The kitchen doesn’t return to normal after the office meeting. It settles into something else entirely—a charged, static-filled silence that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Every time a knife hits the cutting board or a pan hits the stove, it feels too loud.
I throw myself into work. If I’m moving, I don’t have to think about Knox’s admission or the way Fallon looked at me.
I scrub the already-clean counters until my palms sting. I organize the spice rack by height, then by color, then by height again because the color one looked wrong.
Through the service window, I feel it.
A gaze. Heavy, intent.
I look up from arranging the napkins. Knox is at the pass, plating a seared scallop dish. He isn’t looking at the food. He’s looking at me.
His gray eyes track my movements from behind the safety of his glasses. Usually, he looks at me with critical distance, searching for mistakes.
This isn’t that. This is hunger.
My cheeks heat. I turn away, grabbing a rag to wipe down a spotless table.
It happens again with Fallon an hour later. I’m crouched by the dishwasher, loading racks of glasses. I stand up, stretchingmy back, and find him leaning against the prep island, a knife in his hand.
He isn’t chopping. He’s just watching me, a crooked grin tilting his lips. He winks when our eyes meet, bold and unashamed.
It’s weirdly flattering. For years, I was invisible to Luke unless I was doing something wrong. I was a prop in his life, something to be moved or discarded.
Here, in this kitchen, I feel seen. Really seen. Not just as a worker, but as a woman. It’s terrifying, but it also sends a little thrill through my chest every time I catch one of them sneaking a glance.
By the time the dinner rush ends, I’m vibrating with exhaustion and a low-key anxiety that won’t quit. We clean in record time, fueled by the weird energy between us.
No one cracks jokes. The radio is off. The only sounds are the splash of water and the hiss of the sanitizer.
“I’m heading out,” Knox says, hanging up his apron. He looks at me, then quickly at the floor. “Good work today, Amber.”
“Thanks, Knox.”
He grabs his coat and leaves, the back door swinging shut behind him. The tension in the room drops by a fraction.
Fallon is next. He stretches his arms over his head, his tattoos rippling. “I’m beat. I’m going to go find a quiet corner of the house and pass out. You coming, Eli?”
“In a bit,” Eli says, wiping his hands on a towel. “I’m going to walk Amber to her car.”
Fallon looks between us. “Right. See you tomorrow, Amber.”
“Night, Fallon.”
He leaves, and suddenly it’s just me and Eli in the kitchen. He walks over to me, his hands in his pockets. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual, but his smile is warm.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
I grab my purse and coat, shrugging them on. Eli opens the back door for me, letting in a blast of freezing air. The parking lot is a sheet of black ice, reflecting the yellow glow of the street lamps.
We walk toward my car in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. There are things hanging in the air between us, unsaid and huge.
I stop next to the driver’s side door, leaning back against the cold metal. I don’t want to get in yet. I don’t want this day to end with the confusion still knotting my stomach.
“Eli?”
