is a lot. Usually it works in his favor. The almost frat boy obnoxiousness, his loud, booming voice that demands everyone know he’s in the room, coupled with his rugged, bad-boy chef aesthetic, and his genuine charm generally works in his favor. But, apparently not on Dani Clayton.

When they come back a few minutes later, and everyone’s fresh drinks are distributed, Nat takes Dani’s spot beside Tony, leaving her to sit in the only open spot, right next to Jamie. Just her fucking luck.

Dani smiles politely as she slides in on the edge of the booth, taking a sip of her drink. It’s something pink and vaguely fruity-looking and Jamie eyes it skeptically; this is more of a beer and a shot kind of place.

“So,” Dani says to get Jamie’s attention, and it’s the first time they’ve actually spoken all day. “What did you end up thinking of it?”

“Of what?” Jamie replies, nonchalantly, but almost like a challenge, as she takes another sip of her fresh pint. She knows exactly what Dani means.

“The wine.” Dani offers her a coy little smile.

“Couldn’t tell you.” She runs the tip of her finger around the lip of her glass, collecting foam, refusing to look in Dani’s direction.

“Oh. I left a glass for you at your station. Did you not see it?”

Jamie grips her glass a little bit tighter, the anger from earlier in the day that she tried to dull with this night out rising back up again. For a moment, Jamie wants to snap back at her, to tell her exactly what she did with the wine, but when Jamie finally shoots a glance over at her, Dani’s leaning in close, her chin resting on her hand, eyes twinkling. If Jamie wasn’t a little tipsy, if the light was different, if it wasn't Dani in her dumb little lavender cardigan that sticks out in this place like a sore thumb, she thinks it could be flirting. It disarms her a little, so she decides to play along.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Jamie shrugs as she takes another sip from her glass, her lips pulling into a smirk against the rim when Dani gives her an unconvinced look.

“Hmm,” Dani hums, assessing her, eyes narrowed, before she takes a sip of her own drink, swirling the little straw around in the ice. “It’s just interesting, I think. How an eighty pound glass of Châteauneuf-du-Pape can just… disappear.”

Shit. Well, at least Dani didn’t recommend a completely baseless wine for the dish.

“Paul probably drank it, the wanker.” The skin on the back of her neck starts to feel cold, knowing she’s been caught. In for a penny, in for a pound, she supposes.

“Paul”—Dani leans in, speaking lowly near Jamie’s ear now so the chef in question can’t hear her across the booth—“didn’t touch the wine.”

Heat burns from Jamie’s chest, blooming up to her forehead. Her fingers are sweaty against the glass now, and fuck if she knows why. “And how do you know that?”

Dani pulls back, crossing her arms over her chest and her smug, teasing little smile instantly tells Jamie she’s walked right into a trap.

“Because he’s the one who told me you poured it down the drain.”

“It wasn’t right—for the dish,” Jamie manages, weakly.

“It was.” Dani’s voice is firm now, and any hint of playfulness or teasing is gone, replaced by a tone that’s all business. “And you’d know that if you gave it a chance.”

Before she knows it, Dani’s sliding out of the booth, now-empty glass in hand and walking across the pub to the expansive bar.

//

The only thing getting Jamie through Sunday morning is the thought that after just one more dinner service, she can sleep for a full night. Maybe she can get her life in order, take care of her disorganized flat, do her fucking laundry, and make sure her herbs aren’t wilting to their deaths.

That, and her smoke breaks. They’ve come more frequently now, with her efforts to actually get clean, needing to find some moments of solace in the middle of the day so it doesn’t build and build, and lead her up shit’s creek. The arrival of Dani Clayton also doesn’t help to minimize the need to escape the kitchens at least once an hour.

She takes a quiet drag of her cigarette, leaning against the cold and rough brick of the alleyway. The sky is cloudy, and there’s a stillness to the air outside in a way that only a Sunday morning can be. Jamie has a lot to focus on today, has so much to do as Le Manoir prepares to be closed for the next two days, but there’s no other space in the entire restaurant where Jamie can clear her head in the same way as the back alley with a cigarette between her lips.

She’s tried to quit, but it was impossible to find some time, some place, that she could be alone, without one of the chefs de partie asking her a question, or seeing if she can taste something, or hounding her for menu changes that she hasn’t even a chance to discuss with Owen. So she quit quitting, and now she lets the cool air outside chill her cheeks and the heat from the smoke warm her lungs as she revels in these few minutes of peace.

She’s about to take another drag when the back door swings open, and Jamie feels her little bubble start to pop when she sees Owen through the crack of the door.

“Hey, mate,” Jamie says, and takes another drag.

“Hey,” he answers, shutting the door behind him, his arms across his chest, nearly shivering already.

Jamie can’t help but laugh a little. He’s always been so sensitive to the cold, wearing mittens and earmuffs as soon as October hits. But he leans against the wall, a hunch in his shoulders. His eyes are closed, and Jamie just lets him be for a minute, understanding that even though the back alley is a bit dingey and smells a little bit like trash, it’s a sacred space.

“All good?” Jamie asks eventually, when she’s down to the butt of her cigarette, and Owen just sighs.

He brings his hand to rub his eyes under his glasses. “Just, uh… been trying to reassure the new investors after everything. It’s a bit of a headache.”

He looks up at her with a small reassuring smile, “They’re a bit cautious about the timeline.”

Jamie just nods. Owen’s been under a lot of stress lately. On top of the theft, and planning his wedding for the summer, he’s been looking to open a new restaurant across town. It was almost set in stone until the theft, and a couple of investors pulled out.

“Have them come for dinner again,” Jamie suggests, taking the final drag from her cigarette before she tosses it to the floor and steps on it with her boot. “We’ll pull out all the stops. Wine and dine them. Give them a tour of the kitchens. Send them home with some wine. You know the drill.”

Owen nods, considering it, but even Jamie knows it’s not really enough. They do that for everyone who Owen’s in talks with about investing in the next restaurant. While the “fiasco” ultimately bolstered their visibility online and in the news, it hadn’t exactly inspired a lot of confidence in Owen’s ability as someone capable of hiring a good and trustworthy staff, at least in the eyes of those with deep pockets.

“Anyway. Stay out here and freeze while you lose your mind thinking about all this shite,” Jamie says, as she pats him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to go chat with your new somm about this menu.”

Owne perks up at that, and Jamie rolls her eyes. Predictable.

“She’s excellent,” he says, and she thinks his eyes are actually fucking sparkling. Jamie wants to slap him.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She yanks open the finicky back door. Owen follows behind her as she walks back inside, the lure of the warm kitchen too strong for him to resist.

“Find me when you’re done? Couple changes for tonight I want to go over.”

“Sure,” Jamie nods, as she walks down the hall, parting with Owen at the corner. “See you in a bit, chef.”

Jamie winds her way past the refrigerators, the extra dry goods storage, the bakery where the bakers on staff are preparing the second round of bread that will come out of the oven in several hours for the second seating. Even the buttery scent of consistently baking bread doesn’t lift Jamie’s spirits as she navigates the tight labyrinth of back office spaces.

She can’t help that every time she thinks about working with Dani, it brings up something ugly within her. Something that sends her spiraling into thoughts like: Could she have done something different? Was she a bad friend that she never saw Rebecca slipping away? Could she have locked Peter Quint in the walk-in and let him freeze to the temperature of his heart? It leaves her stranded to the spot, unable to face Dani, unable to move past the hollowness in her chest, and the irritation that floods the empty space.

But Owen is relying on her, and for what it’s worth, she’s never questioned their friendship. Not the way she would question Rebecca’s, who always had one hand on her mobile waiting for Peter to call or text to whisk her away from their brainstorming sessions, who always had one ear piqued in his direction in the kitchens. Owen’s been there with her from the start, unwavering and complete, and that’s worth something. She’s been trying her best to be exactly that for him, too.

Jamie finds herself in front of Dani’s office, a tiny room in the back corner that was probably a repurposed closet, and she tries to remember that Owen’s placed his trust in her, but it doesn’t really do much to subdue the irritation in her chest when she knocks on the door, and she hears Dani’s voice sing-song, “Come in!”

Jamie grumbles as she pushes open the door, and when she enters, Dani looks up at her with this eager energy that Jamie can’t match.

“Hey!” Dani exclaims, and she has these stupid blue light glasses on for her laptop screen. She takes them off, folding them and placing them on the desk, and smiles so big at Jamie.

Jamie shifts closer into the room, peers around. Even though Dani has only been here for a week, so much has changed since Rebecca was in this space. There are books piled up on the desk, a stack of Wine Spectator magazines on the small table next to a chair, and Jamie can count three candles just from a cursory glance. Rebecca kept the space quite bare. ‘The wine is in the cellar, Jamie. What else do I need in here?’ she’d say. Clearly a lot, by the looks of Dani’s surroundings. But Dani does have know-it-all energy, and her presence seems to fill every corner of this tiny room, it’s almost suffocating.

“Thought we should uh… figure out a time to do this menu thing,” Jamie says, lamely.

“Oh! Yes!” Dani perks up, and she rummages through some of the papers she has sitting on the far corner of her desk. “I’ve been meaning to reach out. I was thinking we should come in on a day when the kitchen’s closed. I would love to…” She starts, but trails off when Jamie slumps into the chair opposite the desk, crossing her arms, and kicking her legs out in front of her, fixing Dani with a cocked eyebrow. Of course Dani wants to suggest they go in on their day off.

It’s probably a bit too mean and cavalier, but her shitty mood has to be directed somewhere, and Jamie doesn’t have any knives and a giant shank of beef anywhere within in reaching distance, so this will have to do.

But Dani powers through the thickness of it, squares her shoulder a little bit in a way that Jamie is sure is practiced. Jamie should have known she was braver than she’d given her credit for. Doesn’t change the fact that she wants to kick her ass to the curb.

“I’d love to go through your tasting menu, hear about the upcoming changes… What you’ve done here in the past.” She rustles through some papers on her desk, sits with her back so straight Jamie wonders what grade of steel is stuck up her ass, and tries to start organizing printouts of the previous menus and literature on the restaurant. “Sorry, it’s still a bit unorganized… Only just landed, so to speak.”

Jamie doesn’t really know what to do. She sits there, with her arms crossed, wondering if she can manifest teleportation. Or at least a meat mallet.

“Not that I’ve… just landed,” she says, looking back up to Jamie with wide eyes, like she needs to explain herself, like Jamie even cares. “I’ve been in London for about two years. Moved from Iowa. The wine in Iowa… well, I’m sure you can imagine, it's not good. At all. Not like here. Italy, France, Germany… they’re all right next door!”

Her desk finally starts to resemble something like a workspace, little piles rising around on the sides rather than in the messy center, and good fucking Christ, she keeps talking.

“Do you know how much it costs to get to Italy from Iowa? A fortune. And there are no direct flights, of course. You have to stop in New York, or Chicago. Sometimes it's cheaper to backtrack through Denver. It’s a whole thing. But from London? You can go there and back on the same day if you want to!”

Jamie sinks her head into her hand and tries with all her fucking might to look as bored as possible, but this is even testing the limits.

There is a pause, a silence, and Jamie thinks maybe she finally got the hint. She looks back up at her ready to find her meek and small and Jamie will feel somewhat vindicated, but Dani is just looking right at her with this intensely stern glare, her lips tight, expression schooled, and it makes Jamie sit back up a little with a shock.

“Are you done?” Dani asks, and it's like ice sliding down Jamie’s spine.

“Sorry?” Jamie sits up a little straighter.

Dani composes herself, slams a thick skin into place, folds her hands diplomatically in front of her. “Listen, Jamie. I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I don’t exactly know what happened here… that’s none of my business, but I can tell that it hurt you.” Jamie scoffs a little at the assessment. “But I am very good at my job, and I admire your work and your skill. You don’t have to like it, but you have the chance to collaborate with me. I value your insight, but I do not need it.”

Jamie’s eyes are wide and she’s struck silent and she feels… in trouble, in so many ways that she can’t fully process in this moment, and she thinks she knows now what Owen meant when he described Dani as a formidable talent during her interview.

She is still staring at Jamie, waiting for an answer, not willing to let her speech fall on deaf ears.

“Sure. Fine, whatever.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dani says, laced with a sarcastic, bitter undercurrent, and Jamie can’t help but maybe, begrudgingly, respect her a little more.

//

When Jamie flips on the lights of Le Manoir’s kitchen on Monday morning, she can’t help but feel a little out of place, like the earth has tilted on its axis, just so. Gone is the usual buzzing energy that pervades the restaurant—the excitement of the pre-shift, the feeling deep into a night’s service when the staff are practically reading each other’s minds, moving together in a complex, well-rehearsed dance. In its place is a strange emptiness, her footsteps echoing off tile as she walks to the staff locker room to get ready.

She drops her bags in her locker, and uses the little mirror hanging on the wall to tie her hair up with a clip, and smooths her loose curls back with a well-worn bandana. Jamie enters the kitchens once more, clad in comfortable jeans, a soft gray t-shirt, and a canvas apron; there’s no need for her usual crisp white uniform today with no Owen, no guests, no other staff—just her and Dani fucking Clayton.

Jamie’s just getting warmed up, sharpening her knives at a rapid pace, when several loud bangs jolt her out of her focused state.

“Jamie?” she hears, muffled.

She turns down the music blaring on the kitchen speakers, and the voice calls out again. Just as she finishes contemplating whether she should investigate, Dani comes bursting into the kitchen. She’s clutching a takeaway cup in each hand and there’s a grease-streaked paper bag smashed under her armpit. A canvas tote bag hangs from her elbow.

“Sorry—the key—Owen lent it to me but—“

“Bastard thing always gets stuck,” Jamie interrupts. “Need a hand?” She lifts an eyebrow at Dani, who’s breathing heavily now, breath puffing a lock of hair that’s fallen over her eyes.

“Um—yeah. That’d be—I brought coffee.” Dani holds a takeaway cup out to Jamie, like an olive branch. Jamie reaches for it, eyeing it suspiciously.

“It’s a flat white,” Dani offers brightly. “I didn’t know what you’d like—the barista recommended it. She said everyone loves them.”

Jamie hates them, actually, but she’s not about to tell Dani that as she takes the cup from her, the paper warm against her hand. “Thanks.”

They stand there for a beat, in silence that stretches towards awkward. Finally, Dani seems to realize she’s still got her own coffee in one hand and the tote bag in the other. “I’m just gonna go drop this stuff real quick. I’ll be fast, promise.”

Jamie bites her lip, restraining herself from letting slip a harsh retort and instead nods. Dani’s not halfway to the locker room by the time Jamie’s already back at her station, turning the music back up on the cracked screen of her phone as she resumes her work, prepping a couple of the courses she’s hoping to include in the menu. Her reference notebook sits open on the side, her own messy scrawl nearly impossible to read even by herself.

Dani emerges, hardly two minutes later—true to her word. Jamie pointedly continues her task, even as she senses Dani’s presence next to her, the proximity of her body doing something to the pit of Jamie’s stomach that she doesn’t particularly want to interrogate. She leans over Jamie’s book, peeking at the pages, before Jamie slides her hand toward it and flips it closed, affronted, like it’s her own personal journal.

Dani takes a small step back. “You haven’t touched your coffee.”

It’s pointed and observant and Jamie feels something almost like guilt as Dani stands there, waiting and watching with those cornflower blue eyes of hers, a Danish clutched between her fingers. Jamie sets down her knife and takes a sip, powerless. It burns her tongue but apparently she manages to hide her grimace because Dani smiles.

“Ready to get started?” Dani asks, and she says it like she knows Jamie isn’t, would rather be anywhere but here, but she’s going to push them down this road regardless.

//

It’s half-past eleven when things take a turn for the worse.

They’ve been hunched over the counter for the last thirty minutes, Dani’s collection of menus and other assorted papers that she pulled from her office all scattered atop a prep table, next to her laptop, which has images of previous dishes pulled up on the screen.

Dani has clearly done her research in the past few days, from the most recent menu all the way back to Le Manoir’s early days, charting the evolution of the restaurant’s offerings as far back as Jamie can remember. Dishes Jamie’s cooked throughout the past several years float through her memory like previous acquaintances. It’s kind of impressive, to see just how much the restaurant has changed over the years, how much they’ve pushed the boundaries of the initial menu that was in place upon opening, and how much from that first menu is still alive and well; Owen’s signature Madai, a delicate slice of sea bream in a balanced blend of citruses and spiced oils, with supremed grapefruit and cucumber sorbet; and Jamie’s braised duck with crisped parsnips and delicately spiced samosas.

It’s when Jamie finally hands over the tasting menu she and Rebecca were developing that Dani’s brow furrows and her lips draw into a line. Dani shuffles through the pages, crumpled and stained, covered with Jamie’s own chicken scratch and Rebecca’s elegant scrawl without saying a word, only emitting a thoughtful hum or grunt every so often. Jamie crosses her arms across her chest, tattooed forearms exposed.

“Well?”

“It’s…” Dani tucks a lock of hair behind her ear with one hand and sets down the papers on the countertop with the other. Jamie shifts her weight, impatient. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

“It’s just kinda… safe.”

Jamie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Safe?”

“Yeah. It’s… Well. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Here or elsewhere.”

Jamie scoffs, “Great. Well. Thanks for the note,” and plucks the book from Dani’s hands, before slamming it shut.

“Look,” Dani cuts in, voice firm, “I’m sure you and Rebecca worked hard on it. And there are some good ideas in there. Rebecca knew the basics, I can see that, but—”

“But I don’t.”

“I never said that.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I can just… It’s very clear you’re not taking risks with this menu. And I get that maybe it’s easy to fall back on certain recipes.”

Jamie crosses her arms, leans against the table, practically vibrating with anger now; the insults to her menu items that she’d carefully considered for weeks—in the shower, during pre-shift, whatever ungodly hour when she climbed into bed at night, even during sex—nearly too much to bear.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I do, actually.” Dani crosses her own arms and they’re in some sort of standoff now, like the hokey Westerns that Owen sometimes flips to on the telly that she and Hannah roll their eyes at. It would be comical if Jamie wasn’t so livid, if she didn’t feel like chucking a stock pot halfway across the gleaming kitchen. “This menu is practically the same as the spring ala carte menu three years ago. And it’s got pairings similar to what I’ve seen on at least two other starred restaurants’ menus. We need something different to stand out. It’s not exciting enough.”

Jamie opens her mouth to shoot something back at this infuriating woman, perhaps a searing question about how much innovative haute cuisine Dani’s encountered in Iowa. Instead, her jaw snaps shut with a click.

“And I know you’re good at this. I’ve dined here with you as sous three times. Owen told me which dishes were yours. They were creative, and surprising, and… your braised duck—” Dani lets out an aggravated but almost delighted groan, like she can’t possibly put into words the experience, and Jamie would be lying if it wasn’t satisfying. “It’s surprising. Classic with creative spin.”

Jamie feels caught, realizing she had accused Dani days ago, even just internally, of not even trying her dish before choosing a new wine pairing for it.

“That’s what we need for this menu. It feels like you’re not letting yourself take those risks anymore.”

It stings, but, deep down, she knows that Dani is right. It had been Owen's idea that Jamie would take the lead on fully developing the next seasonal tasting menu. It was still very much Owen’s restaurant, his name and title of Chef de Cuisine splashed around in all the newspaper articles and reviews of Le Manoir. But he needed a break, he’d confessed to Jamie one night over glasses of whiskey at the restaurant’s empty bar, well-past closing and the hour when the staff had scattered across Central London, looking to continue the party. With everything going on, it was the right choice, he assured Jamie, taking a swig of the golden liquid in his glass.

While Jamie had met this comment with a scoff, she couldn’t help the feeling of pride swelling in her chest at the knowledge that her friend not only trusted her with such an important task, but wanted to give her the space to make a name for herself, to find her voice in the kitchen.

But the Peter fucking Quint of it all certainly hadn’t helped matters. Even before the the theft, he had fucked things up from the moment he had walked into the kitchen of Le Manoir. Rebecca had been engrossed in him from the get-go, her own ambitions and her and Jamie’s plans tucked away the back burner. As much as she was loath to admit it, and certainly she never would to Dani, Jamie knew that Rebecca’s notes and suggestions were distracted, half-hearted. Safe.

Jamie opens the small book again, stares down at her efforts; her and Rebecca’s mingling notes. She rips the pages out, one by one, tossing them onto the table. It’s a little dramatic, but honestly—it feels good. Dani just blinks at her for a beat, watching Jamie closely, like she’s gearing up for another attack. When Jamie instead crumples up the papers, chucking them directly into the nearest rubbish bin, Dani’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

Jamie says nothing in return, merely shrugs her shoulders as nonchalantly as she can, before turning and walking to the nearest fridge, its shelves of fresh fruits and vegetables waiting for her.

//

On Tuesday, London is painted in dull browns and grays as a heavy and relentless rain soaks the city. When Jamie forces herself out of bed to brew a pot of tea, she can hardly see the gardens beyond the kitchen window, the panes of glass streaked with water. Not even Weed wants to go outside today, preferring to stay curled up at the foot of Jamie’s bed, the lucky bastard.

The last thing she wants to do today is leave the cozy confines of her flat, now put back into some semblance of order, her laundry washed and dishes done. But Hannah had quietly invited her over for a home-cooked breakfast and a chance to catch up outside of the chaos of the restaurant, and Jamie couldn’t resist the pull of the warmth of their home.

By the time she arrives at the doorstep of Hannah and Owen’s Hampstead townhouse, Jamie’s bones ache from the chill and her hair is a complete mess from the rain. When Hannah opens the door to see Jamie’s glower, she gives a sympathetic sigh. “Oh dear, come in. You look like something the cat dragged in,” she says, wrapping an arm around Jamie’s shoulder and pulling her into the house.

“Thanks, Han,” Jamie grumbles, swiping a wet curl away from her forehead.

Inside, their house is warm and cozy, all pine floors and soft hues. The house is as familiar to Jamie as her own flat; in the years that the three of them had been friends, Jamie had spent countless mornings and evenings here, sitting around the kitchen table with a brew and plates of Owen’s freshly made biscuits.

It’s there that Jamie and Hannah find Owen, clad in a hilariously pink and ruffly apron, frying parathas on the stove.

“Before you even say anything”—Owen levels Jamie with a look as she smirks at him, brandishing a set of tongs in her direction—“it’s laundry day.”

Jamie holds up her hands in mock defense. “Wasn’t even gonna mention it, mate. Wouldn’t be the worst I’ve seen you wear.” She takes a seat at the kitchen table, and Hannah’s at her elbow right away with a chuckle, pouring her a steaming mug of tea. Jamie takes a sip, feeling a hundred times better already as the hot liquid makes its way to her belly.

Chances to talk to Hannah and Owen for the last week have been scarce, given the busyness of the restaurant, so Jamie can’t help but ask the thing that’s been eating at her for days, constantly humming in the back of her mind no matter how busy the kitchen gets or how many shift drinks she has after closing.

“Any updates on the investigation?”

Hannah sits and shakes her head, taking a sip from her own mug. “Oh you know, the usual runaround, I suppose. Police are still looking into it, and there’s no indication they’ve tried to leave the country—not much more than that, really.”

“Lazy fuckers,” Jamie growls. “Scottish bloke legging it with thirty grand worth of wine can’t be that hard to track down.”

Owen sets down the plate of parathas on the table, along with fragrant aloo ki sabji and several other dishes. Jamie’s stomach growls at the sight and she begins spooning some onto her plate.

Owen waves a hand dismissively. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s done with at this point. Insurance is handling it and Peter Quint will never set foot in another restaurant in London. Maybe the whole of England, if we’re lucky.”

“So that’s it?” Jamie looks back and forth at Hannah and Owen incredulously. She can feel the bitterness, the anger that’s threatened to consume her for the last month rising like bile in her throat. “You’re just going to let him get away with this? Fucking smarmy, sodding fucking bastard—”

“Peter Quint,” Hannah says, “Deserves to be tossed into a jail cell—for this and a whole host of other reasons. But that’s not our prerogative.”

“But he’s just—out there. And Rebecca—” Jamie collapses back into her chair and scrubs at her face with a sigh. “Still hasn’t said a goddamn word.”

Hannah pats Jamie’s hand sympathetically. “I know. How a brilliant woman like Rebecca Jessel got wrapped up in all this is still beyond me but… that’s love, I suppose. Makes us all go a bit barmy, sometimes.” Hannah starts to scoop some food onto her own plate, gestures to Jamie. “Eat. Don’t let it get cold.”

Jamie scoops up some of the rich curry with a bit of paratha. It’s comforting but complex, spicy and rich. “Fuck, Owen, this is delicious,” she says around a bite. “Can’t we just forget the fancy French shite and serve this?”

As they take bites of the delicious food, Hannah asks if Jamie’s heard from Mikey recently. Jamie shrugs. “Even though he’s got his mobile practically attached to his hand, it’s not like I can ever get ahold of the fucker. As long as he’s still in school and getting decent marks, that’s all I can ask, I ‘spose, after last summer. Idiot kid.”

Hannah hums in response and gives Jamie a soft, sympathetic look. “I’m sure Annie and William have things under control. They mean well.”

“I know, I just”—Jamie scrubs at her face, suddenly feeling exhausted—“he’s too much like me at that age. Bursting at the seams. Restless.”

“You’re saying that’s changed since you were sixteen?” Owen remarks and Jamie thwacks him on the arm.

“Piss off. You know what I mean. Not like I’m getting hauled off in the back of a police car anymore.”

“Not for the last several months, anyway.” Owen grins. Both Hannah and Jamie level him with a look and he throws up his hands in defense. “I’m just joking. Responsibility’s been good for you.”

“Oh so that’s why you saddled me with this tasting menu then? To build my character?”

Owen laughs and wiggles his eyebrows over his cup of tea, “Why, is it working?”

Jamie gives him a sarcastic smirk. “Well, Dani Clayton made me toss everything I had into the bin, and I’m starting from scratch. So thanks for that. Didn’t even get a chance to cook anything before she called literally everything about my menu rubbish.”

Owen looks taken aback. “Really? What did she say?”

Jamie just shrugs. She doesn’t really want to admit that Dani thought the menu felt too standard, or that Rebecca’s attention was half-hearted. It’s embarrassing, mostly because she knows Dani was right.

“Just that it needed work. So… we’re working on it. Happy?”

Owen sighs, “Jamie, she’s just doing her job.”

“Isn’t her job supposed to be in the cellar? Away from the kitchens?” Jamie asks, earning a sympathetic eye roll from Hannah, and a tutting laugh from Owen.

“She really knows what she’s talking about,” Hannah chimes in, and gets a glum stare from Jamie. Nothing like being ganged up on by your best mates over breakfast. “She managed to sell more bottles in her first week than Rebecca did in a month. And she’s suggested some new labels to keep in stock that she thinks will do very well, based on the food and the clientele.”

It stings a little, Jamie won’t lie. But Jamie won’t fight Hannah about the numbers. “Doesn’t mean I have to like her.”

Owen and Hannah share an eyeroll and Jamie scoffs.

“Would it kill you to like anyone on staff?” Owen asks, taking another bite.

“Nat’s nice. Chris is good people. Tony’s a jerk but he’s okay. Clare’s alright but anyone would be better than Quint.”

There’s a pause, like they’re waiting for Jamie to say literally anyone else.

She looks up at them, a piece of crispy paratha halfway to her mouth, “I like you guys.”

“Honestly, Jamie.” Hannah sips her tea with an exasperated look.

//

It’s nearly half-past four in the morning, not even a sliver of light showing through her drapes yet, and for the life of her, Jamie can’t get back to fucking sleep.

She’s been laying flat on her back now, for one hour or maybe several, Weed asleep in the crook of her arm as she stares up at the plaster ceiling, shrouded in darkness. All of Jamie’s senses are heightened as she closes her eyes for what feels like the millionth time: the faint hum of the building’s ancient electrical system; the scratch of a walnut tree branch against her window pane; Weed’s soft snores. Finally, she rolls over, shoving her face into her pillow and dislodging Weed in the process, willing herself to catch at least an hour of much-needed rest.

In a last act of desperation, Jamie mentally recites the steps of making the classic French sauces she’d mastered early in her career—first the béchamel, then velouté, and finally, hollandaise; it’s the chef’s version of counting sheep. It doesn’t work.

“Fuck this,” Jamie finally grumbles, pushing herself up from the warmth and comfort of her bed. She stumbles blearily into the tiny bathroom, turning on the shower tap. If she couldn’t sleep, and imagining things to cook wasn’t going to help, she might as well go into Le Manoir. Work on this sodding tasting menu while she has the place to herself.

When Jamie arrives at Le Manoir, barely an hour later after winding her way through the just-waking streets of London on her bike, she finds the lights in the place already on. Inside, Owen’s standing at the pass table, dressed casually in jeans and an old T-shirt from his university days.

He hardly spares Jamie a glance when she enters, preoccupied with carefully tweezing a sprig of sorrel onto a succulent cut of lamb. Jamie watches him, taking in the aromas, her mouth watering. Fuck it if it’s not half-past five in the morning, Owen’s already working wonders. Finally, he finds the perfect placement for the leaf and steps back, admiring his work.

“Couldn’t sleep, either?” Owen asks, giving the dish one last scrutinizing look, lips quirked under his bushy mustache. He rotates the dish under the light, inspecting, and then nods, satisfied.

“Fuckin’ mind was just racing. You know me, never been a great sleeper.” Jamie reaches across the table, grabbing a fork and a knife. “Figured I’d just get my arse in here and actually—”

“—Cook something.” They both say it at the same time, and Owen guffaws. “Yeah, mate, I know the feeling. Hard to stay away from this place, sometimes. Now, are you going to actually taste this masterpiece I made for ewe or just scowl at it?”

Jamie shoots Owen a glare and then pulls the dish toward her. It looks decadent: sauce, lamb, tangy sorrel. The sound she makes when the flavors hit her palate could probably be considered obscene, but Owen just laughs; it’s the exact response he was looking for.

“Fuck me. What’s the secret?”

“New supplier—farm out in Yorkshire.” Owen snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered something. “And love, of course. Can’t forget that—most important ingredient of all!”

“Oh, so is that what’s missing in my tasting menu? The nauseating mentality of a Bake Off contestant?”

“Could be. Makes sense, you’re a heartless fiend.”

“Fuck off,” Jamie laughs, and knocks his shoulder with her own. She grabs an apron from the hook on the wall, forgoing her more formal uniform for the early hour. “Let’s cook.”

After that, they fall into the same routine that they have for years, practically dancing around each other as they move around the kitchen, both of them secretly enjoying taking on all the tasks that are normally left to the stations below them during service. As much as Jamie loves the chaotic beauty of a flawless dinner service, or the hours she spends alone in the kitchen, these moments with Owen are probably her favorite.

They fill the cavernous space with laughter and conversation—about the wedding, Owen’s ideas for the new restaurant, Jamie’s plans for her garden in the spring—as Jamie tries to pull some of the ideas that have been swirling around in her brain for days out of her head and onto the plate. She’s freer, in the morning, outside of the time she’s actually meant to be here. She lets herself loose a little bit, experimenting and fucking about with textures, flavors, adding tactile elements to the experience: a mother of pearl spoon, a textured plate. Together, she and Owen fabricate these perfect little works of art right in front of them, and before they know it, the sun is up, and their bellies are full.

“Good work this morning, Chef,” Owen says, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Thanks. You, too.”

Owen lets a long yawn escape as he stretches. Jamie feels one creeping up as well. “I’ll make us a brew before the rest of those rascals start wandering in.” Jamie could die for a good cup of tea right now. Owen reaches up and grabs the kettle from its special place on one of the shelves.

Jamie sits down near the lockers, pulls her notebook out of her backpack, starts scribbling down a few notes from this morning. She’ll update Dani later, give her a sense of the dish so she can pull some choices for a pairing. The next time they’ll be working on the tasting menu again together—four days from now—Jamie wants to be ready. To wipe that corn-eating midwestern grin off Dani Clayton’s face and knock her fucking socks off.

//

Delicate purple thyme blossoms fall from Jamie’s fingertips, landing atop a perfectly shaped scoop of salmon roe that covers chopped and delicately marinated yellowtail, all barely contained into a paper-thin wafer shell; it’s the finishing touch of a dish she’s been working on for the last hour. She steps back, eyeing the way the light catches the vibrant smooth orange of the roe, the bright and matte green and purple of the thyme; the perfect harmony of color and texture.

She looks over at Dani, who sits on a stool silently, gaze fixed on Jamie’s hands as she assembles the bite, brows scrunched in concentration as she takes it all in.

“Can practically see the gears turning in there.”

Dani laughs, a bit startled out of her focus on watching Jamie assemble the dish, and looks back at her. “It’s beautiful,” she says, as Jamie places the dish in front of her. “Can I?”

“S’what it’s there for,” Jamie gestures. “Marinated hamachi topped with salmon roe. Enjoy in one bite, with your hands.”

Dani’s eyes light up as she sits up straight, her hand reaching out to pick up the delicate bite between her fingers, popping it into her mouth.

Jamie loves this part. Watching someone go from nothing to everything in just a few seconds. The way Dani’s brows knit together as the flavors register on her tongue, the way her eyes slip closed as this particular experience explodes through her entire palette. When she opens her eyes, still chewing, enjoying the popping of the roe, the smooth texture of citrusy sweetness of the fish, she smiles around her mouthful. Jamie can’t tear her eyes away, can’t help but smile back.

“Wow,” Dani says once she’s finished. “Oh my god. That’s amazing.”

“Thanks.” Jamie takes a sip from her water bottle, trying to quell the tingles traveling up and down her spine before she flips open her notebook, scribbling a star next to the recipe of the dish. If it got that kind of a reaction, maybe she was onto something.

“Okay, so for this, obviously a champagne would go best,” Dani starts. She surveys the five or so bottles she brought up from the cellar that are sitting on the countertop, before selecting one. “I think this one,” she decides, picking a bottle of Blanc de Blancs, before standing up and grabbing two glasses from the kitchen shelving. She unwraps the foil, and pops the bottle open, pouring two modest samplings into each glass. “This vineyard is in the same region as a salt mine, so the grapes and the wines have this incredible minerally base. Really very robust and will go great with the salmon roe, while also bringing out that salinity from the fish.”

Jamie eyes her skeptically—honestly, so much of sommelier talk sounds like complete and utter bullshit most of the time—before taking the bite that she assembled for herself from another plate and popping it into her mouth. It’s really so good. She can’t deny that Dani’s challenges to her ‘safe’ menu made Jamie push herself harder. Jamie’s never been one to back down from a challenge, especially when it comes to cooking. The delicate thyme flowers balance it nicely, and she has early mornings in her kitchen puzzling out her new ideas and tending to her herb garden to clear her head to thank for that. It’s a single bite to be proud of, and she thinks Owen will feel the same. Jamie takes a sip of the champagne once she’s finished her bite, and immediately the flavors burst against her tongue, sparkling and bright. It’s a perfect match.

“Shit. Wow, that’s good.”

Dani smiles, excited and bubbling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Jamie takes another sip. It’s even better the second time.

“I thought you’d like it,” she smiles happily, as she makes a note on her laptop. “I’ll call the importer tomorrow. We should get a couple of cases. It looks like we have…” she peers at her screen, “only four more bottles in stock. Well, make that three,” she says, typing away at the database, updating the record meticulously. “We could probably get the 2011. That’d be even better.” She trails off a little, talking to herself and making some notes, and then asks, “Could you make another one?”

Jamie looks at the ingredients, ready and waiting for assembly on the table. “Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back, give me a minute.”

She disappears down into the cellar, and Jamie takes another sip from the champagne, finishing off the small splash Dani had poured into her glass.

She gets to work assembling another bite for her and Dani, once again filling the small cracker with the prepared fish. She’s in the middle of meticulously garnishing the roe with the purple thyme flowers when Dani emerges from the cellar, another bottle held by the neck with two more glasses hanging between her fingers.

“Here’s another one to try. In case we have to make a substitution,” Dani explains, as she uncorks the bottle, and pours another perfect sip into each glass. She places a wine glass in front of Jamie, the delicate glass clinking lightly against the surface of the table. “This one’s a little different. Drier and much less powerful. This a white wine, but it’s made from red grapes, believe it or not.”

The wine is such a pale, delicate color, nearly crystal clear with just a hint of yellow. It looks refreshing and light, just like the dish set before her on the plate.

“How does that work?” Jamie asks, swirling the liquid around in her glass, inspecting it. She knows food like the back of her hand but wine is mostly out of her purview.

“They have to squeeze the grapes gently, and before fermentation begins. It’s… kind of a lot more complicated than that, but that’s the gist.”

Jamie places a second helping in front of Dani, and they both take their bite and sip their wine in silence.

“Good?” Dani asks, and Jamie nods. She’s honestly surprised by what lingers on her tongue, accentuated by the flavor of the wine. The right pairings really do let the dishes echo so wonderfully in her mouth, each wine bringing up something new from the flavor profile, something more expansive than what she was able to craft just on her own.

“Thought so.” Dani shoots her a smile before turning back to her computer and typing out more notes. “It’s not as bright as the champagne, which should obviously be the first choice. But it brings out some deeper flavors, I think.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, and nods again, and she’s honestly not sure what else to say. For the first time in months it actually seems like she’s making headway on this menu that has been the primary cause of her anxiety ever since Owen asked if she’d be interested in taking it on. It’s every chef’s dream, and she jumped at the chance, excited and ready. But since then, at every turn, it’s just slowly been turning into a bitter pill in the pit of her stomach, making everything taste bland or sour.

Dani eyes her, questioning. “You sure about this one? You seem… less excited about it than the champagne. We can find something else if you want. There’s plenty of options we haven’t even looked at—”

“No, no. It’s good. It’s… it’s really good. I just…” She doesn't really know how to say that she’s thankful, that she’s impressed, that she’s still filled to the brim with irritation that it’s Dani sitting here, and not Rebecca, even though she knows Rebecca wouldn’t have been able to create these pairings in twenty tries, rather than just two.

“What?” Dani prompts, and Jamie forgot that she left her sentence hanging.

“Nothing. It’s great,” and maybe she’s a little short, but she doesn’t really owe anything to Dani.

“I’m sure Owen is going to be really happy with this,” Dani says, and it’s so sincere it makes Jamie’s skin itch. She slides the empty plate back toward Jamie, who takes it with a rough hand. Dani falters, but continues. “He’s put his trust in the right person, that’s for sure.”

Her voice is grating Jamie’s nerves, and it bunches in her throat like a sore, her body rejecting whatever Dani’s offering before she can even identify it as an olive branch, an encouragement… whatever it is. She turns her back to Dani, placing the empty plate on the counter behind her to wash later.

“Doesn’t really have a choice,” Jamie tosses back over her shoulder. “It’s not exactly like he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

Jamie turns back, shifting the ingredients around on the prep table to make way for the next.

Dani’s brows pinch, confused, and Jamie just shrugs.

“He’s trying to open a new restaurant, on top of planning his and Hannah’s wedding for July. Do you know how much planning a wedding takes? Good Christ. If I had that known a year ago, I might have tried a little harder to convince them to just fucking elope.”

A moment so short Jamie almost misses it. Dani shifts a bit in her seat, her expression falters and her gaze wanders down to her hand, fiddling with her knuckles, but when she looks back up at Jamie, it’s gone, a sympathetic smile firmly in place, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I… I can only imagine!” she says, her voice high pitched and tinged with something Jamie can’t quite grasp.

The moment lingers, Jamie unsure how to move forward with what feels like a roadblock in the conversation. But Dani jumps back in.

“A new restaurant though, that’s exciting. All new fare?”

Jamie nods. “Yeah. A little more casual, too. Should be nice. Leaves me here though, with more than I know how to handle, to be honest.” It slips out, and Jamie’s skin prickles from the confession. She hasn’t even admitted that much to Owen, not wanting him to worry or reconsider, or jump in to help her like a set of goddamn training wheels.

“Next dish, then?” Jamie deflects, before Dani can jump in to offer some tooth-rotting advice about how she just needs to trust her instincts or follow her heart. Dani nods, hums a little affirmation.

Jamie gets to work, pulling out a few pre-prepared ingredients. She heads to the refrigerator, navigating through the various cuts of meat to find the slab of Wagyu beef she has her sights on.

“Wow, that looks amazing.” Dani peers over the counter at the incredibly marbled beef as Jamie places it on the surface.

“Gonna taste even better,” Jamie says, with a slight smile. There’s nothing like Wagyu: the buttery softness to it, the rich flavor, the perfect fullness and balance. It’s unlike any other steak.

“I passed by this butcher on my walk this morning. They had some, but it didn’t look as good as this.”

Jamie takes her knife and slides it gently against the meat, the sharp edge and the soft tissue meeting in an easy glide, getting the perfect slice for two small cuts, sized to yield just three or so bites each. You can’t eat much more than that, the flavor overpowering and exhausting on the palette.

“Everyone says they have Wagyu these days, but it’s rarely the real thing.” Jamie shrugs, and wraps up the rest of the meat and puts it back into the cold walk-in.

She lets the meat rest, bringing it to room temperature while she gets started on the other elements of the dish.

There’s a nice silence for a while, as Jamie fires up the stove, gets a pan out and heats the metal. For a few minutes, it's like she’s alone. The comforting quiet of the kitchen, the light sounds of gas against metal, of her breath and the calculation in her mind of how to get this sauce just right.

This peace is interrupted when Dani pipes back up. “Have you ever gone to the market at Victoria Park? I usually like to go there in the morning, so I’m excited for summer to come back around.”

Jamie turns around to look at Dani, who just sits there, almost smiling, and wholly expecting Jamie to pipe up with her morning routine in kind.

“Uh, yeah. Been a few times,” Jamie replies, raising her eyebrow in confusion. Who hasn’t? It’s fucking Victoria Park Market.

With a recipe this complex, Jamie would prefer to cook in silence, so Dani rattling on in her irksome tone to fill the quiet about the book shop she likes to go to, and the market that has warm cider, and the National Theatre performance she went to last week, is not entirely welcome.

She tunes her out as much as she can as she takes out what she had prepped: a small ravioli filled with braised oxtail, some stocks and crispy garlic. She offers only slight grunts and hums to show Dani that she’s at least half-heartedly listening, as she works to assemble each portion of this dish: seasoning the beef just with salt and pepper as it shakes the cold, slicing a shallot into perfect circles and cooking them sous vide. Even with her extensive prep, she estimates about two hours to get this dish plated.

“When did you start cooking?” Dani asks later on. Just another of her assaults on silence to try to start a conversation with Jamie (‘Where did you grow up?’, ‘What’s your favorite cooking secret?’. ‘Do you have a favorite type of wine?’), all of which have gotten either minimal answers, or a noncommittal shrug. Jamie’s escaped a few of them with smoke breaks, which lasted longer than they usually ever do. This time, Jamie realizes that Dani’s gotten up, swung around to Jamie’s side of the counter, and Jamie’s heart clenches—at the question or at the infringement of her space, she’s not sure.

“Long time ago. Met Owen at culinary school.” It’s all she offers, all she can give at this point.

“Yeah, but I’m sure you were cooking before you went to culinary school.” Dani’s head tilts, like she’s leaning in for more information, a cute little smile plastered on her face, and it makes Jamie’s blood simmer. She rolls her eyes and gets back to cooking, the only goddamn reason she’s here.

Dani shifts beside her, realizing that’s the end of the road for that conversation. She steers safely back to what Jamie’s cooking next to her.

“So, what’s in this dish?”

Jamie explains. The rich beef, the single oxtail ravioli, the sous vide shallot, a barley base, and a red wine Bordelaise. A complex design on a plate, flavors bursting at the seams.

Dani nods along and returns to her computer, browsing labels in the inventory, and Jamie turns away, firing up the pan to cook the beef, the last step. As soon as she places the Wagyu in the pan, it’s like she’s alone in the room again. The sizzling sound as the meat hits the oil, the aroma wafting from the skillet, the sight of it curling against the hot metal as it cooks. Jamie flips the meat at just the right moment, the perfect char coating the edges.

Jamie feels Dani’s eyes on her the whole time. It’s not unusual for Jamie to be watched while she cooks. Years spent in kitchens being supervised and trained, being the one doing the training. Being watched has never bothered her. But Dani’s gaze is different. She’s not watching Jamie to learn, or to scrutinize. All she needs to do is wait for the finished product to be placed in front of her, to taste it once it’s all been assembled, and yet she won’t look away. It makes the hair on the back of Jamie’s neck prickle.

When the beef is done, Jamie removes it from the pan and sets it on the cutting board, letting it rest while she returns to assembling the plates, one for her and one for Dani. She spoons the barley in a delicate layer, places the single ravioli on the top corner, positions the shallot on the other end, and dots the plate with the Bordelaise, before slicing the Wagyu into two halves, the fatty marbled labyrinth on full view, and stark red against the yellows and greens of the other ingredients.

Relieved and exhausted, Jamie sets the plate in front of Dani, whose eyes are big as she takes in the meal before her.

“Wagyu beef, on a bed of pearl barley, with a braised oxtail ravioli, and chargrilled shallots,” Jamie says, proudly presenting the dish.

“This is beautiful. Seriously, Jamie.” Dani smiles excitedly, picking up her knife and fork, cutting into the dish and taking the first bite. It’s just like last time, and it never gets old: the way her eyes slip closed around the tenderness of the meat, the way Jamie can see the surprise in her expression at every new flavor.

“Jamie. That’s so good.”

Jamie can feel her smile growing. So much effort for this one dish, finally paying off. She’s excited to hear what Dani’s wine suggestion is, to have it when she tucks into her own dish.

“It’s just a little…” Dani starts, trailing off thoughtfully, and Jamie can feel her heart dropping in her chest. She knows criticism when she sees it. “It’s a little too much, I think. It’s delicious, don’t get me wrong. It’s… It’s incredible.”

“Okay.” Jamie bristles, crossing her arms defensively. “Then what?”

“This is going to be the last course before dessert, which will probably be another two courses… I just worry it’s too much, when people are already so full. Especially with something this rich.”

Jamie looks at the untouched one she made for herself. She has to admit that while beautiful, an intricate piece of artwork sitting on the countertop, Dani’s right. Why is she always fucking right.

“Maybe instead just focus on the Wagyu. Get rid of the oxtail, get rid of the ravioli, get rid of the barley. Just the Wagyu, the Bordelaise, and the shallot. People are going to want to focus on the flavor of the beef. Most of them will probably have never tried it, and you’re distracting them from that with the rest of it.”

Jamie looks back to her plate, intricate, untouched… and loud. She wants to go into the walk in and scream, but instead:

“Alright, then. Heard.” Dani gives her a sympathetic look, knowing Jamie spent hours, days, of prep and cooking for this one dish, only to have to cut at the knees. Jamie tries not to get it get to her, because that’s what this is. Trial and error. “We done for today?”

Dani checks her wristwatch, and nods. “Yeah. It’s already eight.”

It’s hard to ever tell the passing of time in the windowless, gleaming white kitchen. It always comes as a surprise to Jamie how quickly the day goes by, how much or how little she can accomplish. She tosses her towel onto the counter, relief flooding through her like it always does at the end of a shift, her muscles aching a little more than they were just a minute ago now that she’s allowed herself to feel tired, knowing her day is almost over.

She takes her plate, and rounds the corner to sit beside Dani, grabbing her knife and fork. She might as well enjoy it, since she’ll probably never make it again like it is right now.

“Well, wait,” Dani jumps up from her chair, “I can pour something for you to have with this. We have a Syrah that’ll go nicely.”

Dani’s already halfway across the room before Jamie can even say yes, leaving Jamie alone, just her and her dish before her. She takes a bite—a good slice of meat like this you should never have to wait for—and it’s perfect. Dani emerges from the cellar with the bottle and two more wine glasses hung between her fingers.

“This is from a vineyard I spent a couple months at in France two summers ago. Someone I knew was working there, so I was able to really get to know the wines.” Dani says, as she pops the cork from the neck of the bottle. “Not their best vintage, in my opinion, but it’s what we have.”

Jamie takes another bite as Dani pours a glass for Jamie, then herself. She watches as Dani swirls the glass, aerating the wine, smells the aroma in the glass, and then takes a small sip. Jamie’s eyes linger on her neck, her jaw tilted upward just slightly, the angle of it so sharp and so smooth and her eyes slip closed as it coats her tongue and… Jamie reaches for her own glass, trying to shake that thought from going any further, and buries it with a sip.

It’s good, Jamie knows it’s good, but she downs it quickly, scraping up the last bites from her plate and chewing far too fast, not even really enjoying it, fucking shame.

Dani shuts her laptop closed beside her, snaps a few pictures on her phone of Jamie’s recipe book, which Jamie tries not to feel violated at, and brings the used glasses over to the sinks for the washer to clean in the morning.

They move around the space quickly and silently; Jamie putting away any ingredients, labeling everything new that was made with crisp blue tape before wiping down the counters, quickly scrubbing the pots and pans; and Dani, bringing her laptop and old menus back into her office, gathering up the wine bottles, bringing what she can carry down to the cellar.

“Can you help me bring the rest of these down?” Dani asks when they’re almost done wrapping up the kitchen, nodding over to a collection of wine bottles that dot the prep table. Before Jamie can respond, Dani practically shoves the bottles into her arms. She’s unprepared, clumsily snatching the necks with slippery fingers and barely managing to not drop a grand’s worth of wine on the tile floor. Dani takes the rest, as well as the corkscrew and the decanter they didn’t end up using.

Jamie can feel Dani’s eyes on her, just like she’s felt them on her all day, as she carefully descends into the stairs to the cellar, arms laden with bottles. It’s dead quiet down here, even more than in the kitchen, the thick stone walls of the old building dampening any sound aside from their footfalls.

Dani places the bottles in her arms back onto their shelves, then turns to Jamie, says, “I’ll take those,” and pries one bottle at a time out of Jamie’s grasp, her fingertips grazing inked skin, eyes catching on the black lines etched deep, and this room is so much smaller than Jamie remembers it ever being. Dani turns away, placing the bottles into their respective slots, but she still feels so close.

“You’re welcome, by the way.” Dani eyes Jamie with a haughty smirk that sends an unbidden thrill through Jamie’s chest.

“For what?” Jamie scoffs, the tingle under her skin turning to something more familiar and she hates herself for it.

Dani shrugs, this cheeky proud little thing, and Jamie has to give it to her, she’s definitely sure of herself. “I think we make a good team.”

Jamie rolls her eyes. “It’s what Owen’s paying us for.”

“Are you mad? That I told you to change your dish?”

It shocks Jamie, the bluntness of it cutting through this confusing energy. Dani steps closer to her, and it adds to this tightness in her chest, like she’s being backed into a corner, or being dangled off the edge of a cliff. Thrilling but suffocating.

“Honestly? No. They were good suggestions.”

“Then why do you seem upset?”

“Because I don’t know you.” Jamie shrugs, and that’s the truth of it, spilling free from her like a burst vein, “I don’t know your palette, I don’t know your taste. So I don’t trust you.”

Dani comes in closer, tugging the last bottle of wine tucked in Jamie’s arm free, and turns to place it back on the shelf. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Because I trust you.”

“Dunno why the fuck you would.” Jamie says flatly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I’ve been nothing but a dick to you since you got here.”

Dani laughs, and it comes out as a snort. It catches Jamie off-guard—it’s surprising, but not really.

“Yeah, you really have been kind of an asshole. Luckily, it’s nothing I’m not used to. You think I haven’t had to prove myself, over and over again? Usually to some six foot-whatever tattooed guy with a stupid little mustache who thinks some ‘chick’ from Iowa doesn’t know the difference between California and French chardonnay.” She rolls her eyes and Jamie nearly opens her mouth to speak, but Dani gathers her bag, makes her way closer to Jamie, to the cellar door, and something tells her Dani’s not done.

“So I’m kind of done with it,” she says, and Jamie leans against the cool brick wall of the cellar, making space for Dani not to brush against her in the cramped doorway. “I’ve proven myself enough throughout my career. I’m good at my job, and my work speaks for itself. So take all the time you need to trust me, Jamie. Because I don’t really need it.”

It feels like all the breath has been sucked out of Jamie’s chest as Dani looks at her, challenging and shadowed in the dim light.

Jamie is rooted to the spot, unable to look away from Dani, who stares intently back at her. It’s an impasse, to see who will say something more, or try to leave the cellar first. The seconds drag on, weighted and silent. Jamie feels a thrill run through her chest when Dani’s eyes slip, just slightly down to her lips. Jamie’s brow quirks, surprised but delighted. It all slips into place: Dani’s too-long stares, flirty whispers at The Two Faces, the standoffs in the kitchen; Jamie’s seemingly endless frustration, the heat traveling down her spine when Dani’s lips wrapped around a fork. When Dani looks back up at her, she seems somewhere between caught and exasperated, her eyes and lips narrowing with a ‘don’t you dare’ air. Jamie shakes her head with an incredulous chuckle, letting her eyes drag along Dani’s chest, her neck, her collar—she really is very pretty—watching as her cheeks and chest blush pink under Jamie’s stare.

“Who the hell knew?” Jamie whispers smugly, and then Dani’s kissing her, her hands on her shoulders pressing her back into the hard stone; her lips are soft, her grip firm. It takes a moment for Jamie to register it fully, and she’s pulling back, shocked, staring wide eyed at Dani, who freezes at the hesitation.

Dani’s hands leave her like she’s scalding. She pulls away, but can only get so far since this cellar hallway is so fucking narrow. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth like she’s wiping away the kiss, like she’s hiding it, and it’s just enough time for Jamie’s head to catch up, for her to register the ghost of Dani’s lips on hers, and all she wants is to be back in that split second, because it felt good.

Jamie takes a step closer, wraps her fingers around Dani’s wrist and tugs it down from her lips, eyes unwavering on Dani’s. Jamie’s intent is clear, the burning in her chest too much to ignore, but she waits for Dani’s go-ahead. She can see the battle Dani is fighting within herself, to do it or not to, and Jamie will respect whatever comes. Jamie can feel her tension in the tendons of Dani’s wrist, still grasped between her fingers and pressed against the cold wall, can see the hard swallow of her throat and the hard pulls and pushes of air through her nose. It’s Dani’s choice, to meet her halfway, and it comes as a slight nod, their foreheads and the tips of their noses brushing at the movement, and a feather-light sigh leaves Dani’s mouth when Jamie presses back in.

Dani tugs her wrist free from Jamie’s grip, sinking both her hands into Jamie’s hair and pulling her closer. Jamie winds her hand around Dani’s waist, snaking it under the loose hem of her shirt between the hard surface of the wall and the warm skin of Dani’s lower back. The feeling of Dani’s skin against her fingertips sends sparks through her arms and up her throat, and she moans into Dani’s mouth. Dani smiles against her, elated and desperate as she pulls Jamie closer by her collar, by the silver chain hanging around Jamie’s neck, arching into her chest and guiding Jamie away from the wall, pressing her up against the smooth glass door to the cellar.

It’s incredible, really, the way the room shrinks even more somehow. How nothing but the space between them feels significant, how they start to fall into an intoxicating and addictive rhythm: Jamie’s hand in Dani’s back pockets, tugging her closer; Dani’s nails scratching lightly down Jamie’s chest and belly, stopping just slightly above the first button of her jeans. Dani’s lips trail down Jamie’s neck as she starts to tug Jamie’s shirt free from its tuck, and Jamie could do this right here, she thinks. It wouldn’t be the first time Jamie’s shagged somewhere in the restaurant, but something tells her that Dani isn’t interested in something hot, fast, and done. Dani’s hands linger at her waist as they separate, but still stay close, heavy breath mingling as they right themselves, still touching everywhere, but not moving any further.

“Do you want to—?”

Before Jamie can even finish the sentence, Dani is nodding, a soft keening moan slipping from her lips and they’re kissing again, slower and intentional, but still frenzied.

“My place isn’t too far,” Jamie offers, hushed and hot into Dani’s ear.

Dani nods, says, “Let’s go.”

//

Of course her flat is still a bit of a mess; she managed to get her laundry done this week, and made sure her herb garden was given some care, but that’s about it. There are still dishes in the sink, her bed is unmade, there is shit all over the place, but Dani still says, ‘Nice place’ when she walks through the door, and maybe Jamie expected her to say more, but her hand has not left Jamie’s arm since they left the restaurant, and she thinks, maybe, she doesn’t even really look at her place at all.

It’s frenzied and hot when Dani pulls her back in with a searing kiss, and if Jamie thought that maybe this was a mistake, that maybe she was the more interested party here, that Dani wasn’t just as sure, it all gets wiped away with the swipe of Dani’s tongue against Jamie’s lower lip. It all gets pushed aside when Dani rucks Jamie’s shirt up to wrap her hands around the skin of her waist.

Jamie can’t help but groan as Dani’s fingers dance a quick pattern up her ribcage, right under the band of her bra. The sound only seems to spur Dani on, and Jamie soon finds herself pressed back against her own front door, shoulder blades digging into the wood as Dani finds a tender spot low on Jamie’s neck. The feeling makes her eyes slam closed and a muttered ‘Christ’ escapes her.

Dani’s hands work their way lower, tugging on the loops of Jamie’s jeans, one hand moving to the button in front, and Dani’s lips travel up, from her neck to her ear, and she whispers, almost a whine, “Can I?”

It almost makes Jamie laugh that she asks, and she would have if she wasn’t so fucking turned on by it. She nods, and Dani is quick as she deftly undoes one button after another. A hot giggle falls from Dani’s lips and onto the skin of Jamie’s neck as one button refuses to budge, but she gets there, and she slips her hands low on Jamie’s waist, tugging her closer as she kisses her, hot and undeniable in her enthusiasm.

“Right here?” Dani asks, and there’s a small part of Jamie that feels like maybe they should take this to the bed to do it properly. But nothing about this is proper, and she needs Dani’s hand on her right now, so she just pulls Dani in against her lips again, and pushes her hips against Dani’s hand, and that’s affirmation enough for Dani to slip into Jamie’s underwear.

This is not normally how things go for Jamie; the women she usually takes home tend to choose her because they know they’ll be prioritized, for the most part. It’s just easier that way. Predictable. It’s not that Jamie doesn’t equally enjoy being on the other end of things, but she can’t really help if she gives off a certain energy at bars, or at work, or literally anywhere else. People expect something from her, something she’s generally happy to give. But Dani has thrown her off-course entirely, as her fingers, quick and eager, finally slip through her. She’s soaked so much it fucking aches; she can feel it with how easily Dani’s two fingers slip into her, can feel just how hot it makes Dani by the moan that lands into her ear, and it’s never been this unexpected before, and Jamie can only hold on as Dani thrusts into her.

Her pace is slower than she thought it would be, given how quickly Dani was able to get into her pants—how quickly things have unfolded since they kissed in the restaurant just over thirty minutes ago, but it feels fucking amazing. Dani’s long fingers curl, slowly dragging in and out of Jamie with intoxicating heat, pulling out of her fully to slide against the slick length of her, before dipping back in, her palm firm against her clit.

They kiss again, meticulously and messily at the same time, Jamie’s breath heavy and unsteady, soft moans filling the space between their lips when they part just slightly when they can no longer keep a kiss together, and it makes Jamie’s chest and core burn with desperation.

Jamie is on fire, this slow pace building her up so steadily, but she needs more, and she thrusts her hips to meet Dani’s pace, wanting to take back some of the power here, wanting to set the rhythm to what she needs to come fast, and she can feel Dani’s little smirk against her neck, her other hand pressing firmly into her hips against the door to keep her in place, and this small disapproving sound escapes her, her eyes dark as she looks at Jamie, resolute. Fuck.

It’s a stand off as Dani fucks into her, and Jamie finds herself backing down quickly, something new and thrilling, as she just pulls Dani back in for a kiss and hands over her body to whatever Dani wants to do with it. It sends a thrill through her chest she doesn’t think she’s ever really felt. It’s new, and it’s fucking amazing.

Dani’s other hand moves from Jamie’s hip and slips up to her chest, and around her back to undo the clasp on her bra to loosen the material and give her the space to fully cup Jamie’s breast, to squeeze her nipple as she leans in for another kiss. Jamie’s own hand comes up to her other breast, and Dani smiles, and Jamie feels like she’s done something right, and that thought sends another hot pulse through her to her core. Dani‘s hand moves back down Jamie’s body, around her waist and sinks into the back of her pants, cupping Jamies ass as she picks up the pace, finally. Jamie groans, loud and high—not giving a single fuck about the neighbors. Her head falls back to rest against the door as the feeling completely overtakes her.

Jamie is already so fucking close, already built up one spark at a time, but now it’s like she’s being set ablaze. Their lips meet again, hot and unrelenting as they learn the quick quirks of each other's kiss. Dani likes to nip against her bottom lip, soft and then hard as she pushes in, before swiping her tongue against Jamie’s, and Jamie loves it. She falters and moans when Jamie brings her hands to her hair and keeps her close with a rough tug.

Dani pulls Jamie in by the hand against her ass, her nails digging into her as she encourages her to thrust against her fingers, and a loud moan, almost like a relieved sigh, escapes Jamie when she can finally feel her orgasm approach. They fall into an intentional rhythm, one that sends Jamie crumbling sooner than she can realize.

She comes hard around Dani’s fingers, her hands tight in Dani’s hair, their foreheads pressed together, and she spills wet into Dani’s palm, soaking through her underwear, and it feels like it lasts ages as Dani keeps fucking her, returning to the slower but still rough pace to make it last as long as possible. Dani’s mouth is open and hot against her neck now, and she matches Jamie’s pants and high moans, as she works her through it. Jamie doesn’t think she’s ever come this hard with someone else, and despite it, she needs more. They haven’t even gotten past her hallway. The night ahead is long.

Dani’s hand isn’t even out of Jamie’s pants before Jamie is walking them farther into her flat, stumbling over their shoes, Dani’s jacket, their pants. Jamie pulls Dani’s shirt up and over her head, dropping it to the floor next to the chair where Weed sits, staring like Saint Peter himself judging her for all her sins, before he grumbles and hides his head in his legs like he doesn’t want to bear witness to whatever catastrophic bullshit Jamie’s up to tonight.

“Little shit cat,” Jamie says.

Dani ignores it; she has other priorities and Jamie can’t blame her. She pulls Jamie toward what she logically knows to be the bedroom, even though she’s never been to Jamie’s place before, and Jamie follows behind her into her room, her hands firm on her waist and guiding her through the dark hallway. The lights are off, and nothing but the ghost of a street lamp filtering through the window lights up Dani’s skin as Jamie uncovers more and more of it.

She’s fucking gorgeous, Jamie thinks, when Dani is down to nothing but her underwear, and Jamie’s just as bare. She pushes Dani down to sit on the edge of her messy bed, and she’s almost glad it’s nearly too dark to see anything. Best to keep this in the darkened, half visible depth of the night.

Jamie stands in front of her and she can only be still as Dani’s eyes and fingers trace her skin, traveling over the ink etched deep, and the scars from the kitchen that become clearer as her eyes adjust to the light. Dani’s eyes meet Jamie’s when she finally looks up at her fully. Her hand tugs Jamie forward by her forearm, not letting the moment linger longer than it should, and Jamie’s grateful not to dwell. This isn’t anything it isn’t, and she’s glad Dani seems to feel the same way.

Jamie leans down and kisses her, leaning over her body as Dani drags her down when she lays back on the bedspread, before Jamie sinks to her knees and kisses down Dani’s body. Jamie’s been thinking about this since their lips met in the cellar, a spark of undeniable heat in the chill, and Jamie was a moth to the flame. She pushes Dani slightly back on the bed, her hands coming to circle Dani’s hips and then her ass, tugging lightly at her underwear as she kisses deep on her thigh, and Dani sighs this high and breathless whine. Her hips rise and her hands collide with Jamie’s to help get them down her legs with a frenzied speed, and once they’re tossed to the floor, Dani spreads her legs, and god, she’s wet to her thighs. Jamie can see her skin glinting in the low light and she wastes no time. She hooks one of Dani’s legs over her shoulders before sliding her tongue through her in a long flat stroke, and it’s incredible.

Dani sighs above her, this soft moan slipping from her lips. Dani’s hands are everywhere, squeezing Jamie’s shoulder, the arm wrapped around her leg, running her fingers through Jamie’s hair, but Dani doesn’t guide her, doesn’t steer her, just sinks into Jamie and whatever direction she desires, and Jamie feels the scales balancing in the best way. She looks up at Dani, whose eyes are closed and her eyebrows pinched together, her lips parted, her moans growing steadily louder as Jamie learns more of what makes her unravel.

She likes to be touched elsewhere while Jamie works between her legs: her thighs, her breasts, her waist; different sensations, too—nails, pressure, feather light touch. She likes to be surprised, Jamie finds, judging by her delighted high-pitched sigh when Jamie teases her entrance with her tongue, and swiftly slips two fingers into her when she licks back up to her clit. She likes it rougher on her clit than Jamie would have imagined someone like Dani Clayton would. Then again, there’s a lot about tonight that she would never have imagined, and Jamie’s just here to enjoy this ride of discovery for however long it will last.

Jamie loves this. She could be like this for hours, just continuing to build a woman up, to taste and touch, feeling the new bursts of wetness against her tongue and around her fingers that come with the intoxicating sounds above her, feeling their body change and react the closer they get. Getting to build them up again, for a second time, right on the heels of the last. She wonders if she’ll get to do that tonight, or if Dani will come and immediately get dressed, slip her shoes back on, and disappear into the night like this never happened.

She wouldn’t blame her if she did, but right now Jamie can only really focus on this moment. Dani is close, her hips twisting a little to chase Jamie’s mouth as her tongue dances a consistent and firm pattern on Dani’s clit, as her fingers fuck into her at a quicker pace than Dani was able to sustain earlier. Jamie has no head for that kind of patience right now, and it seems like neither does Dani, who whines, ‘Harder’, into the air as she tugs at Jamie’s hair, and it’s the first direction she’s given her since Jamie sank to her knees.

Jamie obliges, her thrusts stronger and shallower, focusing on her front wall and it makes Dani start to tremble. Jamie watches her the whole time; her body glinting with sweat, her chest rising and falling quickly with breath, her head tossed back, her eyes closed and lips parted, her grip on Jamie’s arm tight and telling, her leg tightening against Jamie’s shoulder, her other on the floor pushing against the wood for leverage. The sight makes Jamie throb, this complete and absolute openness, this frustrating woman about to fall apart on her tongue.

Dani unravels with her hands tight in Jamie’s hair, with a cry into the dark void of the room. She clenches around Jamie’s fingers, as Jamie continues to thrust into her, eventually slowing in time with Dani’s body as she relaxes steadily around sighs and loose muscles.

Jamie stays there as Dani catches her breath. Gently, she pulls her fingers free, and sinks a light bite into Dani’s thigh, which has her sighing up to the ceiling and gripping Jamie’s hair again, not too tight, but in this way that makes Jamie know that she’s far from running out. She sits up, resting on her forearms behind her back, then reaches up to tug Jamie into a kiss, her tongue hot and thick against her taste in Jamie’s mouth. Jamie leans in further, ridding herself of her underwear with Dani’s eager help, before she pushes them both to the center of the messy sheets—finally. Dani is already pulling her close again, wrapping her hands around Jamie’s waist as she positions herself in Dani’s lap, and she’s already running her fingers through Jamie, slipping into her as Jamie meets her there, so ready for another.

The night seems endless and like scattered fragments all at once. Jamie doesn’t look at the time at all, doesn’t feel it pass or push against her, and she’s never been this focused, this occupied, before, she thinks. Sex with Dani is like lightning, striking and unexpected, hot and sharp and precise, chaotic and unpredictable.

Eventually though, she passes out somewhere around—if she had to guess—three in the morning, and when she wakes up around six, groggy and sore, Dani is gone. The bed beside her is cold, but there’s unmistakable signs of her everywhere: the ruffled sheets, the pillowcase halfway off, a light blue hair tie that isn’t Jamie’s left on the bedside table, and Jamie’s clothes strewn on the floor leading to the bed.

Jamie groans, turning in the mess of blankets and sheets, and burying her face in a pillow that smells faintly like Dani’s shampoo, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep to come for a few more hours, hoping for something, anything, that will stop her from thinking too much about Dani Clayton. That will stop her thinking about how much she fucking loved it.