Page 134 of Neap & Spring

“Plating,” I call, sliding the first halibut onto the lentils.

Marcus adds the leeks. Amara steps in with the broth, her hand steady as she ladles it around the fish, then follows it immediately with a small spoon of the butter, dark with mustard seeds, dropping it onto the surface where it melts and blooms outward in a slow golden ring.

Then Becca is there, lifting the finished plates, gone before I can blink.

We do it again. And again. And again.

The kitchen is a machine now. Everyone is moving in perfect synchronization. Amara calls out times. I respond. Roman plates. Marcus garnishes. Becca and Morgan run the food like their lives depend on it.

Through the window, I catch glimpses of the dining room. Vivienne moves between tables, stopping to talk to guests, her face animated, hands gesturing as she speaks. Frannie directs traffic at the hostess stand, her notebook open, taking down reservation requests for next month already. My family’s table is loud with conversation, everyone talking over each other the way we always do.

It’s working.

Everything is working.

“How many left on third course?” I ask.

“Last twelve,” Roman says. He reaches for his knife, grabbing a lemon for garnish. “We’re flying, Chef. This is —”

The knife slips.

It happens fast. One second he’s reaching for the lemon, the next he’s pulling his hand back, blood already welling from his palm.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

I look down. There’s blood on his cutting board. On the counter. Dripping onto the floor.

“Roman.”

“I’m good, I’m —” He presses his other hand over the cut, but blood is seeping through his fingers, running down his wrist. “It’s not that bad.”

“Let me see.”

He pulls his hand away, and I see the cut. It’s deep and straight across his palm. I think it might need stitches.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

“I can keep going,” he insists, but his face has gone pale.

“No, you can’t.” I grab a clean towel, pressing it firmly against his palm. “You need to go to urgent care. Now.”

“Cal, we’re in the middle of service.”

“I don’t care. You’re bleeding everywhere.” I’m applying pressure to Roman’s hand, watching the towel turn red. “You’re done. You need to go.”

Amara appears beside us, her eyes assessing the situation immediately. “How bad?”

“Bad enough.” I’m still pressing the towel to Roman’s hand. “Pretty sure he needs stitches.”

“I’ll take him,” Marcus says, already pulling off his apron.

“No.” I glance at him before returning my focus to Roman. “The leeks are your station and we still have twelve plates, plus two full courses after.”

“You’re going to need someone on Roman’s station for fourth and fifth,” she points out. Her voice is calm but her eyes are worried.

I look around the kitchen. Cora is already overwhelmed with dessert prep, her station covered in flour and melted chocolate. Becca and Morgan are needed in front of the house. Frannie can’t cook.

“I can cover it,” I hear myself say. “I’ll run both stations.”