“You too, Chef.”
He goes to his room, the door clicking shut behind him. I finish the Gatorade and rinse the bottle, placing it in the recycling.
I turn off the lights, plunging the living area into darkness, and head up the stairs to my own room.
My bed is made, the duvet smooth and inviting. I strip down to my boxers, the air in the room cold against my skin. I slide between the sheets, my head hitting the pillow.
I expect to lie awake, my mind racing through logistics and new variables. Instead, sleep drags me down almost instantly.
And of course, I dream of her.
We’re in the kitchen, but it’s empty of staff. I’m cooking, stirring a pot of sauce. She stands next to me, wearing that green dress.
She watches me work with a soft smile, her hazel eyes warm. I feel a sense of rightness, of pieces clicking into place, so profound it wakes me up.
I blink at the ceiling. The morning light is just starting to bleed through the blinds, gray and pale.
My body feels heavy, well-rested. I lay there for a long moment, savoring the remnants of the dream, before forcing myself up.
When I walk down to the kitchen an hour later, the smell of coffee is potent. Eli is sitting at the island, surrounded by small brown paper bags. He’s tying them with twine, looking focused.
“Morning,” he says without looking up.
“Morning.”
I go to the machine and pour a mug of black coffee. The first sip scalds my tongue, waking up my nerves.
“Miss Thea called,” Eli says, setting a finished bag aside. “She needs a delivery of herbs. Valerian root, chamomile, some dried lemon balm. She’s low on stock.”
“I can take it,” I offer.
“No, I’ve got it. It’s on my way to the bakery anyway. I need to pick up some fresh yeast.” He stands up, stacking the bags. “It gives me an excuse to check on her. She seemed tired yesterday.”
“She’s so busy, Eli. She’s always tired.”
“I know.” He shrugs on his coat. “I just like to be sure.”
Fallon shuffles in a few minutes later, looking like death warmed over. His hair is a disaster, his eyes squinting against the light.
“Coffee,” he grunts, heading straight for the pot.
“Eat first, then sleep,” I tell him.
“I’m not hungry.” He pours a cup, drinking it black. He leans against the counter, closing his eyes. “Is it just me, or does everything feel... different today?”
“It’s not just you,” I say.
“I like it.” He opens one eye. “It feels like the air cleared.”
“It does.”
He finishes his coffee in record time. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me up in like, three hours.”
“Will do.”
He disappears again. Eli grabs his bags of herbs and heads out, the cold air swirling in before the door seals shut.
I’m left alone in the quiet kitchen.
