I’d nodded, breathless.
The dinner rush hits its peak around seven-thirty. The tickets pour in, a relentless white stream of paper. The heat in the kitchen becomes stifling. Sweat trickles down my spine, but I don’t stop moving.
I fall into the rhythm, mirroring the men around me. Fallon is a powerhouse at the grill, swearing good-naturedly at a stubborn piece of meat. Eli is in his zone at the pastry station, piping mousse with steady hands.
We move like a single organism, passing trays, calling out orders, dancing around each other in the narrow galley. It’s exhilarating. I feel useful, capable. I’m not just the girl with the broken past; I’m part of this team.
By ten-thirty, the last ticket is printed. The kitchen goes silent, save for the cooling fans and the heavy breathing of three exhausted Alphas.
Knox wipes down the pass, surveying the clean kitchen. He checks his watch. “Service complete.Bon boulot,” he says.
I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most praise I’ve heard him give.
He pulls off his apron, hangs it up with surgical precision, and grabs his coat. “I’m heading out. I have inventory logs to review.”
“Night, Knox,” Eli and Fallon chorus.
He nods at me. “Amber.”
“Goodnight, Knox.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The energy in the room shifts instantly.
“Thank god,” Fallon groans, stretching his arms over his head. “I thought that group of ten was never going to leave. Who orders a well-done ribeye? It’s a crime against beef.”
“They were tourists,” Eli says, starting to stack the mixing bowls. “They don’t know any better.”
We start the cleanup process. It’s a team effort. Fallon scrubs the grill while I attack the dishes.
Eli wipes down the counters and starts the machine that washes the pots. We work in sync, the silence comfortable but for the clatter of metal and the rush of water.
“My back is killing me,” Fallon complains, though he’s smiling. “I’m getting too old for this standing nonsense.”
“You’re thirty, Fallon,” I remind him, scraping a pan.
“Thirty is the new forty in the kitchen business,” he retorts. “My knees have the mileage of a sixty-year-old.”
“Maybe you should stop doing parkour on your days off,” Eli suggests.
“Never.”
It takes an hour to get the kitchen back to its pristine state. The stainless steel gleams, the floors are mopped, and the smell of bleach replaces the scent of seared meat.
Fallon dries his hands on a towel. “I’m beat. I’m going home to pass out. You two locking up?”
“Yeah,” Eli says. “Go ahead. I’ll finish here.”
“Thanks, brother.” Fallon grabs his jacket. “Night, Amber. You survived your first full rush. You didn’t drop a single plate. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks, Fallon.”
He leaves, and suddenly, the kitchen feels much larger. Just me and Eli.
The lights are dimmed now, casting shadows in the corners. Eli leans back against the counter, crossing his ankles. He looks tired, but his eyes are warm as they find mine.
“How are you doing?” he asks softly. “Really?”
I lean against the sink, drying my hands on a towel. “I’m good. Actually, I’m really good. It feels… nice to be part of something that works so well. You guys are amazing at what you do.”
