#dynamic brushstrokes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seospicybin · 5 months ago

Text

TASTE.

CHAPTER I: PIQUANT.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (15,3k words)

Author's note: It's my first fic series this year so pls enjoy it and don't be shy to share your thoughts on it ♡

Piquant. /ˈpikənt/ , /piˈkɑnt/ adj. 1. having a pleasantly strong or spicy taste 2. interesting and exciting, especially because of being mysterious.

Farfalle was more than a restaurant—it was an institution.

Nestled in the heart of city’s bustling upscale district, the Italian fine dining establishment stood as a beacon of culinary excellence. With its pristine white façade adorned with golden lettering, it was a destination where food enthusiasts and critics alike gathered to experience the extraordinary. Inside, chandeliers sparkled like constellations above the polished marble floors, while the soft hum of conversation merged with the clinking of crystal glasses and the soothing notes of classical Italian music.

For years, Farfalle had been celebrated not just for its impeccable dishes but for its unwavering commitment to authenticity. Each plate told a story—one of passion, precision, and tradition. The handmade pastas, aged Parmigiano, and imported olive oils were matched only by the artistry of the chefs who brought them to life.

Yet, behind the glamour of the dining room, the kitchen was a battlefield. The restaurant’s reputation rested on a relentless pursuit of perfection, and the pressure to uphold its Michelin star weighed heavily on the staff. Every dish was scrutinized, every garnish meticulously placed, and every mistake unforgivable.

But this year marked the start of something new—a transition that sent ripples through the culinary world. Farfalle’s long-time head chef had retired, leaving behind a legacy that seemed impossible to surpass. The news of his replacement had been met with equal parts excitement and trepidation.

Enter Lee Minho.

The name alone was enough to spark both awe and dread. A man renowned for his uncompromising standards and fiery temper, Chef Lee’s reputation preceded him. Some called him a genius; others called him impossible. And now, he was poised to take Farfalle into uncharted territory.

As the restaurant prepared for his arrival, the staff whispered in hushed tones, speculating about what the new head executive chef would bring—or destroy. Would he preserve Farfalle’s legacy? Or would he tear it apart to rebuild it in his own image?

Only time would tell.

Minho adjusts the cuffs of his tailored coat, standing across the street from Farfalle. The restaurant glows like a jewel in the night, its golden lettering catching the soft light of the streetlamps. A small line of well-dressed patrons stretches from the door, their faces a mix of excitement and impatience. Even from here, he hears the faint hum of life—clinking glasses, muted laughter, and the occasional burst of chatter.

He doesn’t need to step inside to know the kind of experience Farfalle offers. The meticulous exterior, the perfectly aligned tables glimpsed through the window, the hushed efficiency of the servers—it all speaks to a restaurant accustomed to excellence. Yet, as his sharp eyes scan every detail, his mind already races with ideas.

The plating could be more dynamic. The menu, from what he’s seen online, needs innovation without losing its roots. And the staff? Well, he’ll find out soon enough if they can match his standards. If not, he’ll shape them into what he needs—or replace them altogether.

Minho crosses his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching in thought. He can see why Farfalle is revered, but to him, it’s still just a canvas. A blank slate ready for his brushstrokes. He has no intention of simply maintaining its legacy; he intends to redefine it.

A gust of wind sweeps through the street, carrying the aroma of freshly baked bread and roasted garlic. The dinner rush is in full swing, and the kitchen must be at its peak intensity. His fingers itch to walk in, to observe the chaos, to see how the staff functions under pressure. But he knows better than to intrude during service.

“Not the time,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

He lets his gaze drift down the street. The nightlife in the area seems just as vibrant as the restaurant itself. Neon signs flicker above bars and clubs, and the sound of music spills out into the crisp evening air.

With a final glance over his shoulder at Farfalle, Minho makes his decision. “Let them have their dinner rush. I’ll see it when it matters.”

He strides down the street, blending into the flow of people, his thoughts shifting to the possibilities awaiting him in the city’s nightlife.

Minho wanders the streets for nearly an hour before he finds what he’s been looking for—a bar tucked away from the chaos of the city’s nightlife. The dimly lit sign above the door reads Ambra, and the soft jazz drifting from inside piques his interest.

Stepping in, Minho instantly knows he’s made the right choice. The bar is intimate, with low lighting and leather seating that exudes understated elegance. The hum of quiet conversations fills the space, blending seamlessly with the music. Shelves stocked with an impressive selection of liquors line the wall behind the counter, and the bartender moves with practiced precision.

Minho takes a seat at the bar, orders a beer, and leans back to absorb the atmosphere. It’s rare for him to feel this at ease, but tonight, he allows himself to indulge. The first glass goes down quickly, a refreshing antidote to the brisk evening air. By the time he’s nursing his second, he feels a satisfying warmth settle over him.

After a while, he slides off his stool and heads to the restroom. When he returns, however, he stops in his tracks.

Someone’s taken his seat.

You.

You’re perched on the stool, casually sipping a drink, your posture radiating effortless confidence. Minho narrows his eyes as he approaches.

“That’s my seat,” he says, his tone clipped and direct.

You glance at him, unfazed. With the faintest of smirks, you take another sip. “So what if it is?”

Minho raises an eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze sharpening. Most people would flinch under the weight of it, but you remain completely indifferent, your calm demeanor only intriguing him further.

He stares at you for a moment longer, his mind tugging at a strange sense of familiarity. “Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. “You’re not an actress or a model, are you?”

The corner of your mouth twitches, and you let out a soft chuckle. “Why? Do I look like one?”

“Something like that,” he replies, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “Or maybe I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You lean in, just enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume and the warmth of your breath. Your voice drops to a playful murmur. “Maybe you saw me in your dreams.”

For a moment, Minho blinks, caught off guard by the audacity of your response. Then, to his own surprise, he laughs quietly.

“Is that so?” he says, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks.

You lean back, returning to your drink as if nothing happened. But Minho doesn’t take his eyes off you. There’s something about the way you carry yourself that keeps him hooked, an unshakable confidence that challenges him in a way he’s not used to.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice soft but insistent.

You glance at him, taking your time as you swirl the liquid in your glass. “Why? Do you need it to keep dreaming?”

His smirk deepens, his curiosity growing. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m interested in making it a reality.”

You study him for a moment, your gaze unwavering as you sip your drink. Then, with deliberate slowness, you set your glass down and tilt your head. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Come with me. Let’s see if your theory holds up.”

The corner of your lips curves into a smile. You take another sip, letting the moment stretch out. Finally, you set your glass down and rise from the stool, brushing past him as you head for the door.

Minho follows, his interest piqued more than ever.

The elevator ride is quiet, but the air between you and Minho crackles with unspoken tension. Minho keeps his hands in his pockets, stealing quick glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You, however, seem entirely at ease, leaning casually against the elevator wall, your lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

When the doors slide open on his floor, Minho leads the way, his steps purposeful but unhurried. His hotel room is at the end of the hallway, and the sound of his keycard beeping against the lock breaks the silence.

He glances at you, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his sharp features, but it’s gone in an instant. The door clicks open, and he steps back, gesturing for you to enter first.

You flash him a smile—one that’s more challenging than polite—and step inside. The room is spacious but sterile, the kind of impersonal luxury that defines high-end hotels. Warm, ambient lighting softens the edges of the modern furnishings, and the faint hum of the city outside seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Minho trails behind, quietly closing the door as his eyes follow your every movement. You take in the space, walking slowly, your fingers grazing the back of the leather armchair by the window. It’s a room meant for passing through, a temporary refuge, but tonight, it feels charged with possibility.

Turning around, you face him, your gaze locking onto his. The intensity in your eyes mirrors his own, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches, taut and electric, until you break it. Your voice is low and laced with challenge. “So… are you ready to make your dream come true?”

Minho exhales softly, his lips curving into a slow, deliberate smirk. He takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “That depends,” he says, his voice rich with quiet confidence. “Are you?”

You hold his gaze, letting the tension simmer between you, a charged pause filled with unspoken promises. You move toward the bed, each step deliberate, each motion radiating quiet confidence. You climb onto the bed without hesitation, settling back against the pillows with an air of unshakable ease. His eyes follow the slow arch of your movements as you stretch out, your gaze locking onto his with an almost defiant intrigue.

You tilt your head slightly, one leg bending at the knee as your skirt shifts, revealing a whisper of lace beneath. The soft, seductive curve of your lips carries a challenge as you murmur, “Come. Make your dreams come true.”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Minho’s lips, sharper on one side than the other. His dark eyes glimmer with something dangerous, something intent, as he steps forward with measured precision. His gaze never wavers, a simmering intensity that would make most crumble—but you hold it, your calm composure only fueling his fascination.

He reaches the bed and leans down, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in without touching. His breath is warm against your cheek, the closeness of his presence a magnetic pull. You feel the weight of his gaze as it lingers on your face, searching, daring you to falter.

But you don’t.

Minho leans over you, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your head, the other sliding gently along your jaw. His thumb brushes your skin, a touch that sends sparks down your spine. He’s so close now that his breath mingles with yours, warm and tantalizing.

You don’t break the gaze, your lips curving into the faintest of smiles as if to challenge him further. Minho takes the bait, his smirk fading into something darker, something more intent. He closes the distance, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s slow at first, deliberate, testing.

His mouth moves against yours with a growing fervor, each kiss deeper, more demanding than the last. His hand shifts, trailing down to your waist, pulling you closer as his weight settles beside you. The heat between you builds, your breaths quickening as the world outside the room fades to nothing.

You feel his fingers brush against the fabric of your skirt, his touch firm yet unhurried, as though he’s savoring the moment. His lips leave yours briefly, trailing down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss igniting a fire that spreads through you.

Minho lets the silence stretch for just a moment longer before his hand trails down, finding your bent knee. With a touch that’s both deliberate and unhurried, he lifts your leg slightly, tilting it closer to him. His lips graze the soft skin of your thigh, leaving a slow trail of kisses that climb higher with every breath.

The air between you grows heavier, the atmosphere charged and electric. You sense the shift as his focus sharpens, his movements deliberate yet unspoken, the tension between you nearly tangible.

Minho finally dips his head lower, the closeness of his breath on your clothed core igniting a fire along your skin. You close your eyes briefly, caught in the moment, every action a silent promise of what’s to come.

Taking you off guard, Minho tugs the fabric of your underwear between his teeth and drags it down your legs until it's off of you. Nothing is getting in his way now but before that, he shot you a menacing look before planting his mouth on your cunt, taking the first step in making his dream comes true.

Minho is wrong to think that he's the one who won't be easily satisfied tonight. You're on all fours, taking it well even though he is going as hard as he can, the skin slapping sounds echoing in the room louder than the lewd noises spilling out of your parted mouth.

“Harder, harder,” you repeatedly say between your moans. You're barely holding on, your hands are gripping the sheet under you, your legs trembling, a sheen of sweat coated your skin yet Minho finds it hot that you're asking for me.

Minho grabs a fistful of your hair and gently tugs at it, using it to tilt your head to the back, allowing him to plant ferocious kisses on your neck. He then presses his mouth to your ear and whispers. “Harder, huh?”

You slightly turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. “Harder,” you simply say back to him.

Hearing you saying that with a commanding yet seductive tone, he feels challenged. He grips each side of your hips, hard enough his nails digging into the flesh and he takes a second of break before launching himself into you, harder than before.

Your moans grow louder so you plant your head onto the pillow to try muffle it, your hands are now holding the side of the pillow like it's your lifeline.

Minho lowers his mouth on your back shoulder, placing kisses with his teeth faintly scraping your skin. “Isn't it what you want, huh? I'm giving it to you.”

He adds speed to his thrusts and the intensity of his movements make the bed quakes along with it. At first, he thought you were just being greedy but fuck, you're taking it so well.

“You're close, huh?” Minho murmurs with his eyes fixated on the way his cock slipping in and out of you.

He lowers himself until his chest meets yours and putting his arms around your waist, he plants his mouth on your shoulder as he takes you with him, kneeling on the bed. His muscular, veiny arms wrapped around you, keeping you steady as he keeps thrusting into you despite you're on the brink of climaxing.

You tilt your head to the back, letting it drops onto Minho’s shoulder, your moans grow low and hoarse as you're closing in on your high.

Minho silently holds back himself from getting carried by the way your fluttering around him but he likes it, oh, the way you sucking him deeper into you. There’s nothing like it, he's enjoying every second of being inside you. His hands wander your sensuous body as you're relishing your orgasm. He catches you smiling with your eyes closed and satisfaction painted on your face, nothing arouse him more than realizing that he made you like that.

“That good, mmh?” his lips graze your ear as he speaks.

When he thought that you couldn't impress him more, you turn around and push him hard until he collapses onto the bed. He props an elbow but your hand pressed to his chest, gesturing him to stay down.

You slyly smile as you hover above him, your eyes filled with mischief as you say. “Now, I'll make your dream comes true.”

It's like you’re not tired or spent at all from the previous session. You're bouncing on his cock with both of your hands firmly resting on his chest as support and when you get tired, you're switching to rolling your hips back and forth at a painstakingly slow motions.

“I can see that you like that more,” you murmur, now rolling your hips in circular motions, earning low grunts from Minho.

He thinks it's not just about the way you're fucking him but it's also the way you're enjoying doing it to him. The sly smile never strays away from your face, provoking him but at the same time, arousing him so much that he knows his high is close, too damn close that it happens without him realizing it.

By the time he knows he’s cumming, he finds himself gripping your thighs as you keep moving, slowly and deliberately, teasing his sensitive cock as it's filling the condom with his seed.

Throwing all of your hair to the side, you lower yourself on him until your lips meet in a rapturous kiss that keeps Minho floating on cloud nine. You continue peppering his face and neck with kisses, you prop an elbow next to his head, just staring at his face with that crooked smile lingering on your pretty face.

“So, how does it feel now that you dream came true?”

Minho closes his eyes and blissfully smiles, he then shakes his head. When he opens his eyes, they instantly found yours. He hastily kisses your lips before speaking, “But it’s not the end of the dream yet.”

The soft shuffle of footsteps pulls Minho from sleep, his body reluctant to stir. He groans quietly, his eyes heavy with the weight of lingering exhaustion. Cracking them open, he squints at the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. It’s still dark out—far too early for his liking.

He turns his head, catching sight of you moving around the room, your bare silhouette outlined in the dim light. You’re bent slightly, picking up your clothes from the floor, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet space.

Minho watches, saying nothing, his gaze following the fluid movements of your body. There’s a magnetic pull in the way you carry yourself, confident and unhurried. He wants to call out to you, ask you to come back to bed, but the words stay lodged in his throat.

You step into your underwear, sliding the fabric up with practiced ease before reaching for your bra. Minho’s eyes trace the lines of your figure as you fasten it behind your back, your fingers deft and steady. Next comes your skirt, which you pull up with a casual swing of your hips.

Turning around, you catch his gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes when you realize he’s awake.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. His voice is rough with sleep as he asks, “So when can I see you again?”

Your lips curve into a playful smile, your demeanor coy as you tilt your head slightly.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” Minho tries another way.

You remain coy and continue buttoning up your blouse, a small smile tugging at your lips as you look at him.

“Why are you hesitating? You're supposed to refuse on the first time,” he teases.

“I'll be working,” you simply answer.

“What time you get off work?”

You tuck your shirt into your skirt. “I would only be free at night.”

Minho tilts his head to the side, slightly narrowing his eyes as he asks you, “At what time?”

“Around midnight.”

Minho’s eyes narrow slightly, his curiosity piqued, but he doesn’t press further. He can tell you’re not one to be cornered easily, and there’s something about the mystery that only draws him in more.

“There's only one thing a man and a woman could do together at that time,” his voice filled with playful lilt as he's sitting up on the bed and sending the duvet slides down his shoulders, exposing his bare upper half body.

Getting no response from you, Minho scoots closer to the edge of the bed. “I guess you find me attractive. You didn't turn me down once.”

His eyes are commanding as he searches for yours and won't stop until you hold his gaze. “I'll see you around midnight at the same bar then. Not tonight or tomorrow, but the day after. Let's say you turned me down for tonight and tomorrow. Okay?”

You slip on your jacket, adjusting it with a quick, practiced motion before walking toward the door. Pausing with your hand on the handle, you glance back at him, your smile softening just a fraction.

“You’ll see me soon enough,” you say simply, your voice carrying an ease that lingers in the air long after you’re gone.

The door clicks shut behind you, leaving Minho in the quiet stillness of the room. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he stares at the spot where you stood, already thinking of the next time he might see you again.

The faint hum of kitchen appliances fills the early morning quiet at Farfalle. Minho arrives even earlier than expected, the weight of his position settling into his steps. He walks through the restaurant as if already claiming it. His first stop is the dining hall.

The soft morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the elegant tables adorned with pristine white linens. He takes note of the layout—the alignment of tables, the polish of the silverware, and the sparkle of the glassware. It’s all flawless, but Minho already imagines ways to elevate it further.

His steps lead him to the heart of the restaurant: the kitchen. The air inside is cool, the silence only broken by the occasional clatter of utensils and the low murmurs of the few staff already prepping for the day. Heads turn as he strides in, his presence commanding attention even without an introduction. He doesn’t offer a word of explanation, his sharp gaze enough to unnerve those caught staring too long.

Minho moves through the space, examining the stations, the organization of the pantry, the sheen—or lack thereof—on the stoves. Every detail is cataloged in his mind. A few whispers ripple through the staff.

“Who is he?”

“Is that the new head chef?”

“He looks... intense.”

By the time the morning briefing begins, everyone is assembled in the main kitchen. The restaurant manager, Mr. Oh, clears his throat to silence the chatter.

“Good morning, everyone. As you all know, we’ve been in search of a new head chef to lead this kitchen. Today, I’m pleased to introduce the person who will be taking Farfalle to new heights.” Mr. Oh gestures to Minho, who steps forward with a composed, almost cold demeanor.

“This is Chef Lee Minho.”

Minho scans the room, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Good morning,” he says, his voice low but carrying an edge that commands respect. “Before we begin, I’d like to get to know the team I’ll be working with. Introduce yourselves—name and position.”

One by one, the staff steps forward.

“Seo Jun, Sous Chef, Meat Station.”

“Ha Yura, Sous Chef, Pasta Line.”

Each introduction is met with a brief nod from Minho, his expression unreadable.

Then it’s your turn. Dressed in your white chef’s attire with your hair tucked neatly under a bandana, you look like any other member of the team. Minho’s gaze briefly skims over you before moving on, but when you step forward and speak, something halts him.

“I'm in the pasta Line.”

Your voice is calm, but there’s a teasing lilt to it. His eyes snap back to you, narrowing slightly as recognition flickers across his face. You meet his gaze, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. The same lips he kissed the night before.

Minho’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. He feels the faintest twinge of disappointment—mixed with intrigue. You’re not just someone who caught his attention for one night. You’re one of his chefs. His interest deepens, but it’s complicated now, tangled in a dynamic he can’t control.

You hold his stare with a confidence that unsettles him. It’s clear you’re enjoying his momentary lapse, the way his usually steady composure falters just slightly.

“Welcome to Farfalle, Chef Lee,” you say smoothly, the faintest hint of amusement in your tone.

Minho recovers quickly, masking his thoughts behind his usual cold demeanor. “Thank you,” he replies, his voice clipped. He moves on to the next introduction, but the tension lingers, thick and unspoken.

The rest of the briefing passes without incident, but as the team disperses to begin their tasks, Minho’s thoughts remain on you. He can’t decide whether this is a cruel twist of fate or a challenge he’s strangely eager to face. Either way, it’s clear to him: working in this kitchen just got a lot more complicated.

The kitchen hums with quiet activity, a low symphony of clinking utensils and running water. The scent of freshly chopped herbs lingers in the air as you wipe down your station, the stainless steel gleaming under the fluorescent lights. You’re focused, meticulous, ensuring every corner of your workspace is spotless before the chaos of service begins.

From the corner of your eye, you notice Minho entering the kitchen. Dressed in his crisp chef's coat, he radiates authority, his steps deliberate and measured as he takes in the environment he now commands. He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel his gaze on you.

You glance up, catching his eyes. His expression shifts, a playful smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“When you said we’d meet again soon,” he begins, his voice low and teasing, “I didn’t think you meant here. In this kitchen of all places.”

You lean casually against the counter, resting a hand on your hip. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see me again.”

His smirk deepens, but his eyes remain unreadable. “Should I be?”

“You tell me,” you counter, tilting your head slightly. “Or did you regret meeting me that night?”

Minho pauses, letting the silence stretch. His gaze lingers on you, as if weighing his response carefully. Then, with a faint chuckle, he shakes his head. “How could I regret it?”

You raise an eyebrow at his answer, sensing there’s more he’s about to add.

“But,” he continues, his tone dropping just enough to send a subtle chill through the air, “something tells me you’ll regret meeting me here.”

His smirk turns sharper, more menacing, as he flashes a smile that feels like a warning. He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before turning away and walking to the chef’s table at the center of the kitchen.

Minho surveys the area, his sharp eyes missing nothing as he settles into his position of authority. The chef’s table, positioned strategically for both observation and action, will serve as his command post. Every dish will pass through him, every detail scrutinized to ensure it meets his exacting standards before it leaves the kitchen.

One by one, the rest of the kitchen staff begins to trickle in. The chatter picks up as stations are claimed and preparations continue. Knives flash as vegetables are diced with precision, and the air grows warmer as the stoves are fired up.

By the time the restaurant opens, the kitchen is a hive of activity. Minho stands at the helm, his arms crossed as he observes his team. His sharp gaze flicks from one chef to the next, silently assessing their movements and demeanor.

“There’s this nervousness when waiting for the first order. But there’s always happiness when empty plates return so just relax and continue what you have been doing before.”

“Yes, chef!” everyone replies in unison with a hint of excitement in their voices.

The sound of the printing machine cuts through the hum of the kitchen, signaling the arrival of the first order. The staff pauses, their eyes darting to the small slip of paper as it prints out.

“Shall we start?” Minho’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, steady and authoritative. “Table number four. One Grancio, one porcini, two fettuccine and one vongole.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone answers in response to Minho’s order.

The kitchen springs to life, the rhythm of Farfalle's service beginning in earnest. Minho’s eyes linger on you for just a moment longer before turning his attention to the plates coming his way, ready to set the tone for the day—and for his reign in the kitchen.

The faint aroma of freshly baked bread still lingers in the shared apartment as you sit at the small kitchen table, peeling apples for a late-night snack. Yura and Minji, your roommates and fellow chefs at Farfalle, chatter animatedly in the living room. Their excitement fills the quiet space with a buzz of energy.

“I swear, he’s like a fresh bottle of olive oil,” Yura gushes, her eyes practically sparkling. “Sleek, refined, and expensive.”

Minji giggles, her tone dreamy. “Not to mention, he’s so handsome. Those sharp features... and the way he walks? Confident, but not cocky.”

You stay silent, focusing on the rhythmic glide of the knife over the apple’s skin. Their words echo in the background as you continue peeling, occasionally flicking the pieces into a small bowl.

Yura’s gaze suddenly shifts to you, curiosity lighting up her features. “Hey, didn’t you say you and Chef Lee went to the same culinary school in Italy?”

The question makes you pause, if only for a fraction of a second. You quickly resume peeling, keeping your expression neutral. “Yeah, we did.”

Yura leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So? What was he like back then? Was he always this good?”

You slice the apple cleanly, avoiding her eager gaze. “He was... impressive,” you answer, keeping your tone even. “He was one of the best students and won a lot of cooking competitions.”

Minji’s eyes widen. “Wow, really? That’s amazing! Did you guys ever talk or hang out?”

You shake your head, carefully cutting the apple into thin slices. “Not really. He was focused on his work, and I was... just trying to keep up. I doubt he’d even remember me.”

Minji frowns slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response. “But you must have crossed paths, right?”

“Sure,” you reply casually, placing another neatly sliced piece into the bowl. “But Minho wasn’t exactly the type to stop and chat.”

Yura sighs dreamily. “Well, he’s certainly something now. I mean, did you see how sharp he looked in his chef coat? And the way he handled the kitchen today? So commanding!”

Minji nods enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t mind getting scolded if it’s from someone like him.”

You suppress a smile, the corner of your lips tugging upward briefly. Their admiration feels almost innocent, a sharp contrast to the memories quietly tucked away in your mind.

Instead of commenting, you place the knife down and start arranging the apple slices on a plate. Yura and Minji continue gushing over Minho, their excitement filling the room with a warm, almost naive energy.

You glance at them briefly, observing the way their faces light up as they talk about him. You don’t say a word, letting their admiration float freely in the air. The stories you could share stay locked away, hidden behind the veil of your quiet demeanor.

It’s not your place to ruin their perception, not yet. So you offer the plate of neatly sliced apples to them with a small smile, pretending you know nothing about the man they’re so smitten with.

The sound of laughter echoes faintly through the apartment as you shuffle out of your bedroom, still bleary-eyed from sleep. In the living room, Minji is curled up on the couch, glued to the television. She’s watching her favorite cooking show—the one with Chef Sara, her idol—her expression full of admiration.

“Minji,” you call, your voice heavy with morning grogginess, “How about breakfast?”

She glances over her shoulder, her innocent smile catching you off guard. “But it’s the episode where Chef Sara visits Florence. You know how much I love this one!”

You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair. It’s not like you expected Minji to be in the kitchen; she rarely helps with breakfast. As the youngest in the apartment, she’s grown comfortable letting you take on the responsibility.

The clinking of utensils draws your attention to the kitchen. Yura’s sitting at the dining table with her hair wrapped in a towel, sipping coffee while scrolling through her phone. She doesn’t even look up as she says, “Good morning. Breakfast ready yet?”

You suppress a groan and trudge into the kitchen, tying your apron over your pajamas. It’s always like this—Minji caught up in a show, Yura leisurely sipping coffee, and you stuck cooking for the three of you. You start peeling eggs and slicing fruit, your mind wandering as you go through the motions.

By the time you finished getting ready for work, you rush out of your apartment, nearly tripping over your untied sneaker in your haste. The morning routine has become a battlefield of time with Yura and Minji monopolizing the bathroom and leaving you scrambling to get ready after them. The faint echo of the apartment door slamming shut behind you accompanies your hurried footsteps down the hallway.

Reaching the elevators, you frantically jab the button and bounce on your toes, silently pleading for it to arrive before you’re late for work. The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal Minho standing inside, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his sleek black coat.

You freeze for a second, caught off guard by his presence. Regaining your composure, you step in and flash him a faint smile. “Good morning,” you murmur, keeping your tone neutral.

Minho acknowledges you with a brief glance, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he’s amused by something. The doors close, and the elevator begins its descent, the silence stretching between you like a taut string.

You focus on the glowing numbers above the door, counting down to the lobby. Your heartbeat quickens, though you’re not sure if it’s from the rush or his proximity.

As the elevator hums softly, Minho’s voice breaks the quiet. “Don’t forget. Midnight.”

You turn your head slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion for a split second before his words click. The bar. The unspoken rendezvous.

You glance at him, catching the faint smirk tugging at his lips. His tone is casual, but the way his dark eyes linger on you hints at something more.

The elevator dings open, and the cool morning air from the lobby filters in. You step out, pausing just long enough to glance back over your shoulder. “I’ll see you there,” you reply, your voice steady despite the subtle thrum of excitement coursing through you.

Without waiting for a response, you stride toward the exit, leaving Minho behind as the promise of midnight lingers in the air like the taste of something forbidden.

Minho strides into the kitchen, his polished chef coat pristine, and his expression unreadable. He takes his usual place at the chef's table, positioning himself so he can observe every station in the kitchen. His eyes sweep over the staff like a hawk surveying its territory, lingering just long enough to unsettle.

Leaning casually against the table, he crosses his arms. “Is everyone excited for the first order?”

Next to you, Minji perks up, her voice carrying a coquettish lilt. “Yes, Chef.”

The kitchen momentarily halts as all eyes turn toward her, some raising eyebrows, others hiding their amusement. You keep your gaze down, focusing on your pasta dough, but you can feel Minho’s sharp stare shift toward her.

A faint smirk touches his lips. “Let’s see if you can live up to that enthusiasm.”

The printer by the wall whirs, and the first ticket slides out with a soft beep. Minho snatches it and glances at the list, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Table number two. Three Caesar salads, two fillets, one pasta primavera.”

“Yes, chef!” Everyone responds in unison.

The kitchen bursts into life, the clatter of pans and the hiss of flames filling the air. You focus on your station, expertly tossing fresh pasta in a creamy sauce, the rhythm of the kitchen taking over.

Not long after, Seungwan approaches the pass with a plate of Caesar salad. The portion towers on the plate, the croutons precariously stacked like a culinary Jenga. Minho’s brow furrows as he steps forward, his gaze fixed on the dish.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

“It’s the Caesar salad, Chef,” Seungwan replies, a nervous edge creeping into his tone.

Minho picks up the plate, holding it at arm’s length as if inspecting it for flaws. Then, in one swift motion, he sends the plate crashing to the floor. The shattering sound reverberates through the kitchen, freezing everyone in place.

“Does this look like a Caesar salad meant for a fine dining restaurant?” Minho’s voice rises, sharp and unforgiving. “This isn’t a family buffet! Start over, and this time, don’t make it look like a joke.”

Seungwan stammers, his face flushed with embarrassment as he scrambles to clean up the mess and start again. The rest of the kitchen watches in stunned silence, hands momentarily still, as if afraid to move.

Another ticket prints, and Minho retrieves it with unnerving composure. “Table number eight. Two more fillets, one minestrone, one ravioli.”

He glances around, his voice cutting through the tension. “Why is no one responding?”

The silence stretches painfully until the staff collectively murmurs a hesitant, “Yes, Chef.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your pan, throwing yourself into your work to avoid his scrutiny. Next to you, Minji fumbles with her sauce, her earlier confidence replaced by nervous energy.

Minho’s gaze sweeps over the kitchen again, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Good. Now, let’s see if you can keep up.”

The atmosphere is heavier now, every move calculated, every dish triple-checked before reaching the pass. The truth is clear to everyone—this is Minho’s kitchen now, and no one is safe from his exacting standards.

The atmosphere in the kitchen is strained, the tension palpable as every chef rushes to perfect their dishes under Minho’s watchful eyes. Minji approaches the chef’s table, her plate of risotto carefully balanced in her hands. She sets it down with a nervous smile, stepping back to let Minho inspect it.

Minho glances at the dish, his expression unreadable. For a brief second, it seems like he might pass it, but then his hand moves with unexpected force, shoving the plate back toward Minji.

“This isn’t a risotto,” he says coldly, his voice cutting through the hum of the kitchen. “Do it again!.”

Minji’s face flushes with embarrassment, but she nods quickly, snatching the plate and retreating to her station.

Minho straightens, his sharp gaze sweeping over the kitchen. He steps away from the table, moving with purpose toward Hyunwoo’s station, where the younger chef is carefully garnishing a bowl of soup.

“Stop,” Minho orders, his tone laced with authority. He picks up a shrimp from the garnish and holds it up for everyone to see. “Is this a joke? You didn’t even bother to devein it.”

Hyunwoo stammers, “I-I didn’t think it was necessary for this dish—”

“Do I need to devein your brain too?” Minho interrupts, his words laced with sarcasm. Hyunwoo’s face turns red as he mumbles an apology and quickly begins redoing the garnish.

Minho moves on, stopping next to Seojun’s station. The sous chef’s cooking is impeccable, but Minho’s attention is drawn to the trash can beside him. He picks it up, examining the contents with a grimace.

“This,” Minho says, lifting the can higher, “is worth months of your salary.”

Before anyone can react, Minho dumps the contents of the trash can in front of Seojun, creating a mess of perfectly good ingredients discarded unnecessarily. The room goes silent, all eyes on Seojun, whose jaw tightens in suppressed anger.

“Next time,” Minho continues, his tone icy, “if you feel the urge to waste food, do it at home. Not in my kitchen.”

“Yes, chef,” Seojun weakly respond, his hands gripping the edge of his station, but the fury in his eyes is unmistakable. Minho smirks, satisfied, and strides back to his chef table.

The uneasy calm is broken when a dish is returned from the dining hall. The staff member hesitates before approaching Minho, holding the plate carefully.

“The customer said the lobster is too tough,” they report nervously.

Minho’s eyes narrow as he glances at the dish, then shifts his gaze to Yura. “Redo it. Now.”

Yura, already simmering with frustration, nods sharply and returns to her station. Minutes later, the same dish comes back to the kitchen, the dining hall staff once again bearing the plate.

“The customer still says the lobster isn’t right.”

Yura’s temper snaps. Without a word, she storms out of the kitchen, ignoring the stunned silence of her colleagues. She marches into the dining hall, her face flushed with anger, and approaches the table where the complaint originated.

“Excuse me,” she says loudly, placing her hands on her hips. “What exactly is the problem with this dish? Do you even know what properly cooked lobster is supposed to taste like?”

The customer, a middle-aged man with a calm demeanor, raises an eyebrow. He sets down his fork and looks up at her, his expression unreadable.

“Actually, I do,” he replies evenly, pulling out a business card and placing it on the table. “I’m a food critic for Culinary Gazette. This restaurant is being reviewed for next month’s issue.”

Yura’s eyes widen, the weight of her mistake crashing down on her. The rest of the kitchen staff watches through the small window, horrified. Minho, standing at his table with his jaws tensed.

Yura walks back into the kitchen, her face pale and her usual fiery confidence replaced by dread. The moment she steps through the door, she’s met with Minho’s piercing gaze. He’s standing near his chef table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but undeniably intimidating.

The silence in the kitchen is suffocating as everyone watches the exchange, their work forgotten. Minho doesn’t waste time. He strides toward her, stopping just a foot away, and lifts a finger to point at her.

“You’re fired,” he states coldly, his voice carrying an air of finality.

Yura’s shock quickly turns to indignation. Her face flushes, and her temper reignites as she begins protesting. “Fired? For what? For defending my work? That critic doesn’t know anything—”

Minho interrupts her with a dismissive shrug, stepping around her and returning to his chef table. He casually picks up a spoon to inspect a sauce from a nearby plate, tasting it as if the argument isn’t worth his attention.

“Defending your work?” he says, not even looking at her. “You stormed out of the kitchen and embarrassed this restaurant in front of a food critic. If you think that’s defending your work, then you’re not cut out for this industry.”

Yura clenches her fists, her voice rising. “This is ridiculous! I’ve been working here longer than you. You can’t just walk in and—”

“Enough.” Minho’s voice slices through her tirade like a knife. He looks at her then, his dark eyes locking onto hers. “This is my kitchen now. And in my kitchen, there’s no room for your temper or your excuses.”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for further argument. Yura stands there, breathing heavily, her defiance wavering as she realizes there’s no changing his mind. The rest of the staff exchange nervous glances but remain silent, unwilling to draw Minho’s ire.

Satisfied, Minho turns back to the dish in front of him, as if the conversation never happened. “Someone clean this station,” he says over his shoulder. “We have orders to get out.”

Yura stands frozen for a moment before storming out, slamming the door behind her. The tension in the kitchen lingers, but everyone quickly gets back to work, unwilling to be the next target of Minho’s wrath.

Minho tastes another dish and smirks faintly, his voice low but audible enough for those nearby. “Let this be a lesson—anyone who steps out of line will face the same fate.”

The room is silent except for the sound of knives against cutting boards and the faint hum of the kitchen appliances. Minho’s authority is unquestionable now, his control over the kitchen absolute.

Minho steps out of the kitchen freezer with Taesoo following close behind, their breaths visible in the cold air as they finish inspecting the frozen stock. He closes the freezer door and turns to speak, but his attention snaps to an unexpected scene at the far corner of the kitchen.

Minji and Seungwan are leaning against a counter, locked in an intimate embrace, completely oblivious to the two men’s presence. Their quiet murmurs and soft laughter fill the otherwise silent kitchen, unaware they have an audience.

Taesoo clears his throat deliberately, and the sound jolts them apart. Minji and Seungwan freeze, their faces paling as they register Minho's cold stare.

“I-I’m sorry, Chef,” Minji stammers, stepping back from Seungwan. “We—uh—it won’t happen again.”

Seungwan nods quickly, his face a mix of guilt and fear. “It was a mistake, Chef. We weren’t thinking.”

Minho says nothing, his sharp eyes flicking between them before he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Gather everyone in the dining hall after service,” he says to Taesoo, his voice low but commanding. “We have some things to address.”

The dining hall is eerily quiet, the usual warm glow of its chandeliers casting an ominous light over the small group of kitchen staff seated at one of the larger tables. Minho stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s start with the lobsters,” he says, his gaze settling on Yura. “The issue lies in how they were stored in Styrofoam boxes, making it impossible for the freezer to maintain the correct temperature.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. “That’s your responsibility, Yura. You failed to ensure the proper handling of the seafood for your station.”

Yura opens her mouth to argue, but Minho raises a hand, silencing her.

“You embarrassed this restaurant in front of a critic, and now I find this. You’re fired.”

Yura’s temper flares immediately. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Minho cuts her off, his tone cold and final. “This is my kitchen, and you’re no longer part of it. Pack your things.”

The room feels heavy with tension as Yura storms out, slamming the door behind her.

Minho’s attention shifts to Minji and Seungwan. “Now, about you two.” His voice is calm, but his words are razor-sharp. “The kitchen is a sacred space. It’s where we create, where we work, where we respect the craft. It is not where we indulge in personal relationships.”

Seungwan swallows hard. “It was a mistake—”

Minho cuts him off again. “There are no excuses. Romance has no place in my kitchen. For that, you’re both fired.”

Minji’s eyes widen, and she steps forward quickly. “Wait! Chef, it’s my fault. I—” Her voice falters slightly, but she pushes through. “If someone has to leave, it should be me. Seungwan is a great chef. Don’t take this opportunity away from him because of me.”

Minho studies her for a long moment, his cold gaze flickering with something unreadable. Finally, he nods. “Fine. Seungwan stays. But you... you’re fired.”

Minji’s shoulders sag, but she nods in resignation. “Yes, Chef,” she says quietly before walking out of the dining hall without looking back.

As the door swings shut behind her, Minho allows himself a faint smirk. Everything is falling into place. No women in his kitchen, just as he intends.

But then his eyes land on you, standing quietly at the end of the room, your expression neutral. Minho’s smirk falters for just a moment before he turns away, heading for the door.

“This kitchen isn’t for the weak,” he says over his shoulder. “I hope the rest of you can keep up.”

As the door clicks shut behind him, you feel the weight of his unspoken challenge settle over you. Minho’s plan might be working for now, but he hasn’t dealt with you yet—and that, you realize, makes you his next obstacle.

Minho pushes open the door to the locker room, his steps echoing faintly against the tiled floor. He walks toward his locker, his focus seemingly on the lock in his hands. The metallic clang of the lock twisting open echoes, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the soft rustling of clothes behind him.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Minho freezes. Two lockers away, you’re standing half-dressed, your black lace bra visible as you methodically pull on your shirt. His breath hitches for just a moment, though his expression remains neutral.

He doesn’t say a word, instead quietly observing your movements. The way you move—unhurried, deliberate—strikes him as oddly familiar. But he can’t place where he’s seen it before.

You button your shirt, unaware of his watchful eyes. Finally, you grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder, sparing a brief glance in his direction. Your expression is unreadable as you walk out of the locker room, leaving Minho behind in the lingering silence.

Moments later, Taesoo enters, a casual grin on his face. “Hey, Chef,” he calls out, leaning against a row of lockers. “So… you really don’t remember her, huh?”

Minho frowns, closing his locker with a sharp click. “What are you talking about?”

Taesoo chuckles softly. “You and her went to the same culinary school in Italy. Everyone thought you two were close.”

The words hit Minho like a puzzle piece snapping into place. His eyes narrow, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Memories flash through his mind—bits and pieces of a classmate who rarely took things seriously, who was more interested in fleeting romances than perfecting recipes.

“Oh? She’s the one who was always slacking off,” Minho mutters, almost to himself.

Taesoo gets confused. “Huh? She still graduated, didn’t she?”

Minho stands still for a moment, letting the realization settle in. That’s why you seemed so familiar. That’s why he couldn’t quite figure you out until now.

With this newfound knowledge, Minho’s lips curl into a faint smirk. He shuts his locker with finality, grabs his coat, and walks out of the locker room without another word.

The night air is cool as Minho steps out of the restaurant. The city buzzes around him, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. His destination is clear.

The bar isn’t far, just a short walk away. As he approaches, the faint hum of music and chatter grows louder. Minho pauses at the entrance, running a hand through his hair.

He pushes open the door, stepping into the warm, dimly lit space. His eyes scan the room, searching for you. Tonight, he plans to uncover more than just a drink.

It's midnight and you're here at the bar where you met Minho. You sit at the same spot, quietly sipping your drink as the faint hum of music and chatter fills the space. The warmth of the liquor burns your throat, grounding you amidst your swirling thoughts. The door creaks open, and you feel a presence slide onto the stool next to you.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

“Funny,” Minho says, his voice low and teasing. “That’s quite a face for a girl who came to meet a guy.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing. His smirk is as sharp as ever, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

“I wonder if you're still dating around like you did back in culinary school?” he asks casually, tilting his head as if he’s genuinely curious.

The comment stings, and you clench your glass tighter. So, he recognizes you now.

“Finally remembered me, huh?” you retort. Then, leaning slightly closer, you counter, “What about you? Still traumatized by your past experience, I see? Is that why you fired all the female chefs?”

For a moment, Minho’s smirk falters, but he recovers quickly. “Is this how you treat a guy on a date?” he asks, brushing off your words like dust on his coat.

You scoff but don’t respond. Instead, you press forward, determined to get answers. “You planned it, didn’t you? Firing all the women in the kitchen because you don't want women in your kitchen.”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. His silence feels heavier than the music playing in the background. Then, suddenly, he leans in. His face is inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Let’s do it,” he says, his voice dropping lower, more intimate. “You and me. Go out. Date.”

The words catch you off guard, and you blink at him, trying to read his expression. He’s serious, but his seriousness feels like a challenge rather than a confession.

You hesitate, weighing the implications. To say yes would mean leaving the job—leaving the kitchen you worked so hard to be in. As if reading your thoughts, Minho adds, “You can’t work in my kitchen. There’s no place for women there, and you know it.”

The bartender interrupts the moment, sliding closer to ask, “Another round?”

Minho seizes the opportunity, turning to you. “Well?” he asks, his voice smoother now, almost seductive. “What’s it going to be? Another drink with me or...?”

He leans in closer, his lips just brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Stay. Have another drink. Let’s see where this goes.”

You feel the heat rise in your chest, but you don’t look away. Instead, you drain the rest of your drink, the glass making a soft clink as you set it down on the counter.

Still holding his gaze, you rise from your stool. You say nothing as you turn and walk out of the bar, your decision clear in your mind. If Minho wants to get rid of you, he’ll have to try harder.

Minho watches as you disappear into the night, the sway of your silhouette fading into the city’s glow. You didn’t look back, not even once, and yet he knows—he knows—you’ve accepted the challenge he silently laid at your feet. A smirk tugs at his lips, though his chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache he refuses to name. This isn’t just about control or proving a point anymore. There’s something about you that unnerves him, something that stirs a dangerous mix of irritation and intrigue. You’re a complication he didn’t plan for, and complications, Minho thinks, always have a way of unraveling the best-laid plans.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders spill from the printer at an unrelenting pace, each ticket a stark reminder of the restaurant’s packed lunch service. Farfalle is fully booked, and the staff can barely keep up. The tension is palpable, the air thick with the mingling aromas of simmering sauces and stress-induced perspiration.

At the pasta line, you’re barely holding it together. Seungwan has stepped in to help, his movements quick but clumsy as he fumbles with the pasta portions. It’s clear he’s unfamiliar with the intricacies of the station, but there’s no time to complain. With fewer hands in the pasta line, the pressure feels insurmountable.

“Move faster!” Minho’s voice cuts through the cacophony, sharp and biting. He stands at his chef table, watching every station like a hawk, barking orders that keep the team on edge. “Don’t just stand around like electrical poles.”

Your hands ache from tossing pasta, the boiling steam stinging your face as you strain spaghetti and toss it into the pan. Beside you, Seungwan drops a ladle, cursing under his breath as sauce splatters onto the counter.

“Pick it up!” you snap, your patience thinning as the next order comes in. You’re already juggling three pans, but the thought of falling behind propels you forward.

Minho’s footsteps echo as he approaches. “What’s taking so long on that linguine?”

“It’s coming!” You shout over your shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze.

You can feel his eyes boring into you, assessing every move you make. The weight of his scrutiny is suffocating, but you push through it, your focus unwavering. You can’t afford to falter—not now, not ever. Not when proving yourself means everything.

“Faster, faster!” Minho demands, his tone clipped. “The customers are screaming in hunger.”

The words sting, but you bite them back, tossing the finished linguine onto the plate and sliding it onto the pass. “It’s done,” you say, your voice steady despite the fire burning in your chest.

You won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. No matter how overwhelming the orders, no matter how loudly he shouts, you refuse to let him believe—even for a second—that you can’t handle this.

The weight of the frying pan, clams, broth, garlic and pasta is 1,5 kilograms. Since you're holding two pans, that's 3 kilograms combined. That's almost the weight of a newborn baby so right now you're practically rocking a baby in your hands and Minho is trying to say is that in the kitchen, men are better with babies? Not a chance.

This isn’t just about the pasta or the orders. It’s about proving him wrong, about showing him that women can not only survive in his kitchen but thrive.

By the time the rush subsides, your arms feel like lead, your body drenched in sweat. But when Minho glances your way, his face unreadable, you meet his gaze head-on. You don’t say a word, but your silence speaks volumes: I’m still standing.

The kitchen is eerily quiet after the lunch rush, save for the faint clinking of utensils and the hum of the exhaust fans. Most of the staff are resting their arms on counters or sipping water, their faces etched with exhaustion. You stand by the pasta station, massaging your sore wrists discreetly, hoping no one notices.

But Minho notices.

From his position at the chef table, his sharp eyes catch the subtle movements of your fingers rubbing against the tender skin of your wrists. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—a brief, almost imperceptible calculation.

Without a word, Minho leaves the kitchen, disappearing into his office. A faint murmur of conversation filters out from the slightly ajar door, his voice low and measured as he makes a phone call.

Dinner service looms, and the staff are back at their stations, bracing themselves for another storm. The tension is palpable, a collective anxiety that builds with each passing second. You’re adjusting your mise en place when the kitchen doors swing open.

Minho strides in, a commanding presence as always, but it’s the figure trailing behind him that draws everyone’s attention.

The new guy is tall and lean, with long, bleached hair pulled into a loose bun. Freckles dust his cheeks and nose, softening his sharp features. He’s beautiful, almost too pretty to be real, and for a moment, everyone wonders if Minho’s broken his own rule about women in the kitchen. But no—there’s no way.

Minho stops in the center of the kitchen, his eyes sweeping over the staff.

“Let me be clear,” he begins, his voice cold and biting. “Today’s lunch service was a disaster. I overestimated all of you—thought you could at least prepare one meal correctly without fumbling like amateurs. Clearly, I was wrong.”

The staff exchanges uneasy glances, the air thick with unspoken tension.

Minho turns his gaze to Seungwan. “Get back to your station,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Seungwan nods stiffly, retreating to his corner of the kitchen.

Then, Minho gestures to the newcomer. “This is Felix. He’ll be taking over the pasta line.”

Felix steps forward, his expression calm but focused as he positions himself beside you. He gives you a brief smile—warm and genuine, a stark contrast to the cold indifference that permeates the kitchen.

Before everyone can process the change, the first order for dinner service comes through.

Minho wastes no time. “Table number six. Two risottos, one linguine with clams, one carbonara!”

The kitchen springs to life, knives chopping, pans sizzling, and voices calling out orders. Felix moves with practiced ease, his hands deft and precise as he takes over part of your workload.

For the first time all day, you feel a flicker of relief. But as you glance at Minho, watching him observe the chaos he’s orchestrated, you know this is far from over.

The bar is dimly lit, the warm glow of amber lights reflecting off the rows of bottles behind the counter. Minho sits at a corner table, nursing a glass of whiskey. Across from him, Felix sips a cocktail, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to Minho’s brooding intensity.

Felix sets his glass down, his freckled face tinged with amusement. “I’m still surprised you called me. What’s it been? Two years?”

Minho tilts his glass, the liquid swirling lazily. “I didn’t have a choice,” he says bluntly. “The kitchen is chaos. Everyone’s far below my expectations.”

Felix leans back in his chair, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Sudden desperation, huh? Not very Minho of you.”

Minho gives a short laugh. “I should’ve called earlier, but you know how it is. Didn’t think I’d need help.”

Felix raises a brow. “Well, I’m here now. But I gotta say, I was surprised to see her there.”

Minho’s grip on his glass tightens ever so slightly, but his expression remains neutral. “Who?”

Felix smirks knowingly. “You know who. The girl at the pasta line. What’s her name again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Minho replies dismissively, waving a hand.

Felix chuckles, leaning forward. “So, you’re letting women in your kitchen now? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Minho lets out a low, sinister chuckle, shaking his head. “Don’t get the wrong idea.”

Felix’s teasing fades, replaced by curiosity. “You haven’t moved on from it, huh?” he asks, his tone quieter, more serious now.

Minho doesn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stares at his glass.

Felix continues, “You know, Italian kitchens demand commitment and adaptability. Times are changing. There are tough female cooks these days, and some are damn good at what they do.”

Minho smirks, finally meeting Felix’s gaze. “You don’t need to worry about it,” he says, his voice smooth and composed. “My kitchen isn’t just any kitchen. It’s not meant to be easy-going.”

Felix studies him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before taking another sip of his drink. “Fair enough,” he says, though there’s a hint of something—disapproval or resignation, perhaps—in his tone.

Minho downs the rest of his whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. “Thanks for stepping in, Felix. Just do your job, and don’t get too comfortable.”

Felix laughs lightly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “With you around? Never.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, but the weight of Felix’s words lingers in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

The soft hum of the coffee machine fills the small apartment as you shuffle into the kitchen, still groggy from the night before. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the faint aroma of cinnamon, a small comfort in an otherwise tense atmosphere.

Yura and Minji are already seated at the kitchen table, their postures slouched as they stare at their laptops. Each of them clutches a steaming mug of coffee, their expressions tired and resigned. Yura is the first to glance up at you, offering a half-hearted smile.

“Morning,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.

“Morning,” you reply, moving toward the fridge. The silence is heavy, save for the occasional click of keys as Minji scrolls through job listings.

You decide to make breakfast, a small gesture to lighten the mood. Pulling out eggs, bread, and vegetables, you get to work, the sound of chopping and sizzling breaking the quiet. You carefully avoid mentioning Farfalle or Minho, knowing it’s a sore subject for both of them.

Yura breaks the silence first, her tone hesitant. “We’ve been talking,” she starts, her eyes fixed on her screen. “Minji and I… we’re going to have to move out soon.”

Your hand stills on the spatula for a moment before you force yourself to keep flipping the eggs. “Oh?”

“We just… we can’t afford rent anymore,” Yura continues, her voice tight. “Especially without jobs lined up. And, uh, we’ll need to take the deposit money too.”

The words hit you harder than you expect. You knew this was coming, but hearing it aloud makes the reality sink in. Living alone will be expensive—rent, bills, groceries—it’s a lot to shoulder on your own. You might have to find a roommate sooner rather than later.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “I get it,” you say, your voice calm. “You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. I hope you both find something soon.”

Yura gives a small nod, though her eyes are still glued to her screen. Minji doesn’t say much, just takes a long sip of her coffee.

You finish plating breakfast and place the dishes in front of them. “Here,” you say, managing a smile. “Eat up. And good luck with the job hunt.”

“Thanks,” Minji murmurs, finally looking up.

As they start eating, you sit down with your own plate, your mind already racing. The weight of their impending departure looms over you, but you push it aside for now. You’ll figure it out—just like you always do.

The dining hall buzzes with low murmurs as the kitchen and service staff assemble for the morning briefing. You stand in your line, feeling Taesoo’s presence lingering just behind you, a quiet support in the tense environment.

Felix strides in moments later, his presence like a burst of sunshine cutting through the cloudy atmosphere. His bleached hair glows under the morning light, and his freckled face radiates a kind, unbothered smile. “Hey,” he greets, his voice soft yet carrying a note of warmth. “It’s nice to see another familiar face here.”

You offer him a polite smile. Of course, Minho would call Felix. The two were practically inseparable back in culinary school, despite Felix being a year below Minho. Felix had always trailed after him, eager and wide-eyed. It doesn’t surprise you in the least to see him here, undoubtedly Minho’s protégé by now.

“Nice to see you too,” you reply with a small smile. “Looking forward to working with you in the kitchen.”

Felix grins, his gaze sweeping the gathered team. He greets the others with the same warmth, extending his hand as a gesture of goodwill. The service staff respond with polite nods, but the kitchen team barely acknowledges him, their faces etched with stony indifference.

Felix leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Why are they acting like that?”

You glance at the kitchen crew, their tension palpable. “Probably because they think the Italian grads are taking over the pasta line,” you murmur back.

Before Felix can respond, the manager enters, followed closely by Minho, who radiates authority with his sharp, no-nonsense expression. The low hum of conversation dies down as the manager clears his throat and begins the briefing. He details the full lunch and dinner bookings, emphasizing the need for efficiency and teamwork.

When the manager finishes, Minho steps forward, his presence commanding the room. “There’ll be further restructuring in my kitchen,” he announces, his voice calm yet laced with an edge.

The manager blinks in confusion. “Restructuring? You fired people yesterday, and we barely managed the orders. We need more hands, not—”

Minho cuts him off with a raised hand. His gaze sweeps the room before landing squarely on you. His finger points in your direction, sharp and accusatory. “You,” he says, his tone cold. “From today, you’ll share the locker room with the service staff.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You stiffen, refusing to back down. “No, chef,” you flatly refuse.

Minho’s brow arches, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “Why not?”

“Because I’m part of the kitchen staff,” you reply firmly, meeting his gaze head-on.

The room holds its breath as the two of you lock eyes in a silent battle of wills. Minho’s jaw tightens, his gaze never wavering, but you refuse to look away. After a moment that feels like an eternity, he looks elsewhere, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face.

“Fine,” he mutters, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do whatever you want.”

Minho pivots, addressing the team again. “Moving on. First, Farfalle will no longer serve foie gras.”

“But that provides us a lot of sales,” someone from the service team blurts out.

Minho’s eyes snap toward the entrée line where the most resistance is coming. “Foie gras is made by shoving a funnel down a goose's throat and force feeding it until its liver becomes the size of a fist. I don’t support animal cruelty, and this restaurant won’t either.”

A ripple of shock and murmurs sweeps through the room. Sous Chef Seojun steps forward, his face twisted in disbelief. “But foie gras is our VIP customers' favorite.”

“I’m not here to pad your wallets with unethical practices,” Minho snaps, daringly gazes into Seojun’s eyes.

Before Seojun can argue further, Minho barrels ahead. “Second, spoons will no longer be served with pasta dishes.”

Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, loud enough for the room to hear, “This is ridiculous.”

Minho’s gaze snaps to him, sharp as a blade. “From now on, we're going to use half as much sauce on our pasta. Pasta should soak up the sauce so that you don't need a spoon to eat it. In other words, pasta shouldn't be so watery. You should be able to to chew it and enjoy the nutty texture, instead of slurping it down. It should be served on a flat plate without a spoon and watery sauce. So that means, there'll be no more bowl type dishes as well.”

The air is thick with tension, animosity brewing among the staff. Minho, however, stands unshaken, his stance firm, his eyes daring anyone to challenge him further. Felix shifts beside you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and unease.

You can feel the kitchen’s collective resentment bubbling beneath the surface. And though you don’t agree with Minho’s methods, a part of you can’t help but admire the sheer audacity with which he holds his ground.

This is Minho’s kitchen, and everyone is learning that the hard way.

The lunch rush descends upon the kitchen like a storm. Orders pile in, each ticket a new test of patience and precision. But today, the storm is harsher. The absence of foie gras and spoons from the menu seems to have lit a fuse among the patrons. Complaints echo from the front of the house to the kitchen, carried in by the servers who are met with Minho’s unflinching glare.

“Table six wants to know why there’s no foie gras,” a server stammers, holding the ticket like it’s a shield.

“Because we’re not barbaric,” Minho snaps without looking up from the plated pasta he’s inspecting. “Next question.”

Another server rushes in. “Table three says there’s not enough sauce on their pasta.”

“It’s a sugo, not a soup,” Minho barks, flicking his hand dismissively. “If they wanted a bowl of tomato water, they came to the wrong place.”

The kitchen vibrates with tension. Even the sous chef, who usually keep his grumbling to a minimum, can’t mask their irritation. Seojun’s jaw tightens as he works the grill, his movements sharp and mechanical. Across your station, Hyunwoo mutters curses under his breath, his hands trembling as he reduces yet another sauce to Minho’s exact specifications.

You stand at your station, hands moving on autopilot as you toss a pan of pasta, the repetitive motion grounding you. The complaints weigh on you too, but you keep your head down. You’ve made it this far; you’re not about to let Minho—or anyone else—see you falter.

“Focus!” Minho’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip, directed at no one and everyone. “If I hear one more plate leaves this kitchen without my approval, someone’s going home early. And not in a good way.”

“Yes, chef!” Despite the chaos, the kitchen soldiers on. Plates go out, tables are cleared, and somehow, the lunch service marches toward its conclusion. By the time the last order is fired and plated, an exhausted hush falls over the team.

The other cooks exchange glances, their disdain for Minho unspoken but palpable. Felix, ever the optimist, claps Taesoo on the shoulder and offers a reassuring smile.

Minho surveys the room, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. “Good work,” he says, his tone begrudging, like the words physically pain him. “But don’t think for a second this means you’re keeping up. Dinner service starts in five hours. Clean up and get back to prep.”

As the team disperses, you take a deep breath, the ache in your wrists flaring as you stretch. Another day in hell, you think. And yet, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride. Against all odds, you finished the service.

But you know this is just the beginning. With Minho at the helm, there’s no such thing as smooth sailing. Only storms.

The dining hall is crowded as all of the staff are taking their break and having lunches, indulging in the rare peace before dinner service. But you have other plans. Quietly slipping away, you make your way to the cashier’s terminal, your heart thumping with anticipation.

The order history is your goal—a record of the Italian consulate’s dining habits. Scrolling through the list of past reservations, you start to see the pattern. Each visit showcases a different dish, meticulously selected as though the consulate is sampling the entire menu, piece by piece. One glaring omission stands out: Vongole.

The realization lights a spark of determination. Heading to the freezer, you prep the clams with care, imagining the dish that might just win over one of the most discerning palates to grace Farfalle’s dining room. But as you emerge with your bounty, Minho appears, as if conjured by your audacity.

“What are you doing with that?” he asks, his voice laced with curiosity and skepticism.

You straighten your back. “The Italian consulate will order Vongole tonight,” you reply confidently.

Minho’s expression shifts into a cynical smile. “And what makes you so sure?”

“I checked his previous orders,” you explain, meeting his gaze without flinching. “He’s ordered everything on the menu except Vongole. It’s the only dish left.”

For a moment, Minho simply stares at you, as though debating whether to dismiss you outright or acknowledge your boldness. Then, a sly smirk tugs at his lips. “We’ll see,” he says, brushing past you.

Dinner service is in full swing, the clamor of the kitchen almost deafening. Minho’s sharp commands ring out above the noise, each order executed with mechanical precision.

Then comes the moment everyone has been waiting for—the consulate’s arrival. The manager sweeps into the kitchen, a nervous energy radiating from him as he announces their presence.

Minho’s expression remains unreadable. “Focus,” he orders, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

The anticipation is palpable as the consulate’s table lingers over their menu, debating their options. When the order finally comes through, all eyes turn to Minho as he reads the slip of paper. His gaze flicks to you, holding it for just a second longer than usual before he barks out the order.

“Vongole!”

Felix raises his hand immediately. “I’ll make it,” he volunteers, his enthusiasm earnest.

But Minho ignores him, his attention fixed on you. “You,” he says firmly, pointing in your direction. “Make the dish.”

Your heart pounds, but you give no outward sign of hesitation. “Yes, Chef,” you reply, moving to your station with purpose.

As you work, Minho hovers nearby, his presence both unnerving and oddly reassuring. Halfway through your preparation, he approaches, holding a bottle of wine.

“Use this,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You hesitate, glancing at the label—it’s an expensive bottle, undoubtedly his personal stash. “Chef, this is—”

“It’ll elevate the flavor,” he interrupts, his voice steady. “Use it.”

Swallowing your nerves, you nod and accept the bottle. The addition of the wine transforms the dish, the aroma wafting through the kitchen as you plate the pasta with precision.

The staff exchange glances—some envious, others suspicious. But Minho ignores them all, his focus entirely on the dish in front of you.

“Serve it,” he orders once the plate is finished.

As the dish is carried out to the dining hall, a charged silence falls over the kitchen. All that remains is to see if your gamble—and Minho’s faith—will pay off.

The dinner service nears its end, the kitchen quieting as the last orders are plated and sent out. You’re tidying up your station when the manager steps in, his expression unreadable.

“The consulate wants to meet the chef,” he announces, then adds, “and the one who cooked his Vongole.”

Your heart skips a beat, an icy wave of anxiety washing over you. Did you mess up? Did it fail to meet his standards?

“Let’s go,” Minho says, already heading toward the dining hall.

You fall in step behind him, nerves gnawing at your composure. Minho walks with his usual confidence, his back straight and his presence commanding. It’s only when you reach the consulate’s table that you notice someone unexpected seated beside him.

Chef Choi Sara.

Recognition hits like a slap. Sara isn’t just a famous culinary star; she’s Minho’s ex from culinary school. They were inseparable back then, both as a couple and as rivals, constantly pushing each other to excel. Stories of their relationship are almost legendary in the culinary world—a whirlwind of passion, competition, and ambition. But something happened between them, and whatever it was, it ended both their romance and their partnership.

You glance at Minho, searching for a reaction. His face remains as unreadable as ever, but there’s a tension in his posture, a flicker in his eyes that betrays his composed demeanor.

The consulate rises with a warm smile, shaking Minho’s hand first. “Congratulations on your new position,” he says. “The food tonight was exceptional, as always. You’ve truly elevated this restaurant.”

“Thank you,” Minho replies, his voice steady and professional.

Then the consulate turns to you. “And you,” he says, his tone lighter but no less sincere. “The Vongole was exquisite. You’ve got a remarkable talent.”

You bow slightly, your voice soft with humility. “Thank you. I’m flattered you enjoyed it.”

Before the conversation can continue, Sara interjects, her smile sharp and knowing. “Well, it’s no wonder the food is so good,” she says, her voice laced with confidence. “The three of us went to the same culinary school, after all.”

Her words hang in the air, pointed and loaded. It’s as if she’s reminding Minho—and perhaps you—of their shared history, of the heights they reached together and the tension that pulled them apart. Minho doesn’t respond, his focus remaining on the consulate, but the air between him and Sara is thick with unspoken words.

The consulate gestures to a box beside his chair, lifting a few bottles of wine. “A gift,” he says, handing them to Minho. “I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I’ve enjoyed your cooking.”

Minho accepts the gift with a polite nod, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes, a glimpse of memories resurfacing. You can’t help but wonder what this exchange is stirring up for him.

“Shall we take a picture to commemorate the evening?” the consulate suggests, already standing to pose.

You barely have time to process the request before you’re lining up beside Minho. As you smile for the camera, you feel the faintest brush of movement. Glancing down, you see Sara’s arm looped through Minho’s, her posture relaxed and confident, as though she belongs by his side.

Your smile falters for a split second before you force it back into place. The flash goes off, but your mind is already racing.

As you walk back to the kitchen, questions swirl in your mind. What’s the nature of Minho and Sara’s relationship now? Did their rivalry ever truly end, or was it just another layer of their complicated dynamic? And more troublingly, does Minho still harbor feelings for her? The possibilities unsettle you, leaving you to wrestle with a mix of curiosity and unease.

The kitchen is less hectic as the only sounds that can be heard is the low hum of post-service cleanup, exhaustion settling into the faces of the staff. Minho stands in the center, a bottle of wine in hand, his expression unreadable. With a sharp twist, he pops the cork and pours glasses for everyone.

"Here," he says curtly, passing out drinks. "Celebrate while you can."

The team exchanges wary glances before lifting their glasses. Minho's tone is brusque, but his actions are a rare acknowledgment of their hard work. You sip the wine in silence, watching him walk away with the second bottle tucked under his arm.

Minho heads toward his office, his steps measured and deliberate. He’s halfway to the door when he freezes, his sharp eyes catching a figure leaning casually against the wall near his office—Sara.

"Minho," she calls, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "Still the last to leave, I see."

“What do you want?” he asks coldly, brushing past her toward his office door.

Sara pushes off the wall and falls into step behind him. “I just wanted to check on you,” she says breezily, her tone too light to be genuine. “Word is that Farfalle’s sales are plummeting since you took over. Not exactly the success story everyone expected.”

Minho stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are dark, his patience clearly thin. “Mind your own business.”

She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “I just hate to see someone who used to be the best… fall so far.”

Minho doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps into his office, setting the bottle of wine down on the desk. He gestures toward it, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Recognize this?” he asks.

Sara’s gaze flickers to the bottle, and for a moment, her confident facade cracks.

“It’s just wine, Minho,” she says, though her voice is quieter now.

“Not just wine,” he counters. “It’s a reminder. A reminder of the moment you ruined everything. Of how you planned to take me down.”

Her expression hardens, but she doesn’t deny it.

“It was a mistake,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “A shameful, momentary mistake.”

Minho laughs, though there’s no humor in it. “A mistake?” he repeats, his disbelief cutting through the room. “You planned it, Sara. Every step. And now you’re trying to rewrite history?”

Sara looks away, her silence speaking volumes.

Minho steps closer, his voice low and laced with disdain. “The real mistake wasn’t trusting you. It wasn’t even competing with you. The real mistake was falling in love with you.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and final. Without waiting for a response, he grabs his coat and strides past her, leaving Sara standing alone in the dim light of the office. Her carefully constructed poise falters, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as the door closes behind him.

The soft ding of the elevator echoes in the quiet corridor as you wait, exhaustion heavy in your limbs after a long day. Your mind drifts to the task you’ve been putting off—informing the property agent about listing your apartment for a roommate. Just as the thought settles uncomfortably, you hear footsteps approaching.

Minho steps into view, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. He takes a spot beside you, his presence commanding the space as you both wait for the elevator in silence.

The doors slide open, and the two of you step inside. The hum of the elevator is the only sound until Minho finally breaks the silence.

“You must be happy,” he says, his tone laced with mock indifference. “I let you keep your job, I let you cook for the consulate, and I even let you use my wine.”

You glance at him, a small smile playing on your lips. For the first time in a while, this feels like the Minho you’d met that night, not the cold, sharp-edged chef from the kitchen.

“Thank you, chef,” you say softly, your smile widening. “You really are the best.”

Minho’s lips twitch as though he’s fighting a grin. “Flattery does not work on me,” he mutters, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Amused, you turn slightly to study him. His jaw is set, his expression stoic, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes. Acting on impulse, you step closer and gently cup his jaw, tilting his face toward you. His eyes widen in surprise, but before he can react, you lean in and press your lips to his.

For a moment, he freezes, but then he relaxes, his hands finding your waist as he returns the kiss. The warmth of his lips, the way he pulls you just a little closer—it’s electrifying, and the rest of the world fades away.

The elevator chimes, signaling your floor. Slowly, you break the kiss, a playful smile on your face as you step back.

Minho leans in as though to capture your lips again, but you quickly place a hand on his chest, teasingly stopping him. “Goodnight, Chef,” you say, your tone light and mischievous.

His lips part, as if to protest, but you’re already stepping out of the elevator. Glancing over your shoulder, you catch the look of longing on his face before the doors slide shut, leaving him standing there, wanting more.

Ever since that kiss, Minho can’t stop thinking about it. The memory keeps replaying—the warmth of your lips, the way your breath hitched right before it happened. It wasn’t supposed to happen. It can’t happen. And yet, he can’t deny how much he still wants to pursue whatever this is.

If only you weren’t working in his kitchen...

Stepping out of his apartment, Minho sighs quietly, raking a hand through his hair. He presses the elevator button and stares at the numbers lighting up as the lift ascends. The soft creak of your door opening makes him turn, and he sees you stepping out, adjusting the strap of your bag.

You spot him and offer a faint smile. “Morning,” you say, your voice light but cautious.

The elevator doors slide open, and you both step in. The space between you feels charged, the silence heavier than it should be. Minho shoves his hands into his pockets, debating whether to say something. This is his chance, but he knows he has to tread carefully.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low but steady. “Listen to me carefully.”

You glance at him, waiting for him to continue, your expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to fire you,” he says firmly. “But I need to remind you… you’re just a chef in my kitchen. Nothing more.”

The words land heavier than he expects, and he watches as your expression shifts. A flicker of something he can’t quite place crosses your face before you mask it again.

You stay silent for a moment before nodding.

Minho frowns slightly, uneasy. “Understood?” he asks, needing confirmation—for himself as much as for you.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply, your voice calm and unwavering.

The formal response makes his chest tighten. It’s what he wants to hear—what he needs to hear. But it feels like a wall has gone up between you, colder and more impenetrable than before.

The elevator dings softly, and the doors slide open to the ground floor. Minho steps out first, reminding himself of his own rules. No women in his kitchen. No romance in his kitchen. Even if he wants to break them.

The dining hall hums with quiet conversation as the service and kitchen staff gather for the usual morning briefing. You stand among them, arms crossed, waiting for Mr. Oh to arrive. It's strange—he’s never late for these meetings.

The minutes stretch, and impatience grows. Finally, Minho steps into the scene, exuding authority as he takes charge. “Let’s not waste time,” he says, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “We’ll start—”

The double doors to the dining hall creak open, silencing everyone. All heads turn toward the entrance, and a collective murmur ripples through the room as a figure strides in.

Dressed in a tailored black suit that seems to absorb the light, the man’s presence is magnetic. His pale skin contrasts sharply with his dark attire, and his piercing gaze sweeps over the staff, commanding their attention without a single word.

He moves with an air of calculated confidence, each step echoing in the hushed hall. Reaching the front of the room, he turns to face the gathered crowd, his lips curling into a faint, enigmatic smile.

“I apologize for the disruption,” he begins, his voice deep and smooth, laced with a subtle edge of authority. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chris, and as of today, I am the new manager of Farfalle.”

A wave of whispers breaks out among the staff, curiosity and unease blending in their expressions.

Chris doesn’t waver. He clasps his hands behind his back, his sharp eyes scanning the room with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “I look forward to working with each of you.”

His words hang in the air like a challenge, leaving an unspoken tension that prickles at your skin. Without waiting for a response, Chris gives a final nod and steps aside, his presence lingering even as he moves.

Minho watches him with a subtle narrowing of his eyes, his jaw tight. The air in the room feels heavier, charged with the dramatic shift Chris's arrival has brought.

“I'll make it short,” Chris begins, his tone steady and authoritative. “I'm closing down the restaurant.”

And just like that, the briefing takes on an entirely new weight, ending not with words, but with the undeniable realization that change is here—and it wears a sharp black suit.

Support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

@svintsandghosts @abiaswreck @ppiri-bahng @drhsthl @idkluvutellme @biribarabiribbaem @skz-streamer @biancaness @hanjisunginc @elizalabs3 @laylasbunbunny @kpopformylife @caitlyn98s @hann1bee @mamieishere @is2cb97 @marvelous-llama @bluenights1899 @sherryblossom @toplinehyunjin @hanjisbeloved @sunnyseungup @skz4lifer @stellasays45 @severeanxietyissues @avyskai @imseungminsgf @silentreadersthings @army-stay-noel @rylea08 @simeonswhore @yubinism @devilsmatches @septicrebel @rairacha @ven-fic-recs @hyunjiinnnn @lostgirlinthewoodss @schniti-is-in-the-house @jisunglyricist @minh0scat @simplymoo @inlovewithstraykids @eastjonowhere

#stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #lee know x reader #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #skz fics #skz fanfics #kpop smut #kpop fics #kpop fanfics #seospicy smut #Taste series

682 notes · View notes

batsycline69 · 6 days ago

Text

What Remains in Wayne Manor

Summary: To make ends meet, you start to give tours at the historic Wayne Manor. Around that time, you start having strange dreams that lead you to a Gotham urban legend.

Pairing: vampire!Bruce Wayne x reader

Words: 15.2k (lmao)

Content/warnings: manipulation, blood/bloodsucking, hunter/prey dynamic, toxic relationship, bruce wayne as a graying at the temples vampire, major character death, major character undeath, not related to DC vs Vampires

intro + playlist

For over a century, Gotham whispered of a shadowy protector. Rumor tinted blood-red by folklore and superstition. Most haven’t seen him. The ones who claim they have usually get written off as conspiracy theorists.

You know better.

Before Wayne Manor, you dreamed of that night. The terror in the voices of your would-be attackers ringing in your ears as you woke.

Even in the horror of your dreams, you found comfort. Something horrible watching over you is better than nothing at all, you’d managed to content yourself with thinking. You needed something better—evidence that you saw what you did. You looked for Batman in the people who claimed they saw him, in the morbid visitors making a pit stop at Wayne Manor on their way to look for Gotham's vampire.

Maybe that’s how you ended up in your car. You woke from your dream with your start, mind fixed to Batman’s gloves dripping with blood. You tried to remember as the city shrank in your rear view mirror, but it was a blur.

You should run away, quit your job and content yourself to never step foot in Wayne Manor again.

You should.

Instead, you wander through the musty hall into the closed-off west wing—it’s always been closed off, hasn’t it? you think to yourself—fingertips collecting dust along the wainscoting. Maybe you’d fallen asleep again after all. Maybe this was another dream. You figure you must be once you find yourself in a room you recognize.

Books with spines too dusty to read stretch up the length of the wall. Furniture draped in white, dust piled heavy on the sheet. A large desk at the top of the room. The sort of room you would imagine an earnest man pacing up and down. Wide windows with shattered glass glittering beneath—you suspect the willow stretching up to the room to be the culprit. Cobwebs in the great fireplace obscure where warm fires once roared. Above the mantle, a portrait you recognize.

Martha stares down at you. Her gentle smile feels too aware. You came into her home outside your usual terms. Stepped through the veil that kept you separate all this time. You’ve broken your rules, and who’s to say what would happen now that you share a secret with her.

The painting is the one pristine thing in the room you realize with another quick pass about the room. That, and your incriminating footprints in the dust are the only signs of life. Every other ornate frame and marble bust are obscured by grime tucked into each curve. The Wayne Family portrait remains so well-maintained you can see the brushstrokes in the moonlight.

Your gaze falls to the boy. He looks exactly as he had in your dream, so far from stern the stern Bruce Wayne portraits on your tour route. The eyes preserved in oil paint had yet to see his parents’ death.

“I hated that tie.” A voice cuts through the wind rustling through cracked panes of glass. “My father had to remind me not to fuss with it.”

Every piece of furniture was covered with a sheet when you walked in—of that you are certain. Yet now a long camelback sofa has been revealed in front of you, a beautiful carved wooden arch on the back. And on the couch sits a man a near mirror of the late Bruce Wayne.

His eyes are are such a pale blue, they nearly look silver. The sort that look as though they can see everything. Save for the thick, dark hair combed neatly on his head, he's ghostly. His skin is white as a sheet as if he hadn’t seen the sun in weeks; from the dark circles beneath your eyes, you would guess it had been as long since he slept. Even then, he's beautiful. His crooked nose, cleft chin, and sharp cheekbones, he looked as if he could be a dazzling movie star. His long, thin lips tug into a smirk that sets you on edge. Like Martha on the wall, you share a secret with this man, and you’re not sure you want to.

One wide leg crosses over the other as he leans into the arm of the couch. His thick fingers rest beneath his jaw as he regards you. Motes of dust catch in the moonlight before him—thick from the disrupted cover—and make him look magic.

His gaze is ice driven through your skin. Puncturing, burrowing, spreading. He watches you as a member of an audience would watch an actor as the curtain rises.

You don’t move, so he does.

He’s tall, and looks even bigger standing than he did as he sat. Broad shoulders, sturdy arms covered by a worn but well-made sweater. Thick wool fibers knitted into cables, though the collar was frayed, ladders of stitches beginning to loosen.

How had he managed to sneak into the room without you noticing? Wouldn’t you have seen someone in the room as you looked around?

He takes a single step toward you. Two sheeted chairs and a large covered coffee table stand between you. They offer you no comfort.

“My name is Bruce Wayne,” he says as if this were a normal introduction. As if he’s not claiming to be a long dead scion.

You don’t introduce yourself. Fright freezes your body, glues your tongue to the roof of your mouth. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up. “We had only just gotten the portrait and hung it up when they were killed. Alfred hung it up while my mother held me at a distance so I wouldn’t get in the way.”

Alfred Pennyworth. You know the name through work. Even without a portrait of him hanging on the wall in the gallery you show guests, you try to imagine him perched atop a ladder to place the painting on the wall. You imagine a young boy eager with the excitement of something happening, eventually growing disinterested as his parents remarked on composition and lighting.

You shouldn’t believe him, but you do. You’re not sure why. It feels almost out of your control. What other choice is there than to believe this man is Bruce Wayne?

“You were so afraid the first night I saw you. It reminded me…” He trails off. Despite your curiosity, you’re still immobilized by your shock. You still hadn’t gained the ability to utter a word.

“I’ve grown...attached. Even unconsciously, I’ve been reaching out to you,” he says, finally noticing your silence. You’re not sure if it’s your surprise or his words, but you don’t understand. “You see what I want you to see. Or what I’m thinking of. You’re here because I wanted you to be.”

You blink, trying to remind yourself you have a body and vocal chords. “No,” finally you say. “I’ve been having dreams.”

“You saw the entrance to the cave,” he says.

The will to feign ignorance evades you. You’re not even sure if you’re talking about the same cave, but there is no question in his voice. Obediently, you nod. “Yes.”

Does Bruce Wayne know Batman is in his basement?

“You saw my mother the night she was murdered.”

This time, you hesitate, not because you want to withhold, but because you aren’t sure. You saw Martha tonight—seemingly in pain—but you weren’t be sure she was dying. Only that she needed help. You tried to help her.

Swallowing hard, you nod again.

“You’ve been having these dreams for close to three years now, haven’t you? Since the night you ran into that alley.”

All that’s left to do in your reticence is nod again, the rest of your body feeling utterly useless. The pacing of your heart continues to grow. He recognizes you, but apart from the paintings you’ve seen, you don’t recognize him. He can’t be one of the men from that night.

You think of the cave somewhere below your feet. Think of the blood in the stone. Think of the masked man who had appeared so suddenly behind you—whose face you still saw as you woke—filling you with dread in the place that warped comfort once resided.

Bruce notices your spiral. His long legs take him too close for comfort. You stumble away, but he carries on gracefully past you. You wonder if you should make a run for it. Would you be able to outrun him? Would he even try to stop you, or would he allow you to go freely?

A loud scraping noise overtakes your thoughts. You nearly jump out of your skin as the ground rumbles beneath you. Bruce observes the stone fireplace as it falls further into the wall. A dark passage emerges in its place.

You’ve seen the entrance to the cave. Yes, this you’ve seen, though you’d hoped such a thing only existed in the fancifulness of dreams. Now you’re one step closer to seeing what lurks beneath the manor. Despite your admiration for the Batman, you’ve never envied the fact you hadn’t seen him up close that evening. Only the swoop of his cape. The points of his cowl.

“Follow me,” he says, voice cool as the breeze.

Your feet move of their own accord, following Bruce into the dark stairwell until he pauses at a familiar elevator. The iron gate screeches as he pulls it open.

He waits for you to walk in first. You don’t want to but find yourself moving regardless.

The elevator rocks down the shaft, metal sparking now and again on the way. In the pockets of your coat, you dig your fingernails into your hands. Each shriek rattles in your skull. Breath catches in your lungs as if the act of breathing could send the whole thing crashing. As you wait to plummet to your death, you hardly have time to worry about the strange man next to you.

The cart stills. You breathe yet again. Through the crosses in the gate, you strain your eyes in search of blood puddles. You make out nothing but candlelight flickering across stone floors and cavern walls.

Bruce doesn’t move after he pulls the gate open. A moment passes before you realize he’s waiting for you to step out first. As you do, you can take in the whole of the cave, this time in reality. No blood. No Batman.

You flinch as something moves above you. Bruce’s low chuckle rumbles as he walks past. Bat wings flap over you in a great retreat from the noise.

“The city is getting unsafe. I want you here,” he says, pulling your attention.

Without hesitation, you begin to shake your head. The absurdity of your situation suddenly dawns on you. This man has lured you into an expansive cave. He claims to be a man who drank himself to death almost a century ago. He wants you to stay in the ruins of a manor he claims as his own.

You would be running to the elevator if your legs didn’t still feel like jelly from the ride.

Without a response, he gives an unimpressed grunt. He doesn’t check if you’re following him. Only once a seemingly safe distance stands between the two of you do you begin to trail behind. The light of candelabras highlights rows of bookshelves, the same as in the study. Unlike the study, however, you realize these are notebooks, dates penned carefully along the spines.

The rugged tables around are littered with papers. Books stacked high, microscopes and vials. You try to imagine how long this must have taken to put together. The collection of materials you see alone had to have taken decades.

“You say you’re Bruce Wayne, but Bruce Wayne died 95 years ago,” you say. You don’t feel bold enough to make an accusation out loud; every possibility crossing your mind sounds impossible even by Gotham City’s standards.

Bruce continues ahead in silence.

“Are you supposed to be some kind of...ghost?” You want to flinch from your diffidence.

A wry smirk grows on Bruce’s handsome face. “Not quite,” he replies. “What do you remember of that night?”

There’s no need to question what night he means. You remember your part. And though you mean to keep it to yourself, the words slip out as you recall.

Racing from your pursuers in the dark of the alley. Cold wind whipping past your face. The icy ground below your feet—icy like the eyes of the man in front of you. Laughter dying as the light of the moon disappeared.

“Did you know it was me?”

An oppressive grip seems to take hold of you. Something cold and suffocating. The same feeling you’d gotten as you stepped into the elevator.

“Yes,” you respond, the line between Bruce Wayne and Batman becoming clearer in your mind.

“I believe my...concerns for you are what caused you to have these dreams,” he says, choosing each word carefully.

You make a poor attempt at a laugh. The fear lingering in your chest chokes it out, turns it to a pitiful wheeze.

Nothing seems to break you from him. You used to dream of coming here—to understand Batman; to bind you to Gotham as you seemed to drift further away. Now you realize your mistake. You would content yourself to facing the city alone if it meant you’d live to see the sun again.

He makes one last glacial pass over you before he continues to walk again. You hold yourself tightly, feeling yourself walking into a trap but not having the will to step out. You can’t help but think of him as a predator. Agile. Decided. You haven’t seen him truly falter this entire counter. Hesitation, yes, but intent to withhold. He proffers information only after his story has been carefully edited.

You peer at him from the corner of a bookcase and catch the glare of glass. Only once you step closer do you realize what you’re both looking at. Batman’s suit is encased in a glass stand before you. You notice the cape first and remember the way the material moved as he did. As it hangs motionless, it looks far heavier than you would have guessed.

Batman, you begin to realize, is far from the average citizen helping out the city as you thought he might have been.

“I saw them before I saw you,” he says, eyes fixed on the suit in front of him. “I tracked them from a robbery a few blocks away, only thinking of my hunger. I could feel their excitement, and I assumed it was for a job well done. Then I saw you.”

The silence that follows is unnerving. Forces your mind to the dreams. Alone. About to be swallowed by Gotham’s never ending appetite.

You were so afraid the first night I saw you. It reminded me…

Now you wish he hadn’t cut himself off so soon.

At last, he turns to you, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his slacks. “When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you grow familiar with the dangers of the world. But I’ve forgotten how easy it is for a mortal to be injured. One small slip up, and your life is over in an instant. More likely, one major mistake from someone else, and you’d be taken from me forever.”

Being so suddenly claimed by a stranger has you speechless. It wasn’t enough you’d followed him to his cave; you’ve already become something that could be taken.

“There are things far worse than me in this city,” he says, his cool breath brushing over you as he steps closer. “I’m what stands between you and them.”

Danger is a native tongue to Gotham; that is a fact no one in the city can escape. Your home is paramount to others in its oddities and cruelties. A place that raised a unique kind of person. Gotham is a hungry city; its citizens inherit its voracity.

Bruce ambles past shelves. The soles of his expensive shoes barely make a sound. You’re so busy taking in as much as you can, you almost run into him as he stops suddenly.

He pulls out a journal, the dust in that spot already disrupted. Practiced fingers leaf through worn, yellowed pages until he lands on the page he searches for. He doesn’t pass the notebook like you thought he might.

“After my mother and father were taken from me, I was fixated on their undead murderer. I looked for answers. I found him at the cost of my mortality.”

You don’t want to believe it, but acceptance creeps up on you. The casual disregard as he speaks of mortality. The way he spoke of his hunger within the same breath as the men in the alley.

Passively, he scans the page. Is he threatening you, or is he giving you answers you so badly are looking for? The line seems so thin with him.

“Gotham was my parents’ legacy,” he continues. “I found myself in a unique position to protect it. So I did. I could atone for becoming the same kind of monster that took them from me.”

You’re relieved he suggests fresh air, traveling closely behind him through the manor. Your head spins with the wealth of new information, trying to occupy your thoughts instead with the moon shimmering in Gotham Bay, watching waves crest before crashing into the jagged cliff edge.

He stops you a mildly overcautious distance from the edge and studies you. “I mean it when I say I’ll do everything I possibly can to keep you safe.” Somehow, his smooth, low voice carries over the sound of the tide below. You believe him. You can’t be sure the feeling is your own, but it doesn’t come with an invisible hand squeezing at your chest. Even if some part of you still wants to run, the larger part wants to stay.

Now more than ever, you feel now as if you’re in a dream. You sneak your hand up the sleeve of your coat to pinch at your arm. Bruce smirks next to you. You don’t want to dwell on how small and foolish you must seem to him.

The neon emerald of the Ace Chemicals sign glimmers in inky waters. His legacy is just as much there as the ruins of the home behind you.

He hasn’t said as much, but something inside of you grasps Gotham is no longer the same as he once saw it. The city’s many problems troubled him in different ways when he was mortal. Now, the people there—you and everyone else with a beating heart—are nothing but ants. Little things to be squashed unless protected.

Doubt gnaws at you. Anyone could have run into that alley. Anyone could have been as scared as you. That night, it just happened to be you.

Your first date starts at the Gotham Museum of Fine Arts.

You refused to move into the manor when he asked, insisting you would only consider his offer if you got to know him better. You’d felt so childish choking out the word—dating—bracing yourself for Bruce to laugh at you, but he never did. Instead, he agreed. But he didn’t think spending all your time inside Wayne Manor counted.

You wander through the portraits of famous Gothamites unable to relax. You wait for someone to see the large painting of Bruce Wayne hung on the wall across the room; you wait for someone to stop you both and say, “that portrait looks exactly like you!” Worry someone might make a connection that your date has more than a passing to the late Wayne.

Bruce notices. His cool fingers thread through yours—a habit of his, you’ve begun to notice. “They won’t see,” he assures.

“How do you know?” you whisper, leaning in close so no one overhears.

He chuckles as he gives your hand a gentle, affirming squeeze. His breath brushes over the shell of your ear as follows suit. “Practice.”

You travel through time together, drifting from period to period, taking comfort in the presence of his hand. Eventually, you relax. The gravity of him pulls you in, nudging at your mind to remind you what drew you in to begin with. With each moment you spend with him, you find it harder to pull away. His presence calls to you, fills you with such self-consciousness and relief at the same time. And if there’s relief, isn’t it worth it not to fight against the physics of it?

No one pays you any mind. You and Bruce are tucked inside a private world. Yet, watchful eyes scan the room, searching for threats. He wants to protect you; he’d said so from the start. Whatever danger in Gotham could hurt you, Bruce would be your guard. You feel giddy with the freedom, but too hesitant in front of him to show it.

“When was your last date?” you ask. That’s what you do on first dates, isn’t it? Get to know each other? But the task feels so threatening with Bruce. You’re unsure of what will count as a mark against you. Each topic feels like a potential hazard, and the last thing you want to do is give him cause to get angry.

He hums. “As a human, a few months before I was turned. A woman I met at some party or another. We went to the theatre. I can’t remember what it was we saw. I remember I had to leave early.” A darkened look crosses his face. “Other obligations came up.”

You let out a hesitant ‘oh,’ that brings Bruce attention to you again. “There was another after I'd turned. Like me. It was...complicated.”

This time you don’t respond. What was he hoping to find in you after another vampire?

How long Bruce has been alone? Those empty halls of the manor seem so vast. How many years of silence had he been inside its walls? You’ve felt the desperation he had to keep you nearby. You feel the loss he doesn’t speak of. The weight of everything taken from him.

“What about your last date?” he asks.

“Oh.” You weren’t expecting him to ask in return, didn’t have anything prepared. You worry there’s nothing you could say that would sound impressive to him. “I don’t know. A few months ago. We went out for dinner, but it was nothing special. We didn’t keep in touch.”

Bruce doesn’t respond to your silence. You wonder, somehow, if you’d made a silly admission. You try to recover from whatever faux pas you made, pushing conversation again.

“When did you become Batman?” you ask, glancing around carefully. Testing how true his assurances no one could hear you were.

There are no shocked looks thrown your way. Only Bruce’s face softening at the sound of your voice. The gentle look on his face makes him look so different. Buried beneath Bruce’s endless seriousness, a resemblance of the boy he once was still remains.

“I was 36. Single-minded about finding a way to get rid of the creatures that took my mother and father from me. But people were dying from my idleness. I couldn’t only rely on research and a medical school dropout’s education. I needed a more direct approach. So I became the Batman.”

“But why Batman?” You glance around anxiously again, waiting to be found out. But the moment passes.

He doesn’t answer your question. The chill of his hand slips from you as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers. For a moment, you think you’ve asked a forbidden question, but his voice comes out low and smooth. “What are you afraid of?” he asks.

The unusual chill grips your chest again—the one that hints that Bruce isn’t playing fair.

“Being alone here,” you admit. Your face burns with shame, wishing you hadn’t said it out loud. Bruce doesn’t respond, which only makes it worse. You stare at the ground, still trailing along behind.

“I don’t intend to leave you alone here,” he says.

Your unoccupied fingers curl into your palm. “You don’t need to make me tell you things.” It’s a quiet fight, but one you put up nonetheless.

He regards you. You wonder if he’s trying to get you to back down. If he is, you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“I was still mortal when I became Batman,” he says finally. “I needed my opponent to think I was one of them.”

You feel the urge to ask what opponent he means, but you don’t want to feel silly in front of him again. And your irritation still lingers. You’re not sure how you would fare his self-important stare again.

“Are there others...like you?” you ask, gazing at the deep, vivid colors of the baroque pieces you pass.

“There are,” he says. “None in Gotham, however. They understand this is my territory.”

He guides you to the impressionist wing. You pause in front of a Monet. The arc of the bridge and the water lilies in the water are familiar. You peer into the reflection of the water as if you were in front of the pond yourself.

“This was my mother’s favorite,” Bruce tells you. “She grew up near a pond with water lilies. She said it reminded her of then.”

You think of the Martha from your dreams. Her childhood feels so impossibly long ago, lifetimes away from you. Even without ever meeting her, you mourn her. You wonder how true to life your version of her is.

Bruce shows no signs of the same wear you feel as you wander the galleries. His feet don’t tire; his mind doesn’t go groggy with the quiet.

After thoroughly exploring the museum, you’re relieved he suggests dinner. The relief, however, is short-lived. You’d only thought of your hunger; you hadn’t considered if Bruce would eat, nor where he would bring you.

Warm candlelight flits over Bruce’s face. Shadows flickering beneath the hollows of his eyes makes it hard to focus on your food. You wish he would have ordered something for your sake. You cut into your food, trying to give yourself something to do other than meet his gaze. Yet again, you’re a spectacle for him. Something to be observed. A zoo animal.

The marble pillars around you, the quartet playing in the corner across your small table, the vampire who doesn’t eat. All of it feels designed to make you feel inadequate. Why would he bring you here, to a place he wouldn’t participate?

Bruce had suggested dinner here. You had never heard of the restaurant. He’d explained the place was one of the oldest in Gotham. But unlike Wayne Manor, this place had no oppressive presence, only the oppressive rules of society that seem so natural to Bruce even now but so illusive to you.

You haven’t tasted a bite of your meal; you’ve felt too ungraceful beneath Bruce’s unwavering gaze. The guilt dawns on you as he finally breaks the lingering silence.

“Are you enjoying your food?” He leans close. His voice rolls over you like gentle thunder.

With your mouth full, you can only reply with a nod. You force your bite down glancing at the tables around you. Couples laughing softly only a few feet away, their lavishness apparent to you even in the low light.

You don’t want to be alone. Even if you can’t understand his attention, don’t know if you’re anything other than a pet to him, you don’t want to direct him anywhere else. As cold as his safety is, you will take it. You will find whatever shelter in it you can.

His eyes are on you as your head tips back to drink the last of your wine. You can feel the weight of his gaze. The waiter comes by with the check, and you’re thankful for the distraction. You set your glass on the table as if you’d been caught in the middle of committing a crime.

Out the window, you watch large flakes of snow dance from the sky. The first snowfall of the season come early.

Bruce guides you outside. His broad hand rests on the small of your back. You expect for him to guide you towards the valet parking. You step that way, alarmed as Bruce ushers you toward a side street, away from prying eyes.

“You’re upset,” he notes.

With your rigid spine and tense silence, you can’t be surprised he noticed, but part of you wishes he hadn’t. You need more time to wrap your head around your situation—around him.

“Why did you bring me there?” you ask, your arms crossed over your chest in defense of the cold your worn coat seems to be unable to keep up with.

“It’s a wonderful restaurant,” he replies simply.

You’re not sure if he’s missing your point deliberately or not. “You don’t eat. Just stared at me.”

“So the first date didn’t go well?” Bruce asks, quirking a thick brow up at you. “Alright then, what would you like to do?”

Flakes of fall on his hair. White stands out stark against the deep black. The cold seems to mean little to him even as you shiver.

“I want to get to know you!” you say. “I’m at a disadvantage here because you seem to know plenty about me, but just about everything I know about you I learned in a history book.”

His stare feels inescapable. Too consuming. You’re plagued by mystery. “If there was something worth knowing, I would tell you.”

You scoff. “That’s not how this works,” you hiss. “If you want me in your house, I need to know who you are. How else am I supposed to know I’m any safer with you than I am at my apartment?”

The air grows colder as he crowds you. You barely feel the chill of his hand as it cups your cheek. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“No, you’d withhold information instead.”

His hand falls as you turn from him, instead watching the snow as it melts on the ground. Flakes dropping to the concrete. There in a moment, gone an instant later.

“Come with me,” he says, hand outstretched toward you. Against all sense, you take it.

At the manor, you drift hand-in-hand through the snow-dusted rose garden. Damp gravel rustles beneath your feet. Bruce barely makes a sound.

The garden was kept maintained for tours. On nice days, you bring the visitors out here, talk about the staff the Waynes would have kept, mentioning now a team of gardeners is employed through the estate.

In a month or so, the blooms will die. Their petals will wilt and dry, withering with time. The glistening roses in the darkness puts you on edge for a reason you can’t place. Maybe because you’re so used to the sunshine shining on them, drawing out their splendor.

Bruce snaps a deep red rose from its bush. You bite back the urge to reprimand him as you would a guest. He pinches the stem between his fingers, turns it over carefully. “My mother kept roses in the house,” he says. “As a boy, I would turn my nose up and complain of the sweet smell.”

He raises the flower to his nose. His lips turn up so slightly, you’re not even sure if you can call the look on his face a smile. But nonetheless, he lowers the rose, holding it out for you to take.

Soft petals brush against your nose as you smell.

This evening, you retrace your steps to the dining room. Amid the dizziness of your thoughts—nights before, you and Bruce danced across the room after he’d cleared the tables away himself—you’d forgotten to lock the door on your way out.

The empty room fills your thoughts with fantasy. You imagine your life if you’d met Bruce earlier. Would he have brought you to the grand galas hosted in this room? Would you have felt more at ease in the lavish clothes he would get for you?

You imagine a time his hand would have been warm in yours. His hand on your waist would only cause you to shiver from the thrill of contact.

How long could the two of you dance before your feet hurt? Would he carry you off to the bedroom after your guests had gone home after listening to you complain about your shoes?

The days are longer now, and you have more time to kill before Bruce comes up to see you; you struggle against the bitterness of getting less time with him than you had in the cold months of winter. So much of your day now is a hazard to Bruce. You would never see his rare and dazzling smile in the light of day. Never feel his skin warmed from the sun.

Warmth from Bruce seems so unnatural. You’ve never experienced anything other than a chill beneath your fingertips as you brush over his skin.

With your extra time, you’ve taken to learning the layout of the manor better. You’ve grown used to dusting cobwebs off your clothes, imagining the two of you laughing and dancing through these halls as you cleaned as you had to the study a few nights prior.

You poke your head into the unlocked rooms, trying to place yourself on the map of great Wayne Manor. Behind each door is another dusty room, furniture draped just as you’d found the study that night those months ago. Finding a perfectly clean room freezes you in your tracks.

Heavy curtains block out the light. You make out a large four-post bed against the wall. All but the shapes of vanities and dressers are obscured. Thomas and Martha’s bedroom, preserved almost exactly as they had left over a century ago, save for the drapes over the mirrors.

You look up and down the hall the way a trespasser would before taking a single step inside. For a moment, you imagine Martha stepping out of the shadows, ready to link arms and show you about the same way she had in your dreams. But it’s you alone in her musty room. Even if it’s been cleaned, you wonder how long since fresh air had passed over the expensive sheets.

On one of the shapes in the room—a dresser, you think, by the brass handles you can make out as your eyes adjust—you see an ornate circular frame and what you can only jut make out as three faces.

Yet again, you check for standers-by before you pick up the frame, crossing deeper into the room to carefully pull the heavy velvet curtain away from the window. The last rays of the setting sun streaks across the photograph.

Martha is younger than you’ve ever seen her. The softness in her eyes is familiar, but the longer you stare, the harder it grows to place. Beside her is Thomas, his shoulders broad, face stoic. And on Martha’s lap is a very young boy, dark hair atop his head neatly combed back.

This picture feels as though it was taken such an impossibly long time ago. Bruce couldn’t be any older than two-years-old here. You stare at him wishing there was anything you could do to warn him of the tragedy that would become of his life. Wish there was some wisdom you could impart that would somehow make the grief he’d have to hold later in life easier.

So long ago, Bruce had been a child running in these halls. No amount of time passing would take that away as long as Wayne Manor still stood as it did. Before that, he’d learned to walk. And you wonder if maybe Bruce’s idea of himself had been skewed by the calamity of his life. Maybe the bad he saw in himself wasn’t really there. Maybe you could prove that to him.

The curtain falls closed as you pull your hand away. Guilt sneaks up on you again, like Thomas and Martha will burst through the door, laughing in their comfort with each other, and catch you in the act of rifling through their belongings.

Your thoughts wander as you slip into the hall again. Tiny footsteps echo in your ears, racing along the carpeted corridor. A small laugh that resonates through the routine quiet in the manor, still boisterous, yet to be subdued to the soft chuckle you’ve grown accustomed to. You imagine Bruce darting from room to room, waiting in silence for his mother to find him hiding in an armoire or a cupboard.

Ghostly laughter subsides, and you realize you’d been stuck in your daydreams for several minutes. You continue on your way, glancing over untouched console tables and the little bits the Waynes had left to furnish your home.

You find another staircase. The landing looks familiar—you’d be able to follow it and head to the study, wait for Bruce there until he comes up for the night to collect you. You’ll read the books on the shelves, blow dust away from the covers and not take in a single word on the pages as long as you look occupied.

You make your careful descent, taking each step slowly, learning from countless past mistakes how easy it is to slip on dust.

The pattern on the thick carpet down the steps is hard to make out between the grime and the darkness. Fibers fray at the ends. Boards creak beneath so loudly you worry one of them might snap off.

You worry as you stay on your path, eager to see Bruce as a lovesick teenager would be. In the dim of the landing, you aren’t able to catch the split in the carpet, threads stretching up like fingers.

In the dip, your foot catches. There’s no time to recover. A dreadful second passes as you flail, trying against gravity to stay upright. You lose the battle, and Wayne Manor pulls you down. Awkwardly, you turn, your shoulder hitting the ground first before you continue to tumble.

At the landing, your elbow burns. No doubt carpet burn to accompany the dust covering your clothes. Limbs ache and throb, but nothing feels severe. You wince as you sit up, glancing over for any other damage, freezing up as a drop of blood beads from the scrape across your palm.

Your body goes cold at the sight. Before you can rise to your feet, Bruce is at your side. His jaw clenches. His eyes zero in on the blood. The strong muscles of his body go taut.

“Bruce—”

He bends down and takes you into his arms with such ease, you’re not sure it’s happening until you fall against his cold chest.

You try not to wait for the moment he can no longer control himself, but you still find yourself holding your breath as you wait for the other shoe to drop. The pain is secondary to the worry squeezing at you.

“Stay here,” he demands after he sets you on the old camelback sofa. You don’t get a word in before he slips from study. Moments later, he returns with first aid supplies in hand.

Bruce works in silence. Once you move beyond the stinging as Bruce cleans, you’re jarred by the focus in his eyes. Unlike what you’d imagined, there is no ravenous blood lust. If you didn’t know what you did, you wouldn’t have doubted he was anything other than a man tending an injury. He holds your scraped hand tenderly, tending to you with great care. Only once everything is bandaged and Bruce is satisfied you don’t have any other injuries that need tending, does he look up at you.

You only manage to mutter out a feeble thanks.

“The carpet will need to be replaced,” he says in place of a reply to your gratitude.

The reply stings worse than the alcohol on your wound, aches more than the bruises that will develop as you sleep tonight. But what could you expect? Your injuries must seem trivial to him now. He wouldn’t think to ask if you were okay.

You nod.

He has your hand in that same firm but cautious grip. He raises your palm up to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the bandage, a demonstration of his control. Even handling your blood, you still have yet to see the monster he so feared he is.

“I think you might be misjudging yourself,” you say, your voice gentle. Your mind returns to the picture of the young family, a baby sitting upon his mother’s lap.

You hear leaves rustling in the breeze from outside the open windows. Fresh air now slips through replaced panes of glass, the chirps of crickets filling the silence that settles between the two of you in place of the crackling fires Bruce would light for you in the winter.

The ice of his eyes falls back onto you. His face grows severe, brow twitching up as he regards you. “In what way?” There’s a hesitance in his reply that you somehow feel is reserved only for you.

“I trust you a lot more than you seem to trust yourself. I don’t think you’re the threat to me you insist you are.”

He tenses before he stands up from the couch, turning his back to you. “Thinking that way could cost you your life one day.” The words are clipped. He gathers up his supplies—supplies only now are you wondering why he had to begin with—and swiftly moves from the study.

You stay where you are, aching and stunned, wondering if you should follow after. Part of you wonders if he only needs time, but you think of his bouts of quiet. Giving him time to settle likely wouldn’t do much in your favor.

When you finally will yourself to your feet, you find no trace of him in the hall.

Darkness surrounds you, and you are perfectly aware what lurks within it.

“Bruce?” you call, squinting into the gloom for movement. Your voice doesn’t carry in the dead air. Only you and the whistling wind. Somewhere down another hall, a door slams shut. Your best guess sends you left.

Your body grasps what your mind isn’t willing to accept. You’re being hunted. Your muscles are stiffened, ready to run. But your heart. Your heart wants you to find Bruce, to understand what you’d done to cause him to storm out.

“Bruce?”

The manor still feels so labyrinthine even after weeks of visiting and roaming this side of things. Larger than life, much like the legend living inside it. Uncanny, at times, the way you find yourself surrounded by the stage of your dreams.

You look for Bruce’s expensive footprints in the dust, only to find they disappear not far from the door you’d seen him walk out of.

Something rustles behind you. You gasp. Spin. Nothing is there.

“Bruce, this isn’t funny,” you insist, turning over your shoulder expecting to see him. You’re still alone.

You stomp down the hall, floorboards gnashing with every step. A softer creak comes from the opposite of where you came. You turn, something rushing before your eyes, vanished in an instant.

Your heartbeat has found a home in your throat. You wait for him to move again. For any sign of him anywhere. You feel breath on your neck, but you are alone at every turn, out in the open until Bruce decides he no longer wants to play with you.

It’s horrible, your wait for the end. Part of you understands this is his way of proving a point, but still you brace for something worse. The real lesson, perhaps, where Bruce proves once and for all just how much harm he can do.

You’re yanked back by a force that nearly knocks the wind out of you. A scream rips out from your throat as you try to fight away.The hands that hold you are too firm to be broken from. You’re alert enough to know you’re being held, at least. This is far from the worst outcome, but your heart flips and race anyway.

His strong fingertips dig into the meat of your hips. “Never let your guard down. I am an animal acting on instincts. You may not always find me with such a level head,” he hisses into your ear.

You hold as still as you can, hoping somehow it will deter him from doing whatever he could possibly do with you. One of his hands comes up, wraps around your throat. His fingers are soft as they find your pulse, lingering as if he’d found something luxurious. He does not squeeze.

“I will do everything I can to protect you. There will always be some things I can protect you from better than others.” His thumb swipes over your pulse point again with a tenderness so stark against his words.

Later, as he holds you against him on the camelback, you’re still stuck on his words.

“Would you take it back if you could?” you ask.

Bruce does you the service of pretending he’s too deep in thought to hear your naive question.

It feels childish, your desperate plea to be needed. But of course Bruce would go back. It’s no question you need answered. He’d give everything up, you included, if he could have what he used to. You feel foolish for thinking you could worm yourself into Bruce’s life.

You don’t look at the portrait above the fireplace. You can’t stand to see the ghostly youth on Bruce’s face. It reminds you of the photograph you found on the dresser in Thomas and Martha’s bedroom. Makes you think of the moment this afternoon when you’d been so certain you understood Bruce. But you might be after something impossible.

The idea of him as a child playing hide and seek no longer fills you with the same delight as it had while the sun was still shining.

“I’m not sure what to do about how badly I need you.” You feel Bruce’s gaze before you look up to meet it.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

He’s silent for a moment. You think he’s going to pretend he didn’t hear you again. Instead, he squeezes you closer to him. Following his lead, you curl against his chest. “There’s a darkness that festers inside of me. There always has been. This...disease draws it out.” Another long pause. His grip on you doesn’t waver. “But you remind me of the good out there. You remind me of my humanity.”

In that moment, you think once again of the screams of the men as you ran from the alley. You’d stopped only once, as a great shadow swept in front of you, blocking the path. Milky, glowing eyes stared at you in the darkness before sliding past, hulking towards the group.

You ran. Whatever you had encountered that night hadn’t wanted you, so you saw no reason to stay. What would have happened if you had? Tonight was the closest you’ve ever come to seeing what Bruce does out on the streets of Gotham.

If you knew then what you knew now, would you stay? You wonder if it would have made a difference before you loved him.

You swallow roughly. Wishing you could tell him you need him too feels so pitiful, so predictable.

After Bruce’s insistence at being dangerous, you don’t want to tell him now that he offers a safety you’ve never known.

The chill of his fingertips creeps across your skin. In this moment, you’re grateful silence is a language Bruce is fluent in. You slip your arm from where it curls around his sturdy torso, and crawl up onto his lap. He pulls your chest flush against his. You sink into his grip, arms tossed over his broad shoulders.

His fingertips drag up and down your vertebra with leisure. No doubt, in an hour, Bruce will sweep away into the cave to attend to his nighttime activities. You soak up the moment while you have it.

Your forehead dips into his neck, hands raking through the ends of his dark hair. Being this close to Bruce feels forbidden. Something too special to be real. You feel yourself falling into him every time; everything else gets swept away and only the two of you remain.

Bruce’s lips press into the side of your head.

Jealousy twinges in your chest at the idea of him disappearing off for the city. It’s a silly feeling, envy over Gotham. But Bruce stalks the streets nearly every night, leaving hungry, coming home fed. Well-fed, probably not, but enough to keep his hunger level in front of you.

That’s when the idea first sneaks into your head. You imagine, instead of Bruce kissing your bandaged palm earlier, if he’d lapped up the blood slipping through your scrapped skin. What if Bruce didn’t need to feed from the Gothamites he dedicated his immortality to instilling fear into? What if he had everything he needed right here?

Perched on his lap, you imagine taking hold of the hair your fingers run through, pulling him into your neck and keeping him there until the scent left him no choice but to bite. Imagine the strength of his fingers as his hunger has him pinning you in place. You’d trust him. He says you shouldn’t, yet you do. You can allow yourself to be foolish for him. Allow yourself to imagine his cool lips dragging across your skin. Coming from him, a bite could be a reward.

Your mind twists with the desire of it, the itch to satisfy him, but your tongue is too clumsy to form the suggestion. You swallow it whole.

You move into Wayne Manor like an invasive species. A cheap imitation of people who knew how to live in grand places such as this. Bruce, however, got to the point of insisting.

Bruce brushes off complaints of your very sudden unemployment brought on by an email from the tour company; you’re no longer needed while the manor undergoes renovations. Of course, this is his doing, because he’s been the one pulling the strings from the start. A long-term ploy to get you into the manor; anything that lessened the time you spent alone out in the city.

The contractors wandered in and out of the manor, minds fixed on their work. Bruce wanted you away from them. You complied, save for the times you cut through the foyer. Their focus never wavered, yet their eyes seemed glazed over. Later, when you asked Bruce about it, he only nodded, said the workers would have no memory of being in Wayne Manor. Their generous paycheck they’d receive for their efforts would keep them plenty satisfied.

So construction continued, disrupting the spell that had fallen over you and your time spent within Bruce’s childhood home.

Your days were primarily occupied by Bruce now. A taste of life as you had lived months earlier made reality seem so harsh. Brought up worries you’d managed to put off in lieu of the dreaminess of your life with him.

You keep waiting for him to change his mind. To grow tired of you, your humanity nothing other than a passing infatuation. Yet, the smooth ride of the elevator as you go to the cave makes you wonder if Bruce really does mean for you to stay.

Bruce has told you he prefers not to be distracted while he works. You often combat by reminding him he’s always working.

Candlelight spills over scattered papers on a scarred, sturdy table. Bruce makes no indication he’s aware of your presence, but you know better than to assume otherwise. He’s been here for the better part of two days, save for when he hasn’t been out in the city. The distance is becoming harder for you to tolerate.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” you say as you approach.

Bruce gives a hum to acknowledge you spoke. He straightens up slightly, but his eyes don’t leave the page. When you try to peek, he picks them up. The movement is controlled, seemingly a coincidence, but a certainty he’s keeping information from you.

“Something came up,” Bruce says,

You nod in hopes he’ll continue. Sometimes he does, speaking out loud as he puzzles through his current deliberation.

“Why don’t you take a break? You’ve been at this for days. Maybe tonight we could go out walking in the garden,” you propose, forcing a hopefulness into your voice than you feel.

Bruce shakes his head before you’ve finished your suggestion. “This can’t wait.”

You don’t want to be hurt by his words. Bruce is focused; you’ve always known this. His unwavering dedication to his cause will always come before you, because you are not what he’s pledged his eternity to. Still, you miss him. The knowledge he’s a few floors away isn’t enough to comfort you as you try to sleep in an empty bed. Even before he leaves, there are excuses. Preparation for a case he’s cracked as he worked the day. Training a body that almost nothing in Gotham could harm. Needing to feed from veins that aren’t your own because you still grow too skittish whenever you think of speaking your desires out loud.

Doubt puts you on edge, especially as you ease into the certain comforts of your new life. No work leaves plenty of leisure time, but your mind tends to utilize most of it worrying about what happens after Bruce finally gives up on you. By now, you imagine your affordable little apartment has been snatched up. If Bruce puts you where he found you, you won’t even have your not-even-cushy income to protect you.

Without prompt, Bruce moves across the cave to a microscope, sitting to examine the cell.

You linger a moment longer, feeling humiliated as you wait for him to recognize you’re still here. When he doesn’t, you trudge towards the elevator, hating the echoes of your footsteps. Hating the way your face gets hot.

From outside the study windows, you watch the sun set, understanding soon Bruce will leave you as he does every night. He’ll come home with even tempers, at ease from sated hunger or satisfaction of his job. He won’t share the scraps of his good humor with you; in your sleep, you’ll miss it all.

The sky turns inky. Luminescent lunar threads weave through the grass. You can’t see the city from here, only the stormy waters off in the distance. You imagine Bruce there anyway, wondering what it is he fights against, what battles he wages you’re unaware of.

Once you’re certain he’s is gone, you walk with heavy heart towards your bedroom. The same bedroom that had once been his as a child. You think of Thomas and Martha’s room down the hall, the family photograph sitting on the dresser. With the history residing within the walls of the manor, you wonder if your presence will ever feel natural.

Part of you wants to check and see if the room is still spotless. Had Bruce been up there to clean, so close to you, never bothering to visit?

You decide you don’t want an answer.

You lay in your bed imagining how things would be with him beside you as you slept. Your body curled around his broad chest. You think of a time where you could sleep beside Bruce the whole night, no fear of the rising sun encroaching on your time together.

Sometime later, your bed dips, and you realize you must have fallen asleep. Your hazy mind wills you back towards slumber. You manage barely to grip onto wakefulness long enough for your eyes to flutter open.

Bruce sits beside you, back bowed as his elbows lean into his knees. The sheets rustle as you move. He doesn’t turn toward you, but lifts his head as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He’d never tell you if it were; he insists his burdens are his alone.

“Go back to sleep,” he urges.

“What are you doing up here?” you ask, voice rough.

“Checking in.” The words hang heavy in the air. Checking in because something is weighing on his mind. Seeking assurances that you’re still safely tucked into the bed he’d made for you. Calming his racing thoughts.

You prop yourself up for a better look at him. “Rough night?”

You shouldn’t ask. You know better than to expect an answer, but a youthful optimism twists at your heart. Bruce makes you feel so naive in comparison. Everything feels so fresh to you, but everything bewildering comes so naturally to him.

Bruce turns to you. His fingertips trail down your skin as he gives his standard procedure response: “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Would you tell me if it was?”

He says yes. You don’t believe him.

Wind rattles at the windowpanes. You’re thankful Bruce replaced them before the weather started to get cold. It’s the subtle sort of sign you cling to in hopes it means he’ll keep you at least through another winter. He envisions you being around long enough you’ll have to stay warm in this room.

“Do you come up here every night?” you ask. Your hand stretches out, questing for his in the dark of the room.

“Not every night,” he murmurs, obliging your search as his fingers curl around yours. “But it makes the hours before you come down to the cave more bearable.”

“You didn’t seem very interested in me earlier.”

He seems relaxed in a way he hadn’t been earlier. Eyes clearer, posture more relaxed. He’s fed recently.

“I was working.”

Never ending secrets. Ones that ate away in the spaces where you wanted to trust Bruce. To surrender to the acceptance that he wants you here. If he wants you around, why is it these days he only comes to find you as you sleep?

Bruce suddenly kicks off his shoes. You watch, mind sluggish with sleep, as he slides into your bed still in his slacks and turtleneck sweater. He pulls himself to your chest, his head resting against your beating heart.

“What happened tonight?” you whisper.

Bruce doesn’t move. Without breath, he’s as still as a statue, moonlight illuminating the sallow of his skin. Try as you might to outrun it, Bruce is undead. In his eyes, a monster. He’s never been shy of reminding you of this; even as he’s told you to flee, you’ve never been sure he’d ever actually let you go. Yes, you could live outside the walls of Wayne Manor, but would that mean Bruce’s eyes wold never seek you out? Even if he outgrew you, would he accept anyone else having you?

“A group is moving towards Gotham,” he finally says. “Scouts have been casing the city. They need to be reminded whose territory this is.”

You tense. Bruce so rarely spoke of other vampires. Really, just that day in the museum when he’d so firmly told you he’d scared the others away.

Without a response, Bruce shakes his head. “This isn’t good bedtime conversation,” he says.

Your hand trails his spine lightly. You don’t want to admit you agree. The thick yarn of his sweater obscures the muscles of his back. You wish you could feel all of him, but that too is a luxury you’re allowed with such trepidation.

He holds so still, you might have guessed he’d gone to sleep. The cool weight of his head against your chest start to lull you again. Thoughts of impending danger slip away from you, and with Bruce at your side, you fall asleep.

“No.”

Bruce had come home from patrol minutes earlier when you first broached the subject. By then, you’d managed to pick up on his tells. He wouldn’t look at you, paced in place of his usual unnerving pause, snapped instead of grunted when you say something that displeased him. You could tell the city had been quiet that night. Bruce hadn’t fed as much as he needed to.

Bruce turned you into someone who hoped for danger upon the city so he wouldn’t return to you irritated. The hope made you slightly sick with internal conflict.

What if I gave you some of my blood? The question that appalled Bruce so.

“But you’ve said so yourself,” you replied. “You’re always careful. And I trust you.”

He shook his head. “You should know better than that by now,” he scolded, turning away from you. His hand closed into a fist, knuckles rested onto the surface next to the shuffle of papers.

“Bruce—”

“I will not,” he snapped, “resort you to a meal.” Before you could rebuttal, he cut you off. “No. We are not having this conversation.”

You flinched from the sharpness of his voice.

In hindsight, you should have guessed your question wouldn’t be well-received if he was already irritable. But the predictability hadn’t done much about the sting. The ability to see it coming did nothing for the ache of your desire.

Tonight, he comes home well-fed and finds you in the darkness of your bedroom. You press against his firm chest, fingertips brushing over the arm tossed across your torso.

He stays in bed longer now. When he needs you to help pull him back to himself, he wakes you with kisses peppered along your neck. You always afford him these moments. Bruce has given you almost everything but all of himself. In his eyes, the monster and the man you love are supposed to be two different beings. You wanted to prove to him your love wasn’t conditional; there was nothing he needed to hide from you.

“Have you given more thought to my offer?” you ask, your skin still tingling from his lips.

He goes rigid behind you. “There’s nothing left to think about.” You feel the beginnings of a lecture in his voice.

You turn to him in an attempt to pacify his argument. “What if I want to do it?”

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Maybe I do,” you grumble. You could be the one who sustains him. Who keeps him full with your commitment. Maybe it would be enough for him to understand the way you see him, if you were willing to do that.

Giving food to a scared beast could be the thing to gain its trust.

Bruce has said himself, you’ve got a way about you that he can’t resist. Even though his every other word to you seems to be ‘no,’ he still claims he finds it hard to deny you anything.

He gives you a stern stare. “If you did, I would be concerned for your well-being.”

“You aren’t already?” you joke, curling toward him. “I mean it. You take care of me. I want to take care of you too.”

The whole home he’d contented himself to lay to waste had been renovated for your sake. You could help keep food on the table.

“You do,” he assures, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck. Bruce is always so sure, always aware of the next steps in whatever greater plan he plays at. All that seems to go out the window when it comes to you. Even the idea you’d be willing to give him your blood seems impossible.

“Let me help you. Maybe I like the idea of you saving Gotham running off my blood.” Maybe you like the idea of being needed more. But it’s a way to show Bruce how much you care when the words you say don’t seem to get the point across enough for him to believe it.

It is enough.

Days later, Bruce whisks you off to the cave to run countless tests, each one dedicated to find precisely how much of your blood he could take without harm. There could be no margin of error for this. Not with you, he’d insisted. Your safety was paramount to his hunger.

You’re in your bedroom when he finally gives you what you ask. Silk grazes your skin as you lay down at his request. The brawn of Bruce’s arm cage you in. His head dips to your neck. Your eyes wince shut, bracing for a bite that doesn’t come. His lips instead tingle your skin as they travel the length of your neck.

You let out a breathy laugh. “Gentler than I thought it would be,” you tease.

“I’m tenderizing the flesh,” he murmurs dryly.

Another cluster of slow kisses. You squirm beneath him, anticipation flipping your stomach. You want this without question. Unfortunately, your desire does nothing to dull instinct screaming in your head.

He pulls away. The air grows heavier as Bruce prepares himself. “Tell me if you feel dizzy or nauseated,” he orders. The intensity in his voice mounts. An urge he’s always kept behind iron gates is beginning to slip loose. That, too, makes your stomach flip. His voice grows rough with thirst, his chest rumbling against you as he growled his command.

You nod, your mouth too dry for speech.

Bruce nods back. The vigor lit in his eyes matches the enthusiasm of his head ducking again. His nose drags down your neck, savoring you as he breathes you in. You shutter against him.

His cool hand smooths over the raised skin on your arm, a silent comfort to you, before busying his expert fingers with the buttons on the fancy pajamas he’d gotten you. Kisses grow impatient—you’re surprised to find Bruce is capable of such a thing—the lower he trails.

At your heart, he stills. Forehead presses on your pulsing chest as if he were attempting to absorb its frantic beat. Your eyes slip shut, surrendering yourself for what will follow. The bridge of his long nose drags across your skin as he pulls away, every movement so deliberate. He’s drawing you into him, making it impossible to escape from his pull.

Like an intoxicating perfume, Bruce breathes you in. Your stomach flips, anticipation driving you mad until you feel the damp of his tongue over your skin. His breath is cool across the mark from his pleasured sigh.

Bruce’s fangs finally take purchase, so sharp they puncture the skin immediately. Your eyes shoot open, not catching the gasp in time to stop it. Your body jolts, managed easily by his weight on top of you. His eyes are black as night staring at the blood rolling lazily from the bite. He’s fixated as he tests his own power of will.

Desperation is the only word you have for the way he dives to lap up your blood. Between hungry mouthfuls he whines, too aware of how much he loves your taste.

Your limbs are heavy, tension sapped from your body when it could no longer expend the effort. Your mind’s spinning give way to a high-pitched ringing in your ears. A show of love. A demonstration of how willing you are to trust him. You’ll give yourself to him in whatever ways he’s deemed monstrous if it means he’ll let you in. If it’s enough to have access to his heart, you’ll let him do whatever he wants to yours.

You’re falling again the way you had down the stairs those months ago. Tumbling without direction, but this time, Bruce is here with you. Someone to fall into.

His body rocks as he devours you. This isn’t the grizzly bloodbath you’d seen from your dream. Bruce collects you carefully between his lips. Satisfied hums buzz against your skin. This isn’t how he feeds out in the city. You feel a sliver of his guilt absolved with the eagerness of something given freely.

Your breath fills the room along with springtime rain on the windows. The swipe of Bruce’s thumb against your exposed collarbone keeps you tied to your body. With the most reluctance you’ve ever seen from him, he pulls away. His lips flush with your blood. “Do you need me to stop?” he asks.

“No,” you breathe, giving a dazed shake of your head. “You’re still hungry.”

He kneels between your legs. “That doesn’t matter.” His voice lacks its usual firmness, softened with desire.

“It does,” you whisper, arm lazily flying to meet his. You tug his hand weakly and pull him back. You’re heavy and floating at once. A hazy smile grows on your face. “Take more. Dessert.”

You feel drunk off the sight of your blood staining his lips. The taste of you lingers on his tongue. He’s always consumed you; the fact that he should more literally only seems right.

He satisfies your wish, sucking at the mark he made, bruising your skin with his enthusiasm. You’ll have a mark for days to come and look at it with pride.

Finally sated, he drops to his elbow. Your blood is metallic on his lips as he kisses you. You drag your tongue against him, fingers loosely tangle in the hair at his nape again. You give a gentle tug. He allows you to guide him toward your chest. Presses kisses to the puncture wounds. The flat of his tongue gathers up the very last of your taste.

By the time you realize you’re cold, Bruce is already pulling your blanket around you. The time passes lazily as you hold each other. He murmurs against you he worries he may have taken too much, but you promise him you’re fine. You’re content. Safe.

You’re not sure how long it’s been when Bruce presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

“I’m going to draw you a bath,” he whisper. The weight of his arm disappears. From the other room, you hear the rush of the tub. You think of the sounds of running water in the cave. Grown fond to listen to it in the lulls of your conversations with Bruce.

Moments later, you’re in his arms. He carries you off to the clawfoot tub in your bathroom.

You sigh as the warm water envelopes you and melt into the bath. You manage to open the heavy lids of your eyes and give him a spent smile. His hand is gentle as he cups your jaw, fingers soft as he swipes away the blood smeared over your lips.

“You taste divine, by the way,” he murmurs to you as he gathers a handful of water and pours it down your chest.

Your weak smile grows. “Do I?” Your heart does a back flip within you.

“You do. Rich. Like Chianti and dark chocolate. From what I remember, at least.”

He cleans the blood off of you, handling you as he would glass. You’re pliant at his fingertips, allowing him to put your limbs wherever they need to be. Once you’re clean, he dresses your wound with steady fingers, and when he’s done, you’ve returned to bed beside him.

He holds you gently, an unspoken thank you for the luxury of feeding without a fight.

You tilt your chin, nipping at his neck. “I wonder how you taste.”

Somehow, these are the words to break the post-feeding bliss.

Bruce pulls away. Your hand falls onto the mattress in the growing space between the two of you. “Like rot. Let’s hope you’ll never have to find out.”

If you weren’t missing approximately a quarter of your blood, you would have thought the question over enough to grasp you’d be better off leaving it unasked. Current circumstances doesn’t allow you the same tact.

“Why not?” you hedge.

“It doesn’t matter.”

You know it would. Saying so wouldn’t get you anywhere, though. If you press him any more, he’ll get up. Leave you for the city, because even fed, he still is committed to Gotham more than he is to you. You don’t want to be alone in this bed. Don’t want the afterglow to succumb to something darker so late at night. You drop the subject.

Cold sweat drips down your spine as you lurch up, but the dream that left you so shaken is fleeting by the time you’re upright. You’re only left with the smell of rain-dampened concrete and blood.

Rattled by an unknown fear, you find yourself scurrying to the cave.

A week has passed since Bruce has uttered more than a word to you. Something plagues his thoughts. He hasn’t been feeding; not from you or anyone else. You can tell from the way he stalks through the cave. Whatever he’s after has been keeping him too busy. Your attempts to relax him are always a lost cause. You no longer try. Seldom does he hear you over the sound of his own mind.

Night after night, you wake from horrible nightmares hoping to find him at your bedside. Night after night, you are alone. Lonelier than you have since you moved into the manor. Martha even evades you in your sleep. You have your safety, but it’s left you secluded.

Funny. Another nightmare brought you here long ago. At least, you wish you could find your circumstances funny. Instead, you’re one-track-minded on finding Bruce, eager for his presence to console you.

In the cave, you find nothing but the bats.

Bruce’s name echoes against the cave walls after you call it out. It goes on and on, reminding you exactly how massive the structure beneath the manor is.

Thomas and Martha’s musty bedroom comes to mind. You are yet again a trespasser sneaking someplace you aren’t supposed to be.

Any other night, you wouldn’t think of a single reason you’d want to be here without him—you’ve always found the place unnerving. Now it feels safer than anywhere else. It’s foolish, you’re aware; the manor is secure, even more so since you’ve moved in. Your fear feels too abstract, though, lost in the frays of wakefulness. In its stead, you fear everything.

If you tried to go back to bed, you know you wouldn’t find sleep. You stay.

Bruce could return in five minutes or in five hours. You peer into the darkness between candles looking for a clock. Passing the wall of shelves, you spot the journal Bruce had pulled out the night he first brought you down. The one he’d reached for more than any other.

Even the thought of looking at the notebook makes you feel dirty, but for once, you could actually understand Bruce’s life. The temptation to understand a little more of Bruce’s forbidden world feels too good an opportunity to pass up.

With an unsteady hand—presumably written after a rough, late night in the city—Bruce writes about a young boy hiding in shadow as a creature holds his father and drinks his blood. His mother robbed of her own will and forced to watch as she waited her turn.

After the creature had left—too occupied with its thirst to notice Bruce hiding nearby—all he could do was stare at his mother. Wait for her to blink. Wait for her to react to the voices that eventually came to find him and drive him off to the police station to ask endless questions.

It wasn’t just that Bruce couldn’t speak—though he didn’t for two days—but who would believe him? Even his young imagination struggled to comprehend what happened.

Bruce doesn’t talk to you about that night. How could he? How does one talk of final memories when they’re open wounds? Even reading the account Bruce held at such a great distance makes you set the book down until your stomach stops turning.

A long time ago, Bruce was an eight-year-old boy alone in an alley. The ground had been pulled out from beneath him. Horrors beyond his young years were confirmed. At the top of the list, he now lived in a world without his parents.

And through the haze broke Alfred Pennyworth, the man now responsible for Bruce in his parents’ absence.

Alfred Pennyworth is dead, Bruce’s trembling hand reports. Alfred, who had been an accomplice as Bruce took up the Batman mantle. Alfred, who stayed by his side even after the transformation. Alfred, whose body Bruce found in the cave on a night he’d been out in the city fighting an ambush by more like him. Opportunists had found his safe haven.

Bruce gives a clinical account of the body. By the next entry, he gives thorough accounts of the status of crime in the city. He logs the blood he took from criminals he stopped on the street; more than he had before Alfred’s death. Another death he never spoke of, another he’d never dealt with. Had you been there at his side, he would have assured you he was perfectly fine.

Your palms itch as you gaze at the rows of dusty leather spines. You feel greedy with the answers to all the questions you’ve been asking yourself right in front of you. Bruce holds so much of himself at a distance. He kept himself locked away, even now, you’re still left without a key.

What would happen if you picked the lock?

You go to the beginning, leafing through pages of what you eventually put together as Bruce’s early research. He speaks of vampires as something entirely unfamiliar. His human days. Your fingertips brush over the delicate page, imagining the warmth of his palm as it ran across. His face younger than the one he’ll wear for the rest of eternity, the dip between his brow not as deepened. The dark of his hair not yet dusted with wisps of gray at the temples. Breath in his broad chest. Heart pumping fresh blood in his veins.

He’s restless through medical school, writes of drifting directionless as he tries to make sense of what to do with his life. But life after medical school led him to his calling.

A body. One that pulled up years of what he’d buried. For most of his life, he’d dismissed what he’d seen that night. He was a man of logic, and logic said his memories were those of a scared child who’d lost his parents. Something dreamed up to lessen the blow. But the body was evidence the night terrors he had more nights than not were more accurate than he believed.

He vowed to protect what remained of his family’s legacy, the one last remaining part of their love.

Your mind is gripped by the horror of it. Not fear of Bruce—especially not for what you had expected to find in these journals—but the atrocities he’d faced and commented on with such casualness.

Is your name etched into a page in one of Bruce’s journals? How much longer do you have before it disappears, buried beneath the hazards in Gotham? Will he lament for the taste of your blood that would never again slip through his lips?

“What are you doing?”

The voice is sharp and comes from out of nowhere. You snap the book shut and see Bruce looming behind you. Never have you seen him so furious. Hands curled into fists. He looks larger than you’ve ever seen him. Something more, even, than the way he’d stalked you through the halls. Worse.

“Bruce.”

He steps toward you. “What are you doing here?” His voice strikes you, sharp as lightning. A burning in his throat replaces the usual coldness of his presence.

“I...I had a dream...I came to find you…” The look on his face stops you from continuing. You cling to the journal as if it could do anything to help you now.

“Go back upstairs.”

“Bruce—” You flinch as he snatches the book from your hand.

“Now,” he growls.

Pushing against him feels unsafe, but your feet stay glued to the cave floor. “No. I want to know—”

“If there was anything you needed to know, I would tell you.”

“You wouldn’t!” you yell. “You don’t! I’ve spent a year telling you I want to know you, and you only give me slivers. How many times do I have to tell you I love you until you finally accept that means you don't have to hide from me?”

“Go upstairs. You can’t be trusted down here, so I will no longer allow you to visit.” He lectures you like a child. Your pleas do nothing to change it.

Frustration gives way to anger simmering up your chest. “What am I doing here, Bruce?” you cry, throwing your arms out in exasperation. “You only want me around half the time you’re home, so it’s not my company. You never tell me anything about yourself, so it’s not to be understood. You’re not after my blood—that was my idea. So why am I here?”

Silence is his intimidation tactic, but you don’t care, not even as his cold eyes stare you down. The wall between the two of you feels insurmountable, and you’re past the point of tolerating it. You deserve to know the man whose roof you live under. The man you love.

“I’ve told you, the city is dangerous—”

“That’s not enough!” you yell. Bat wings rush overhead as you try to even your racing breath. “I love you, and it hurts. You would think after a hundred years you might have learned how to treat someone. I’m not sure how you’d know I’m around most of the time. I can't keep waiting for you to care that I’m here.”

“Then leave!”

No noise competes with Bruce’s roar once the bats have left. His anger echoes, berating you again and again.

Tears sting your eyes as you fulfill his wish. Without another word, you run up to the sunlight where he can’t catch you.

In a daze, you find yourself in the city, back at the fine arts museum. In the impressionism wing, you stare at a Monet. This time, you stare at strokes of warm red, orange, and yellow, a faint arc made up in lines of deep rust and blue—so different from the soft blues and greens Bruce had told you Martha adored. But the fire of the hues appeals to your sinking heart. Instead of thinking of the vampire you’d abandoned within his manor, you stare where the colors blend together, get lost in the blur of pigment.

Without Bruce, you feel exposed. Your safety net is gone. What first starts as an unsettling feeling twisting in your cut slowly bleeds through to the luxury of freedom. You’re thankful it comes on gently, otherwise the relief would catch you so off-guard you’d run to Bruce in the cave you’re no longer welcome in.

You picture him sitting in his gloom, hunched over papers, as he stews over your betrayal. At first, you wonder if he’ll ever forgive you; the thought gives way to wondering if you want him to.

Rare Gotham sun shines as you sit on one of the benches in the hall. Despite the frigid air outside, the sunlight kisses your skin. The warmth blooms from within as you remember the light is not something you can be limited by. There’s nothing lethal as you bask in it, watching your fellow Gothamites walk in front of you. Friends complaining about work. Couples with fingers intertwined whose relationships weren’t shrouded in secrecy. Families unaware of the atrocities that threaten them, nor the shadow who protects them.

Once, your life was the same. You gave tours in a historic home because you had rent to make. You believed Batman was real but never believed the rumors of vampires could be true.

Golden sunset spills across the floor. You can’t outrun Bruce for much longer. You wonder if he’d try to find you, to check up on you at the very least, though you’re not sure why you want him to.

You content yourself not to search him out. If he finds you, he finds you, but you will occupy yourself with your life however you chose until he does.

Bruce is relieved to find your belongings still in your bedroom. A book on your nightstand. Expensive gifts from him atop your dresser, things you’d told him you didn’t need, never understanding that he wanted to give you everything he could. What could ever be enough for you? A light in his never ending darkness?

He wanted you safe inside these walls, made a fortress where you could be happy. Hired teams so you could never so much as trip over a loose floorboard. After every patrol, he stole to your bedroom to watch the rise and fall of your chest to be sure nothing had crept into your room while he was away.

When vampires closed in on Gotham, he decided it was best if he didn’t tell you. The threat was his to take care of, not something for you to worry over.

Perhaps he’d reacted too strongly after he found you in the cave on your own. But your curiosity concerns him; what lengths would you go in search of answers? He called you here, but you still answered the call. If you wanted information about the others like him, would you go to them if you found they were here?

He thought showing you the other side of him—the side he’s told you repeatedly to be cautious of—you might see things the way he did. He thought maybe it would be enough to show you his world was not one to play around in. It only seemed to make you more ravenous for secrets as if they were treats.

In the city, he attended his duties, but his mind lingered on thoughts of you. You hadn’t returned to the manor before dark, which meant you were still out there somewhere.

You can’t imagine what Bruce felt finding you in that alley.

Past and present flashed before him all at once. Over a century’s worth of memories. Far too many for one being to hold. So much death. So much agony.

Your blood is too fragrant in the wind. He can taste it on his tongue from smell alone. Chianti and dark chocolate.

He needs to focus, but he tastes you as he fights.

His enemy has an edge—your blood. All the more reason for Bruce to win.

His anger burns so bright inside of him, he swears his heart is beating again. He feels a fury he hasn’t felt in decades.

A very small part of him is relieved you’re too dazed to have see him lose his composure the way he does. The important thing is the vampire that attacked you is no longer a concern. Bruce ripped him to ribbons. The beast will have eternity to put himself together again. The same as any other fool who steps into his city, he’ll have to crawl to whatever hole he came from.

Blood is sticky on your neck. He can’t tell how much of the puddle beneath you is melted snow and how much is blood.

He falls to his knees. Doesn’t hear the sound of his suit hitting the ground.

Blood soaks into the wool of the coat he'd gotten you last year. Snowflakes are stark on the black fibers. He wishes it would do more to preserve the last of your warmth.

If it weren’t for the rapid rise and fall of your chest, you would look—

Bruce understands what he has to do even if he detests it. He wants to give you the world, and now he robs you of it. You may never forgive him, but you can hate him forever as long as you’re still here. He can no longer fathom a Gotham without you in it.

He wants you safe. That’s all he’s ever wanted.

His fingers curl around the cool metal of a batarang. Alabaster skin surfaces from beneath his heavy glove, tinted sickly yellow in the dim light. You barely meet his eyes as he pulls you effortlessly against him. He doesn’t know if you can see him.

His face is stone as the knifed edge of the batarang slices through his palm. Nothing else here is worth his attention more than you. The strain of your breath is overpowered by metal clanging to the ground. The tips of his fingers curl into the meat of your cheek until your lips pucker.

You make a noise. He ignores it. There’s no time for anything else. He will not lose you. His fingernails dig into his palm as he curls his fist.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers, though he knows you won’t remember this. “Forgive me.”

His blood drips onto your lips. In his unbeating heart, he knows this is a betrayal, but he refuses to walk through Gotham alone. Maybe you can still guide him. And maybe if you lose your way, he’ll help you remember yours.

Another slurred murmur slips through your bloodied lips. You turn your head weakly, trying to get you away. He told you his blood wouldn’t taste good. He keeps you in place. “Just a little more,” he mutters. “You’ll be safe.”

He brings you to the safety of the cave. He saves you, but you have to die anyway.

That damn transformation.

The hours pass slowly at your bedside. Your feverish mumbling come and go until the cease entirely.

He doesn’t like it. You deserve better than the cave. You should be upstairs in bed, blankets pulled up to your chin. Maybe out in the yard, dewy grass tickling your ankles as you gaze at the sunrise sparkling in Gotham Harbor.

He doesn’t know how long it will take, but he scribbles everything furiously the moment they happen and compares them with his notes from his own transformation, as mostly illegible as they are; he’d done his best to cling to whatever lucidity he could before the fever took him.

Every moment passes as a reminder to Bruce; he’s failed you. He swore to keep you safe. Now, you’re damned by his own selfishness.

When you open your eyes, Bruce is standing over a journal.

Something is wrong. You feel so cold. Too alert for what you remember going through. Someone drinking your blood. Had Bruce taken too much…?

Bruce notices you’re awake as you assess the emptiness inside of you. More than emptiness. A gnawing from deep within you. A need you don’t understand.

“Bruce…” you say. Your voice feels cold.

He snaps the journal shut and hurries over to you. “You’re safe now,” he urges.

Your heart stops. No, it doesn’t. No, the coldness comes from within you. Your heart doesn’t stop because it isn’t beating to begin with. “Bruce…?” Fear pitches your voice. You look up at him with dread.

Sunlight is still so fresh in your mind. You remember it. Bruce assures you he’ll help with your transformation, but you don’t hear him. You cling to the memory of sitting in the sunshine. Even then, you treasured it, but not nearly enough.

Come nightfall, you walk beside Bruce. You have a new life to make sense of. With the loss of your mortality, you gain the information you’d sought. Bruce withholds little now, explaining the ways of your kind as waves crash against the bay.

White caps break on the cliff side. Above you is a moonless sky. The glow of the city blocks out the stars even from here.

Across the bay is Gotham City. A stomach more than a city, you feel now more than ever. You’d always known it would take you. The only question was when.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! this fic was an eight month long process, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it 💛

a gigantic shoutout to #1 beta reader @janybabyy for reading this through for me (and to @pedrasacorn and @jasontoddismyhusband for reading this in various heinous states of draft) ily

#it's done!!!!!#it's done!!!!!!!!!!! it's done!!!!!!!!#yippee yahoo!!!!!#<-tags that definitely match the vibe of the story #bruce wayne x reader #vampire!bruce #x reader #graphics by saradika

105 notes · View notes