Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The kitchen was alive

Flames leapt from the copper pan in Mydei’s hand, casting a brief glow against his sweat-dampened temples. He moved like a man conducting an orchestra—each motion precise, each cue sharp, each sound part of a greater rhythm. Knives struck the cutting boards in syncopated beats. The hiss of oil on steel sang with the steady hum of the vents. Orders barked from the line became music when filtered through his voice, strong and commanding yet never uncertain.

“Table nine—risotto, fire it now. Keep the scallops dry, not drowning.”

He wasn’t just a sous chef. He was the backbone of the entire kitchen, the silent metronome everyone else matched themselves to.

The younger cooks admired him in their quiet way, stealing glances when he corrected a sauce with the faintest touch of cream or adjusted a garnish until the plate sang in perfect balance. Diners, though they never saw him, knew his presence too—in the way flavors seemed layered like whispers, complex yet effortless.

Taste was his gift. His weapon. His very soul.

And he wielded it without fear.

The first sign came softly, almost laughable

One winter evening, after service had ended, Mydei lingered at the counter with a spoon in hand. He tasted the broth he’d been perfecting for weeks—a deep, earthy blend of mushroom and veal bones meant to anchor a new menu. He brought it to his lips, closed his eyes, and waited for the familiar rush.

Nothing.

It wasn’t bland. It wasn’t wrong. It was simply absent. A silence where music should have been.

He tried again, another spoonful. Still nothing. He frowned, chalking it up to fatigue. Twelve hours on the line could burn the sharpest palate. He waved it away.

But days stretched, and the silence grew louder.

Salt, sugar, smoke—he knew them intellectually, by memory and technique, but his tongue betrayed him. He could build a plate, but the confirmation, the spark of joy at the back of his mouth, was gone.

At first, he denied it. Pushed harder, barked sharper orders, pretended his corrections were instinct and not frantic guesses. But whispers among the staff turned to concern. His sauces were unbalanced. His timing faltered. He was no longer the metronome.

The diagnosis was merciless.

The doctor’s words hung in the air, suffocating and heavy.

“You’ve lost your gustatory function,” the doctor exclaimed, “Your ability to taste has been compromised. I’m sorry, Chef Mydeimos. This may be—unfortunately—permanent.”

Mydei’s jaw tightened. “Permanent?” The word hissed out sharper than a blade dragged against steel.

The doctor nodded, his tone maddeningly calm. “The nerves that transmit taste sensation were likely damaged during the infection you reported. Some patients recover within weeks, but—” He gestured at the tests, the charts filled with neat lines and sterile data. “There is no improvement since your loss of taste. This may indicate irreversible loss."

“No,” Mydei snapped. His voice cracked like a whip in the whitewashed room. “No, you don’t understand. I taste for a living. I build flavor profiles in layers no one else can see. You expect me to believe it’s gone? Just like that?”

The doctor’s silence felt like betrayal.

Mydei stood abruptly, chair scraping hard against the tile. His hands clenched at his sides, knuckles white, as if he could wring the truth from the air itself. “You’re wrong. You have to be wrong.”

“Chef—”

But Mydei was already moving, storming from the room. The echo of his boots filled the corridor, faster, sharper, until he burst out onto the hospital steps. The city lights blurred in the winter air, halos of yellow and red. He breathed hard, each inhale burning, each exhale dragging anger out of his chest.

He wanted to scream. To break something. To grab the nearest passerby and demand tell me what this tastes like, tell me, because I can’t anymore.

But he didn’t. He stood frozen, a man gutted in the middle of the world he had once commanded.

The bitterness came slowly at first—like a slow rot.

In the kitchen, he kept moving. He still chopped, seared, plated. But it was muscle memory now, not instinct. His corrections grew harsh, too sharp for the smallest errors.

“Do you call that sear golden? Wipe the damn plate. Again.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t soften. The cooks whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear. The sous chef who once pulled miracles from stockpots and pans had become a stormcloud at the line.

He barked orders with the precision of a drill sergeant, but his words carried something darker than discipline. They carried envy. Every time he saw a young cook close their eyes to savor a spoonful of sauce, a knife twisted deeper inside him.

Food, to him now, was texture and temperature. Salt was a memory. Sweetness a ghost. He could chew, he could swallow, but he could not taste. And that absence bled into everything.

Coffee in the morning was nothing but heat on his tongue. A glass of wine was little more than acid in his throat. Dishes he once built like symphonies were now hollow imitations played by rote.

And still, he worked. Because what else was there?

Better to be bitter than broken. Better to wield anger like armor than let anyone see the truth.

But in the silence of his small apartment, with only the hum of the fridge and the echo of his empty mouth, he admitted it.

He was no longer a chef.

He was just a man pretending.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was louder than Phainon expected. Not the kind of loud that came from chaos, but the sharp-edged rhythm of knives striking wood, pans hissing as flames kissed oil, and chefs calling out times like conductors keeping a symphony alive. He had studied this sound in theory—read about it, watched videos of it—but standing here now, with the heat of the stoves prickling his skin, it felt entirely different. Alive. Urgent.

“Intern!” someone barked.

Phainon nearly jolted out of his uniform jacket. “Yes, chef?”

A sous chef tossed him a bundle of parsley and a knife without looking up from his own station. “Chiffonade. Two minutes. Let’s see if the books made you faster than a snail.”

“Y-Yes, chef!”

He scrambled to the board, rolling his shoulders back to shake off nerves. He’d practiced this countless times—curl the fingers, rock the blade, keep it tight. Still, his pulse quickened with every slice, terrified he’d make a fool of himself on day one.

When the parsley lay in neat ribbons, gleaming green against the wood, he finally let out a breath. He turned to present it—

And froze.

At the far end of the line, a man stood with arms crossed, leaning back as though the chaos around him meant nothing. Tall, hair a sharp reddish-orange that caught under the hooded lights, his presence carved a gap into the air itself. The kitchen moved around him, but no one dared to enter his orbit.

His expression was unreadable—not quite bored, not quite engaged—something colder, sharper. And when his eyes swept over Phainon, they lingered a second too long.

The sous chef noticed and muttered low, just for Phainon: “That’s Chef Mydeimos. Don’t take it personal if he looks at you like he wants you gone. He’s been here longer than anyone. Runs half the brigade like it’s his kingdom.”

Phainon blinked. “He’s the head chef?”

“No,” the man scoffed. “But might as well be. You’ll learn. Keep moving.”

Phainon turned back, knife steady again, but the weight of Mydei’s gaze pressed against him. Not just critical—it was searching. Like he was already hunting for the crack before the first mistake even appeared.

The hours blurred into prep: julienne carrots, debone chicken, weigh stock. Phainon’s hands moved while his mind replayed every glance from Mydei. The sous chef rarely spoke, but when he did, his clipped words landed like strikes.

“Too much fat trimmed.”
“Your cuts are uneven.”
“Try again.”

Phainon swallowed each correction with a nod, pride stung but determination sharper. What surprised him more was how the others reacted—no one snapped back, no one dared. Even the head chef gave Mydei a wide berth, as if his bitterness was as permanent a fixture as the stoves themselves.

By the time the brigade dispersed, laughter trailing out the back door, Phainon’s arms ached, his fingers stung, and his back screamed. Yet Mydei stayed.

Phainon lingered too, stacking pans by the wash. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but Mydei’s voice carried in the empty kitchen.

“Salt again,” he muttered, tasting a sauce before setting it down with visible disgust. His hand clenched tighter around the ladle, knuckles pale. “Always salt.”

The bitterness in his tone was different this time—less scorn, more… loss.

Before he could stop himself, Phainon asked, “Chef, do you… not like it?”

The question hung in the air.

Mydei’s eyes cut to him, sharp as a blade. For a heartbeat, the cold mask slipped—something raw flickered through, unguarded. Then it vanished.

“Go home, intern,” he said flatly, turning away. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

But Phainon didn’t miss the tremor in his hand, or the hollow ring to his voice.

For the first time since stepping into this kitchen, he felt more curious than intimidated.

The next morning the kitchen was already alive. Heat, smoke, the bite of onions—chaos barely held in check. Stainless counters gleamed under fluorescent light, every surface polished though constantly assaulted by the storm of service.

“Move, intern,” someone barked, shoving past with a tray of gutted fish.

Phainon muttered an apology, pressing himself to the counter. His heart raced, not with fear but thrill. This was the battlefield of fine dining, and somewhere in it stood the general.

He spotted him at the sauté station. Orange-reddish hair tied back, chef’s coat spotless despite the heat. Mydei’s voice cut the noise:

“That sauce needs another two minutes to reduce or it’ll taste thin. Don’t bring me half-done work.”

The junior chef paled, muttered “Yes, Chef,” and scrambled back.

Phainon blinked. He’d expected cruelty. Instead, he saw precision. Mydei noticed everything.

“Intern.”

Phainon spun. Mydei stood before him, holding out herbs. “Chiffonade. Even width. Clean cuts.”

Phainon nodded quickly, focusing on knife grip, angling the blade. When he returned the basil, Mydei’s glance passed over it. A subtle nod. He turned away without another word.

Approval. Brief. But approval nonetheless.

Phainon found himself smiling.

The rhythm of the shift grew clearer. Prep, plate, repeat. The kitchen moved as a body, and Phainon was just learning its pulse. But questions kept tugging at him.

Why did Mydei never taste? Why the faint twist in his face whenever flavor was mentioned?

At one point, a junior offered him broth. Mydei waved it away. “You tell me. That’s your job.” His voice was curt, but Phainon noticed the hesitation—the way his hand lingered too long before turning aside.

Bitterness clung to him like smoke. And yet, he was magnetic.

By mid-shift, Phainon’s shoulders ached from dicing and hauling, but he barely noticed. Mydei’s voice rang sharp again:

“Mirepoix. Ratio?”

“Two parts onion, one part carrot, one part celery,” Phainon answered quickly.

“Then why,” Mydei lifted a carrot baton with disdain, “is this thicker than your onion dice?”

Phainon flushed. “I—I must have slipped—”

“No excuses.” He dropped it back. “Consistency separates professional from amateur. Do it again.”

“Yes, Chef.”

Phainon redid it, deliberate, precise. Mydei didn’t leave—he stood watching. That scrutiny made Phainon’s chest tighten, but he refused to falter. When he finally presented the new batch, uniform and neat, Mydei gave another tiny nod.

Something in Phainon fluttered.

The dinner rush hit like a storm. Orders shouted, plates assembled with frantic artistry. Phainon, stationed near garnish, kept pace as best he could.

“Intern. With me.”

He startled, then hurried. Mydei handed him a saucepan and whisk. “Keep it moving. Don’t let it break.”

Phainon stirred, trembling. Mydei leaned close, shoulder brushing his arm. Heat radiated between them.

“You’re too tense,” Mydei murmured. “Loosen your grip.”

Phainon adjusted. The motion smoothed.

“Better.”

One word. More powerful than any praise.

By close, the kitchen smelled of sweat and grease. The crew filtered out, laughter fading. Phainon lingered, wiping his station, glancing at Mydei bent over order sheets, hair like banked embers under the dim light.

Something pushed him forward.

“Chef,” he said.

Mydei didn’t look up. “If you’re still here, check stock.”

Phainon hesitated, then asked: “Why don’t you ever taste the dishes?”

The pen stilled. Slowly, Mydei’s gaze lifted, sharp as a knife’s edge catching light.

“That’s none of your concern,” he said.

Phainon swallowed. “It is if I’m supposed to learn. Every chef swears by tasting, but you—”

“You think because you’ve been here one day you can pry into how I run my kitchen?” Mydei snapped, stepping closer, heat rolling off him. His voice was low but dangerous.

Phainon’s pulse thundered, but he steadied. “I just thought… it seems like it matters.”

For a heartbeat, something flickered in Mydei’s eyes. Pain. Then it vanished.

“You thought wrong.” His tone cut like ice. “Next time you let curiosity get in the way of work, don’t bother coming back.”

He brushed past, coat in hand, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Phainon stood frozen in the empty kitchen. His chest ached with the sting of dismissal—yet under it, the flicker he’d seen remained.

It wasn’t just anger. There was something else.

And Phainon knew, without quite knowing why, that he wouldn’t let it stay buried.

Chapter Text

What light remains for him, if not my look—
A borrowed sun I hold but never name.
I pace the shadowed rooms where once he cooked,
And wait for embered grace to find its flame.

He moved like sermon, steel and copper bright,
Each plate a psalm composed by careful hands.
Now silence sits upon his tongue at night
And leaves the hymns unspoken in the pans.

The broth that once would sing of bone and earth
Returns to him as blank and patient sea.
I watch him taste the world and lose its worth,
The small delights retreating silently.

He fills the kitchen with the force of storm,
Commands like thunder, sharpened into law.
Yet in the quiet after service forms,
I see the fissures that his anger saw.

He wears his bitterness like polished mail,
An armor forged of scorn and practiced scold.
But armor cracks where absence tells its tale,
And not all wounds are sealed by being cold.

I linger where the light falls thin and pale,
A moon that waits beside a low-lit shore.
I would not pry his grief or break his veil;
I only keep the watch he had before.

When he stands over flame, his shoulders braid
A silhouette of fire and fragile clay.
I learn to read the things his mouth forbade,
The sigh before he turns his face away.

A spoon becomes a relic in his palm;
He moves as if the world were made of rote.
And memory keeps cadence where there’s calm,
While taste has slipped like ink from an old note.

Some evenings he will laugh as if in jest,
And then the humor frays into a hush.
I wonder which is heavier to rest—
The laugh that guards, or absence that will crush.

If I could trade my sight to mend his sense,
I’d barter every color from my day.
But trade is not the balm for recompense,
And words are small to stand against decay.

So I press near in silence built of hours,
Like roots that hold the stone when storms assail.
I give him patient steadiness, not flowers,
For petals fall, and steady soil prevails.

He calls himself a chef with empty tongue,
And practices the motions of the trade.
I call him not by title he has wrung,
But by the private names our nights have made.

Love is a ledger with no proper sum,
No tidy term that fits the thing we feel.
It is the careful tending of the hum,
The quiet keeping of a flame to heal.

Another’s laughter may be warm and near,
Offering bright ease I might in turn repay.
Yet all those lights diminish when he’s here,
For only his remains the path I stay.

I am not brave to cast my fear in words,
Nor scholar of the bold and ardent speech.
But in the hush between the pots and cords,
I map the places only his touch reaches.

So let me be the shore he cannot see,
The slow return when storms have done their worst.
I will remain a patient company
And offer up the unremarked and first.

If ever he should find the taste again,
Or if the silence settles like a tide,
I’ll hold him whole despite the ache and stain
And keep the map of all he keeps inside.

And if he never learns the tongue anew,
I will not measure him by what he loses.
I love the man beneath the things he knew,
The hands that shape the world, though sense refuses.

What light is mine, if not the watching flame
That does not smother, only holds and waits?
I will remain to call his quiet name,
And be the hearth that keeps him through the dates.

Chapter Text

Phainon hadn’t expected the restaurant to be closed on his third day. He showed up with his uniform folded neatly under his arm, only to find the front lights dimmed and the sign on the door flipped to Closed for Private Event. The glass reflected his own uncertain face back at him, and for a moment, he considered just heading home.

But before he could step away, the lock clicked and the door opened. Mydei stood there, hair slightly mussed as though he’d been caught in the middle of some task.

“You’re early,” Mydei said, voice even, almost indifferent. “Didn’t they tell you we’re closed for a few days?”

Phainon blinked. “Oh—no. I mean, I didn’t get the message.” He shifted his uniform awkwardly in his hands. “Should I… go, then?”

Mydei glanced behind him into the dark interior. “Not unless you want to waste your morning. We’re still doing prep for the event. You might as well help.”

The answer surprised Phainon, but he stepped inside quickly before Mydei could change his mind. The restaurant looked different without its usual bustle—the chairs stacked, tables draped with cloths, the bar counter lined with crates of glassware waiting to be polished. It was quieter too, the hum of the refrigerators the loudest sound.

“Follow me,” Mydei said, already moving toward the back.

Phainon obeyed, falling into step. The kitchen wasn’t fully alive with staff, only a few people working quietly, chopping or arranging trays. Mydei led him to a side table where boxes of stemmed glasses sat waiting.

“Here,” Mydei said. “Wipe them down, check for cracks. Don’t rush. Presentation matters.”

Phainon nodded and set to work. The cloth squeaked faintly against the glass as he polished, holding each one up to the light. The task was simple, repetitive, and it let him observe without being noticed. Mydei moved about the kitchen with a steady rhythm—checking inventory, giving brief instructions, rearranging trays until everything fit just right. He didn’t waste words, but his presence anchored the room, as if nothing could slip past his notice.

When Phainon set down the tenth glass, Mydei passed by and gave the tray a glance. “Not bad,” he said simply.

The praise, understated as it was, made Phainon straighten. “Thanks,” he murmured.

For a while, they worked in companionable silence. Phainon found himself stealing small glances—at the precise way Mydei’s hands moved, at the subtle frown line between his brows when he concentrated. He wanted to ask questions, to bridge the distance between them, but the timing never seemed right.

Later, when the others took their break, the kitchen grew still. Phainon lingered by the counter, drying his hands. Mydei leaned against the prep table, arms folded, gaze fixed on the neat rows of glasses.

“You run this place well,” Phainon said finally, his voice tentative but genuine.

Mydei’s head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “It’s my job,” he replied.

“I know,” Phainon said, softening his tone. “But it’s more than that. You care about it. You don’t let anything slip.”

There was a pause. Mydei’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and unreadable. “Why are you saying that?”

Phainon hesitated, then met his eyes. “Because it’s true. And because—I want to understand you.”

The words hung between them, heavier than he’d intended.

Mydei pushed off the table, his expression tightening. “You don’t need to ‘understand’ me. You’re here to learn the work, not pry into things that don’t concern you.” His tone wasn’t loud, but it cut clean, leaving no room for argument.

Phainon swallowed back the instinct to defend himself. Instead, he nodded once, quietly. “Alright.”

For a moment, it seemed like Mydei might say more, but he didn’t. He turned away, lifting a crate of bottles as though the conversation had already ended.

Phainon returned to polishing glasses, the cloth trembling faintly in his hand. The silence was thicker now, pressing down, but he didn’t regret speaking. Even if Mydei had snapped back, it felt like the first crack in the wall between them—small, sharp, but real.

The afternoon dragged quietly after the sharp edge of Mydei’s words. The kitchen staff trickled back in, each person focused on their assigned tasks. The steady rhythm of chopping, clinking, and footsteps filled the space again, softening the tension but not erasing it.

Phainon kept at his work, polishing until the trays gleamed, moving on to arranging cutlery for the evening’s event. He didn’t speak again, though his thoughts circled endlessly around the earlier exchange. He replayed Mydei’s tone, his narrowed eyes, the way he shut down the conversation. A wall—that was what it felt like. Solid. Impenetrable. But Phainon couldn’t shake the stubborn certainty that there was something behind it worth seeing.

By the time the sun slanted low through the high kitchen windows, the air had grown heavier with the scent of roasting meats and simmering broth. The event crew arrived, taking over the dining hall, and the kitchen staff began winding down their prep. One by one, people signed off and left, until only Mydei remained at the back counter, checking off boxes on a clipboard.

Phainon wiped his hands, hesitating near the door. He could have just left—slipped away quietly and avoided another rejection. But the weight in his chest wouldn’t let him. He had come here for more than just learning how to polish glasses.

He took a slow breath and crossed the room.

“Mydei,” he said softly.

The man looked up, brows lifting slightly in acknowledgment.

Phainon’s voice felt strangely fragile, but he forced himself to continue. “You’ve been teaching me a lot, and… I’d like to know you better. Not just as my boss here.” He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Would you maybe—want to hang out sometime? Just outside of work.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Mydei’s pen stilled over the clipboard, his gaze fixing on Phainon as though weighing every word.

Phainon kept his expression open, careful not to push too hard. He wasn’t asking for secrets, only for time. A chance.

Finally, Mydei set the clipboard down with a faint thud. “You don’t give up, do you?” he said, tone flat but not as cold as before.

Phainon allowed a small, nervous smile. “Not when it matters.”

For a heartbeat, it seemed like Mydei might shut him down again. But instead, he exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Fine. One time. Don’t expect much.”

Relief warmed Phainon’s chest, bright and fragile, like a candle catching flame. “That’s enough,” he said, his voice softer than he meant.

Mydei’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before he turned away, gathering his things. “Tomorrow. After shift. Don’t be late.”

Phainon nodded quickly, his pulse racing. He didn’t trust himself to say more without showing too much.

As he left the restaurant, the evening air brushed cool against his skin. The city lights flickered awake one by one, and Phainon felt, for the first time since starting the internship, that he’d managed to move closer—just a step, but a step all the same.

The next day arrived heavy with the scent of rain, clouds hanging low over the city. By the time Phainon reached the restaurant, his shoes were damp from the drizzle, his uniform neatly pressed despite the weather. He checked his reflection in the glass door, nerves stirring in his stomach at the memory of yesterday’s conversation.

Mydei hadn’t rescinded his words. He had agreed, however begrudgingly. That had to mean something.

Inside, the kitchen buzzed with its usual rhythm. Pans hissed, knives clicked against cutting boards, and the low murmur of voices filled the air. Phainon slipped into the flow, offering greetings as he grabbed an apron.

Mydei stood at the far counter, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back. He was bent over a tray of fileted fish, the knife in his hand moving with swift precision. Even from across the room, Phainon could sense the quiet authority that surrounded him, the way people unconsciously gave him space.

Their eyes met briefly, and Phainon felt his chest tighten. Mydei didn’t say anything, just gave a slight nod before returning to his work.

Phainon exhaled and moved to his station. He spent the morning prepping herbs, whisking dressings, and checking garnishes. Yet every so often, he caught himself glancing toward Mydei, watching the way his hands moved, the way his jaw set in concentration. He wanted to say something, but with so many eyes around them, the words caught in his throat.

By noon, the rush began to slow. Orders tapered off, and the kitchen settled into a calmer rhythm. The staff rotated for their lunch break, leaving only a few behind to tidy stations.

Phainon found himself alone at the sink, rinsing vegetables, when Mydei’s voice broke the quiet.

“You’re less clumsy with the knives,” he said.

Phainon turned, blinking. Mydei stood beside him, arms folded loosely across his chest. The faintest trace of approval softened his features.

“Thanks,” Phainon said, smiling before he could stop himself. “Guess I’m learning.”

“You’d better be,” Mydei replied, though there was no real bite in it. He leaned against the counter, watching as Phainon rinsed and chopped.

The silence between them wasn’t as heavy as before. It felt… tentative. Like a balance they hadn’t quite figured out yet.

Phainon risked a glance at him. “So… about yesterday.”

Mydei’s gaze flicked to him sharply. “What about it?”

Phainon set down the knife carefully. “You said one time. After shift. I just wanted to make sure you meant it.”

Mydei’s lips pressed into a thin line, but after a moment, he nodded once. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Relief fluttered through Phainon’s chest. “Good,” he murmured. “Then I’ll hold you to it.”

Something unreadable flickered across Mydei’s face—annoyance, maybe, or something softer he quickly masked. He pushed off the counter and straightened. “Focus on your work. You’ll need it if you plan to keep up.”

Phainon smiled faintly as he picked up the knife again. “Yes, chef.”

The rest of the afternoon passed in steady rhythm. Phainon moved through tasks with a little more lightness in his step, buoyed by the quiet promise hanging between them. Mydei didn’t bring it up again, but his presence felt less distant, his instructions edged with patience rather than sharpness.

When the last dishes were scrubbed and the staff began to pack up, Phainon lingered near his station, heart hammering. He glanced toward Mydei, who was wiping down the counter with deliberate care.

This was it.

The kitchen lights dimmed one by one as the staff filed out, laughter echoing faintly from the back door. The city outside was already glowing with neon, the drizzle having turned into a fine mist that clung to the windows.

Phainon lingered at his station, folding his apron carefully, pretending not to watch as Mydei moved with his usual efficiency—logging inventory, hanging knives in their precise order, wiping down the last counter as if each surface owed him perfection.

When Mydei finally straightened, clipboard in hand, his gaze flicked toward Phainon. “You’re still here.”

Phainon swallowed, trying for casual. “You told me not to be late.”

A faint snort escaped Mydei, though it barely curved his mouth. He set the clipboard aside and grabbed his coat from the hook. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They stepped out into the evening air together. The city smelled of rain and street food, smoke curling up from carts that lined the sidewalks. Umbrellas bobbed past them, colors muted under the mist. Mydei walked with his hands in his pockets, pace brisk but unhurried, as if he knew exactly where he was going even if he hadn’t said.

Phainon caught up, falling into step beside him. “So… where are we headed?”

“You invited me,” Mydei replied evenly. “Shouldn’t you have an idea?”

Phainon blinked, then laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. I just—figured you’d have strong opinions about it.”

Mydei glanced at him, something unreadable in his eyes. “I have opinions. I just don’t share them easily.”

The words should have sounded cold, but to Phainon they felt more like an opening than a dismissal. He smiled faintly. “Then maybe tonight you can share at least one.”

For a while, they walked in silence. Then, to Phainon’s surprise, Mydei veered off toward a narrow side street lined with small eateries. He stopped in front of a shop with steamed-up windows and the faint smell of broth wafting through the door.

“Here,” Mydei said. “It’s not fancy, but it’s decent.”

Inside, the place was warm and noisy, filled with clattering bowls and the low hum of conversation. They slid into a corner booth, the vinyl seat sticking slightly to the damp of their coats.

Phainon glanced around, amused. “You really know the good spots.”

“I know where the food is worth the time,” Mydei corrected, picking up the menu without much interest.

Phainon ordered quickly, still curious about how Mydei would react outside the kitchen. He wasn’t disappointed. Mydei was quieter here, less commanding but no less intense, his gaze scanning the room as if cataloging details others missed.

When the steaming bowls arrived, Phainon leaned forward, testing the waters. “So, how long have you been here? At the hotel restaurant, I mean.”

Mydei stirred his noodles with chopsticks, pausing only briefly. “Long enough to stop counting.”

“That sounds like years.”

“Maybe.” His tone closed off further questions, but his eyes softened a fraction as they met Phainon’s. “Why? Planning to last that long yourself?”

Phainon grinned despite the deflection. “I’d like to. If I can survive your standards.”

For a moment, Mydei almost smiled. Almost. But instead, he lowered his gaze and took a slow bite, letting the steam fog his lashes.

Phainon watched him, sensing the distance but also the pull. There was a wall around this man, thick and deliberate, but Phainon couldn’t stop himself from pressing at the edges, searching for cracks.

The meal passed in a rhythm of quiet conversation—little things, safe topics. Phainon spoke about his classes, about the nerves of starting in such a high-end kitchen. Mydei didn’t offer much about himself, but the silence between them didn’t feel hostile anymore.

When they stepped back out into the night, the rain had lightened to a mist again. The neon glow reflected on the wet pavement, painting their shadows in shifting colors.

“Thanks for coming,” Phainon said softly, adjusting the strap of his bag.

Mydei gave him a long, unreadable look. “Don’t make it a habit,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Phainon smiled anyway, heart thudding as he walked beside him into the night.

The drizzle thickened again as they turned down a quieter street. Phainon shoved his hands into his pockets, the warmth from dinner still lingering in his chest. He hadn’t expected Mydei to agree so easily, and he hadn’t expected the silence between them to feel… almost comfortable.

“You walk this way?” Phainon asked, glancing at him.

“For now.” Mydei’s eyes flicked to him, a trace of something dry in his tone. “You following me home, intern?”

Phainon flushed, laughing under his breath. “Not unless you want me to. I just—our directions match, I guess.”

Mydei didn’t respond, but he didn’t quicken his pace either.

The street lamps stretched long shadows over the slick pavement, their steps falling into rhythm. A motorbike buzzed past, its taillight fading into the distance. Phainon found himself wishing the walk would last longer, even if they barely spoke.

At one point, he dared, “I didn’t think you’d actually say yes to tonight.”

Mydei’s hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, his gaze fixed ahead. “I didn’t either.”

That caught Phainon off guard. He turned, studying the sharp line of Mydei’s profile, the way the mist clung to his hair. “Then why did you?”

For the first time, Mydei’s step faltered, almost imperceptibly. He exhaled through his nose, something unreadable passing across his expression. “Curiosity,” he said finally. “Or maybe just to see if you’d regret asking.”

Phainon smiled despite himself. “Not even a little.”

They walked on, the silence shifting again—not heavy, not sharp. Just quiet, the kind that hummed with something unspoken.

When they finally stopped, it was outside a modest apartment block with flickering lights above the door. Mydei paused, pulling his keys from his pocket.

“This is me,” he said, tone neutral but softer than usual.

Phainon nodded, rocking back on his heels. He didn’t want to push, not when the night had already given him more than he’d expected. “Thanks for coming out. I… really enjoyed it.”

Mydei glanced at him, one brow arched as if weighing whether to believe him. Then, to Phainon’s surprise, his expression shifted just a fraction—less guarded, almost thoughtful.

“Don’t let it distract you,” he said, though the words lacked their usual bite. “Tomorrow’s still work.”

Phainon grinned, unable to help it. “Understood, Chef.”

For a moment, it seemed like Mydei might add something, but he only turned toward the door. The lock clicked, the door opened, and he disappeared inside without looking back.

Phainon lingered on the sidewalk, the mist dampening his hair, his chest still tight with a strange warmth. He knew he’d gotten only the smallest glimpse past Mydei’s walls—but it was enough to make him certain he wanted more.

When he finally walked away, the city lights reflected in the wet pavement, each step carrying the faint echo of possibility.

Chapter Text

The mornings never felt the same anymore.

Before the diagnosis, mornings had been rituals of quiet joy. Mydei would wake before the sun, let the silence of his apartment cradle him, and brew coffee strong enough to cut through the haze of dawn. That first sip had always been his compass—bitterness sharp as iron, warmth crawling down his throat, a map that told him the day was ready to begin. Now, it was just water the color of earth. No bite, no depth, no soul. He held the cup because he always had, because breaking routine felt too much like admitting defeat. But each swallow mocked him with its emptiness.

Cooking had once been his anchor. Every dish had been a conversation, a dialogue between fire and flesh, between spice and heat. He had spent years training his tongue to hear those voices, to recognize the subtleties that others could not. A drizzle of sauce, tasted and retasted, until it sang the note he wanted. A steak pressed against his tongue just long enough to confirm the balance between salt and fat. Now it was guesswork. Ratios, numbers, memory. His knife was still sharp, his plating still precise, but there was no dialogue anymore—only silence.

Every time he sent out a plate, every time a guest moaned in delight, he felt the fraud gnaw at him. They were praising a ghost, an echo of what he used to be. They thought him brilliant still, but brilliance without taste was only mechanics. And he hated how easily his hands remembered what his tongue could not.

The bitterness was not only in his voice, though his colleagues felt it there most. It was not in the sharp commands that cut through the steam of the kitchen. No, the bitterness lived deeper—in the grief of a man who had buried something vital without ever being allowed a funeral.

At night, the silence followed him home. His apartment was immaculate, almost sterile. He could not stand the reminder of meals gone wrong, so he rarely cooked for himself anymore. Still, the cupboards were lined with spices: cinnamon, paprika, star anise. Once, they had been friends—old companions that whispered stories as soon as their lids were lifted. Now, they were only dust trapped in glass, mute and meaningless. He often stood with the cupboard door open, fingers brushing across the jars, half-expecting something to speak to him. Nothing ever did. He closed it quickly, as if shutting away a wound before it could bleed again.

The doctors had promised him hope at first. A lingering infection, they said. Temporary damage. They handed him bottles of zinc supplements, strange rinses, even acupuncture referrals. He had tried them all, desperate, clinging to the chance that flavor would return. Each time, he walked out of the hospital with the same dull taste of nothing, the same pit opening wider in his chest. At first he raged. Then he bargained. Now he wore resignation like a second skin.

But still, in the quiet hours, hope returned to torment him. Sometimes he dreamed of flavor. A bowl of broth steaming between his palms, rich and deep as the ocean, warmth unfurling on his tongue. Salt, savor, smoke, richness that wrapped around him like an embrace. He always woke reaching for it, the ghost of taste still lingering in his mouth. It always slipped away, leaving only emptiness to chase him into daylight.

What he hated most were the questions. His colleagues would tilt their heads, ask casually if he’d tried this herb, that trick, some old wives’ remedy passed down from a grandmother. His family spoke of faith, told him to keep strong, as if strength could restore nerves already dead. They meant well, but every word felt like a knife. Did they not understand? His entire life had been built on the tongue he had lost.

So he put on the mask. He became the commanding sous chef, the one whose voice could cut through chaos, whose authority could never be questioned. Precision became his fortress. He barked orders without hesitation, plated with exacting detail, left no room for doubt. If he could not taste, then at least he could control. And control was all he had left.

But control could not quiet the hollow inside him. It sat at his chest like a weight, pressing deeper each day. He noticed it most when the kitchen fell silent in those rare still hours, after the clatter of knives dulled, after the hiss of pans faded. In that quiet, he could almost hear it—the absence, the void where flavor once lived. He let himself feel it then, when no one else was watching. The grief, the rage, the fear that no one would ever truly understand what it was to lose not just a sense, but the foundation of a life.

Sometimes, when exhaustion finally pressed him into bed, he would lie there staring at the ceiling, thinking of all the dishes he once loved. He could see them vividly: the velvet sheen of dark chocolate ganache, the bright glow of citrus zest across a pale custard, the way seared lamb bled just enough to paint the plate. He remembered the sounds, the scents. He remembered the joy in the faces of those who ate them. But the memory of taste slipped further away each night, like a language he was slowly forgetting. He feared that one day, even the memory would go silent.

And so Mydei lived as two men. The one the world saw—the sharp-tongued, commanding sous chef who brooked no mistakes, whose knife never wavered. And the one hidden away—the hollow man who sat in the dark with his silent spices, dreaming of a taste that would never return.

It was easier to let people believe the first version of him. Easier to be feared, respected, even disliked. That way no one would ask, no one would look too closely. No one would see the truth.

But somewhere in him, a voice whispered that the mask would not hold forever. One day, someone would notice the fracture lines. One day, someone would see the bitterness for what it really was—not anger, but grief.

And he didn’t know whether he wanted that day to come, or feared

it more than anything else.

Chapter Text

Phainon still remembered the email—the one with the subject line that made his chest lurch so hard he nearly dropped his phone: Internship Acceptance – Culinary Program Placement. He had to read it three times before it sank in, before the words Congratulations and Hotel Lunaris stopped swimming on the screen.

For weeks, he had dreamed of this. An internship in one of the most exacting kitchens in the city. A place where chefs worked like an orchestra—precise, relentless, unforgiving. It wasn’t the kind of opportunity given lightly, and Phainon had almost convinced himself he wouldn’t get it. Yet here he was.

On his first day, he’d arrived far too early, standing in the alley outside the service entrance with his uniform pressed within an inch of its life. He tried to imagine what awaited him inside—the heat, the orders, the clamor of knives against boards—and his stomach had twisted with a cocktail of nerves and excitement.

But he hadn’t expected him.

Dr. Mydeimos, they called him half-jokingly. Not because he held a degree, but because of the way he dissected every plate, every garnish, every mistake with surgical precision. Sous Chef Mydei. He wasn’t the head of the restaurant, but he might as well have been with the authority he carried. His voice was never raised, yet it cut sharper than the knives he inspected daily.

And gods, he was—magnetic. Not in the obvious sense. His beauty was something honed, a blade sharpened over years of fire and fatigue. The sharp angles of his face, the measured weight of his gaze, the faint roughness to his voice—all of it struck Phainon like a spark to tinder.

He remembered the way his chest tightened when Mydei first passed him by on the line, eyes flicking over him briefly, appraising, before moving on. Phainon had felt at once insignificant and seen, pinned beneath that look like a butterfly on glass.

The days blurred after that. His hands blistered from endless prep work, his shoulders ached from hauling crates, but every hour felt charged by Mydei’s presence. Not that the man noticed him—why would he? To Mydei, he was just another intern. Another set of hands to scrub, chop, polish. Disposable.

Yet Phainon noticed everything. The way Mydei corrected the angle of a knife with a flick of his wrist. The way he adjusted seasoning with almost invisible touches, never overcomplicating but always exact. The way silence fell differently when Mydei entered a room—not out of fear, but a taut, unspoken respect.

Still, it was the quiet moments that undid Phainon most. Catching Mydei alone at the end of shift, leaning against the prep table with the lights dimmed, his expression stripped of its composure. For a fleeting instant, Phainon had glimpsed something hollow in his eyes, something he couldn’t name. And then the mask had snapped back in place, leaving only the cutting voice: “Shouldn’t you be gone by now?”

Phainon had gone, but the image stuck. It haunted him through the walk home, through the restless night.

And yet—he wanted more.

He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe naïveté, maybe something reckless that stirred in his chest every time Mydei’s voice cut close. He wanted to know what was behind that wall, wanted to see the man who lingered after everyone else left, shoulders sagging as though carrying more than knives and orders.

So when he walked into the restaurant the next morning, uniform folded under his arm, the air heavy with the promise of another long day, Phainon’s determination was already set.

He wasn’t here just to earn credits, or pad a résumé, or learn how to make sauces without burning them. He was here because something about this place—and about Mydei—called to him.

The kitchen was waking up, a storm gathering before service. Orders would fly soon enough, but for now there was only the steady rhythm of knives on boards, water boiling in tall pots, Mydei’s voice threading through it all.

Phainon slid into place at the prep station, his heart steady despite the noise. Whatever wall Mydei had built, however high, however thick—Phainon would keep pressing against it. Not with force, not with arrogance, but with persistence.

Because some doors, he thought, didn’t open to a shove. They opened when someone cared enough to keep knocking.

And Phainon wasn’t going anywhere.

Chapter Text

A stone wall does not fall in a day
nor does frost vanish at the first flame
yet in the silence of long winters
a single lantern can teach the dark to breathe

I sat with my shadows folded around me
their weight so old I thought them flesh
but then your voice — unhurried rain
pressed against the dry soil of my chest

I do not smile quickly
nor lay bare what aches
I was built of ruins and silence
a king without a court
a man without a sky

Yet you come each morning
like a careless bird
singing in a place where no tree stands
your laughter bending the air
until I forget to frown

You do not ask for keys to my heart
you lean against the locked doors
and wait like sun waits on stone
until warmth slips through the cracks
and the iron grows soft in its hinges

Already my hands are less heavy
Already my words fall more easily
Already the night is shorter when you are near

I cannot name this
but it feels like the slow untying of ropes
the quiet lifting of a curtain
the first touch of light across old dust

If there is a dawn for me
it carries your shape
If there is a sun in this world
it wears your face

And if my sorrow was the endless sea

Then you are the shoreline I had forgotten 

Even if the storm returns tomorrow.

I have learned that clouds can break

Chapter Text

Saturdays were supposed to be quiet. At least, that’s what Phainon told himself as he wove through the early morning streets, tote bag slung over his shoulder, shopping list folded neatly in his hand. The hotel kitchen had sent him out for supply errands—nothing fancy, just fresh herbs, new dish towels, a few odds and ends from the market.

He didn’t mind the work. The streets outside the restaurant were still drowsy with dawn light, vendors just beginning to lift their shutters. The air smelled faintly of rain and bread, warm and clean. It was the first time all week he’d had a moment to breathe without the hum of ovens and the metallic clang of pots filling his head.

He rounded a corner, scanning his list, when the sound of laughter stopped him. It was coming from the open lot near the bridge—a stretch of pavement lined with foldable tables and tents. The kind usually reserved for community events or food drives. He might’ve passed without a second glance—except for the familiar voice cutting through the chatter.

Phainon froze.

There, among volunteers in plain aprons and rolled-up sleeves, stood Mydei.

For a moment, Phainon thought he must’ve been mistaken. Mydei looked different out here. No pressed uniform, no chef’s jacket stiff with starch, no sharp tone echoing through a kitchen. Just a soft grey shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair tied loosely back as he ladled soup into paper bowls. A few strands had fallen loose, catching the light with a faint copper glow.

Phainon stood there longer than he meant to, half-hidden by a fruit stall. Mydei moved efficiently, his motions as precise as ever—but his expression wasn’t the usual carved stone. He was smiling. Not wide, not showy, but real. When an elderly man thanked him with trembling hands, Mydei leaned down slightly, murmuring something too quiet to hear. The man laughed, toothless and bright, and Mydei handed him an extra piece of bread before turning back to his station.

Phainon’s chest tightened.

It was strange—seeing someone you thought you knew, only to realize there were whole continents beneath their surface.

He didn’t mean to stare for long. He told himself he’d leave, that it wasn’t his place. But his feet stayed rooted until a volunteer near the end of the line caught his gaze and waved him over.

“You here to help?” she asked brightly.

Phainon blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah,” he said before thinking.

“Perfect. We could use one more pair of hands.” She pressed a clean apron into his palms before he could protest.

And just like that, he was in line beside Mydei.

It took a few minutes before Mydei even noticed him. When he finally did, the shift was almost imperceptible—the brief pause in his ladling, the sharp glance that flicked sideways before settling back into motion.

“You’re supposed to be on errands,” Mydei said under his breath, voice low enough that only Phainon heard.

“I was,” Phainon replied softly. “Then I saw this. Thought I could help.”

Mydei’s mouth curved—not a smile, not exactly, but something close. “You don’t know when to leave things alone, do you?”

Phainon grinned faintly, grabbing a stack of bowls. “Not really.”

They worked side by side, falling into rhythm. Mydei managed the soup, Phainon passed bread and fruit down the line. The air was filled with quiet chatter and the clink of ladles against metal. Some of the people in line offered shy thanks, others said nothing at all. Mydei didn’t force conversation, didn’t play at charity. He simply served—efficiently, attentively, as if these bowls were no different from the dishes he plated at the hotel.

When the rush finally thinned, Phainon leaned back against the table, wiping his brow. “You do this often?”

Mydei didn’t look up from stacking bowls. “When I can.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Because it’s not for anyone to know,” he said simply. “I don’t do it for the press or for some chef’s portfolio.” He glanced over, eyes steady. “And I don’t need interns following me here.”

Phainon’s cheeks warmed, though he couldn’t help but smile. “Guess I’m already here, though.”

Mydei exhaled through his nose—something between amusement and resignation. “You really are persistent.”

Phainon tilted his head, watching him. “You act like that’s a bad thing.”

There was a long pause. Mydei’s expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “It isn’t,” he said at last.

The afternoon light had grown warmer by the time they finished cleaning up. Volunteers chatted as they packed away crates and folded tables, the smell of broth lingering faintly in the air. Mydei tied off a trash bag, tossing it into the bin with practiced ease. Phainon stepped closer, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“You’re different here,” he said quietly.

Mydei stilled. “Different?”

Phainon nodded. “Softer. Happier, maybe.”

A faint line appeared between Mydei’s brows. “People don’t need another chef barking orders. They just need food. That’s all.”

“But you care,” Phainon said. “You can tell.”

For a moment, the silence stretched between them—gentle, not sharp this time. Mydei looked away, his gaze fixed on the now-empty tables. “Maybe I just don’t like seeing people go hungry,” he murmured.

Phainon didn’t push further. He only smiled faintly, his heart fuller than he’d expected.

He’d thought he was starting to understand Mydei—the demanding chef, the perfectionist, the man who never smiled. But today had shifted something. Mydei wasn’t just defined by bitterness or sharp edges. There was something else beneath the surface, something fragile and kind that he guarded fiercely.

Phainon knew now: he wanted to be the person Mydei didn’t have to guard himself from.

By the time they reached the bus stop, the sky had turned into gold fading into pale smoke. The day had been long, but not in the way Phainon was used to. His muscles ached—not from rush orders or hours on his feet, but from something softer, quieter. He’d spent the whole afternoon in Mydei’s orbit, and it left his thoughts strangely tangled.

The city around them hummed with the end of day traffic. Vendors called out prices, streetcars hissed as they pulled away, and the wind carried the faint scent of broth and sesame from a stall nearby. Mydei stood a few feet ahead, hands in his pockets, eyes unfocused as though his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Phainon hesitated before speaking. “You walk home from here?”

“Usually,” Mydei said without turning. “The kitchen’s not far.”

Phainon nodded, shifting the bag of leftover bread rolls they’d been allowed to take from the drive. “Can I walk with you?”

That earned him a sidelong glance. “You really don’t know how to leave things alone,” Mydei said again, though his tone lacked any real irritation.

Phainon smiled faintly. “Maybe I just like your company.”

For a heartbeat, Mydei said nothing. Then, quietly, “You shouldn’t say things like that so easily.”

“Why not?”

Mydei didn’t answer. He only started walking. Phainon followed.

They walked side by side through the narrow streets, the air cooling with dusk. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it was full, like a pause that didn’t need to be filled. Phainon glanced at Mydei from time to time, at the faint crease in his brow that softened as they moved farther from the noise of traffic.

“Do you ever stop working?” Phainon asked finally.

“Someone has to make sure things don’t fall apart,” Mydei replied. “Even outside the restaurant.”

“You can’t save everything,” Phainon said gently.

“I know,” Mydei murmured. Then, quieter, “But I can try.”

There was something in the way he said it—a worn edge, an old promise that sounded heavier than it should’ve. Phainon wanted to ask more, but the look on Mydei’s face stopped him. He wasn’t sure if it was sadness or habit. Maybe both.

They reached a crosswalk, and the light flicked green. Mydei’s hair caught the lamplight again, that strange burnished red that made him look more alive than he ever did under the fluorescent glare of the restaurant kitchen. Phainon realized, with a small jolt, that he wanted to see him like this more often. Away from the noise. Away from the armor.

When they reached the restaurant block, the familiar glow of the hotel sign came into view. Mydei slowed to a stop at the corner. “You should head back,” he said. “You’ve done enough for the day.”

Phainon shifted on his feet. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Then you’ve done more than enough too,” Phainon countered. “You didn’t have to spend your day off cooking again.”

Mydei’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “It’s not cooking. It’s just feeding people.”

“You make it sound simple,” Phainon said. “But you make it mean something.”

For the first time, Mydei met his gaze fully. His eyes were sharp, always, but tonight they seemed softer, the usual cold gleam replaced by something uncertain. “You don’t have to romanticize what I do, Phainon.”

“I’m not,” Phainon said quietly. “I just… see you.”

The words hung there—bare, a little too honest. Phainon felt the weight of them the moment they left his mouth, but he didn’t take them back. He couldn’t.

Mydei didn’t look away, though something in his expression shifted—guarded again, like a door closing halfway. “You think you do,” he said. “But seeing someone and understanding them aren’t the same thing.”

“Then let me understand you,” Phainon said, almost pleading, before he could stop himself.

Mydei’s breath caught—just slightly—and then he shook his head, stepping back. “You’re too young for that kind of idealism.”

Phainon’s heart sank, but he smiled anyway, a quiet, resigned thing. “Maybe. But I think I’m old enough to care.”

They stood there for a long moment, the city moving around them in waves of sound—traffic, footsteps, laughter spilling from a nearby bar. Then Mydei turned away, his voice low. “Go home, Phainon. We have a full shift tomorrow.”

He started walking before Phainon could answer.

Phainon watched him go, the wind tugging lightly at his shirt, the last trace of sunset glinting in his hair. For reasons he couldn’t name, he didn’t follow. He only stayed there at the corner, pulse uneven, the bread bag still tucked under his arm.

He didn’t know what to make of the ache in his chest. Maybe it was admiration, or frustration, or both. Mydei was like a flame he couldn’t touch without burning, and yet—Phainon thought, even knowing that, he’d still reach out.

Later that night, Mydei stood in his apartment kitchen, the same soft shirt now hanging loosely off his shoulders. The place was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional sigh of wind outside.

He’d showered, eaten little, and still couldn’t shake the memory of Phainon’s voice—gentle, insistent. *I just see you.*

It lingered, unwanted but persistent, like the scent of something that refused to fade.

Mydei poured himself a glass of water, staring at the faint tremor in his fingers. He hated it—the way Phainon’s presence stirred up pieces of him he’d long buried. There was a time when he’d been open, too. When his world had been about flavor and warmth and laughter shared over late-night tasting sessions. Before the silence of his tongue, before the taste was gone and bitterness took its place.

Phainon didn’t know any of that. And Mydei didn’t intend to let him. The boy was bright, eager—still unscarred by failure. Letting him get close would only mean pulling him into that emptiness.

And yet.

Mydei set the glass down and pressed his palms against the counter, breathing out slowly. He could still picture the look on Phainon’s face at the community kitchen—soft, disbelieving, like he’d seen something worth admiring.

No one had looked at him like that in years.

He closed his eyes. He should’ve told Phainon to leave the moment he showed up. Should’ve kept the distance clean. But he hadn’t. And that small, reckless choice now sat heavy in his chest.

When he finally looked up, the city stretched beyond the window—neon and noise and the faint sh

immer of rain on glass. He felt it then, not as bitterness, but something quieter. Something dangerously close to hope.

And that, he knew, was far more dangerous.

Chapter Text

**Date: January 3, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

First day back after the New Year rush. The restaurant feels quieter than usual, the hum of the kitchen like a heartbeat that finally slowed down. Chef Mydei was already there, sleeves rolled, eyes focused, every movement deliberate. I asked if he’d rested over the break—he said, *“Resting wastes daylight.”*

I laughed. He didn’t.

Still, he looked tired in a way that wasn’t from lack of sleep. Like something in him has been tired for a long time.

He fixed my knife grip without saying a word, just tapped my wrist until I corrected it. I didn’t even mind the silence.

For the first time, I realized I like working beside him. Even when he barely speaks, he makes the air feel purposeful.

**Date: January 5, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

The intern’s enthusiasm is almost distracting. Phainon greets the staff every morning like it’s the first day of spring. He asks questions that most apprentices would never ask—why this spice, not that; what emotion a dish should have. *Emotion,* he said. As if food can still hold that for me.

He doesn’t know that I can’t taste. That every plate I approve is done by memory and habit.

Sometimes I pretend. I close my eyes, inhale, and let my brain fill in the blanks. But it’s just a ghost of what used to be there. Like watching a play I once starred in.

When he asks if it’s good, I nod.

He smiles like he’s pleased me.

That’s what hurts most.

**Date: January 7, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

I caught him staring out the kitchen window today while the others were joking near the fryer. It was snowing lightly, the kind that doesn’t stick but still makes everything quiet.

He didn’t move until the snow stopped.

I think he misses something. Or someone. But it’s not my place to ask—at least not yet.

Still, I wish I could tell him it’s okay to stop pretending to be unshakable.

He carries silence like a second coat. Heavy, but it fits him too well.

**Date: January 10, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

He made a mistake in the soup base—too much salt. Everyone else grimaced when they tasted it, but I couldn’t tell.

It hit me again, how disconnected I am from what I built my life on. The kitchen used to be where I felt *alive.* Now it’s where I feel most hollow.

Phainon saw me staring at the pot afterward. Asked if something was wrong.

I told him, *“No. Just thinking.”*

He didn’t press. Just smiled that gentle smile and offered to start again.

He’s persistent in the quietest ways.

**Date: January 14, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

Chef Mydei almost laughed today. *Almost.*

I teased him about how perfect his plating always looks, said it’s like he has rulers built into his fingertips. He muttered, *“Precision isn’t vanity, it’s respect.”*

Still, there was something in his tone—something lighter.

I’ve noticed he doesn’t eat the things he cooks. Ever. He’ll inspect every detail, smell, texture—but never taste. Maybe it’s discipline. Or maybe something else.

Either way, I want to understand.

**Date: January 17, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

The boy stays late again. He says it’s for extra practice, but I can see he’s just curious about me.

He brought me coffee tonight. I accepted it, though I knew it would taste like nothing. The warmth, at least, was real.

He told me he wanted to create food that made people feel something even after they left the table. I wanted to tell him that used to be my goal too—that once, I believed flavor could heal. But now it’s just repetition, routine, survival.

Instead, I told him to focus on technique. It’s cruel, maybe, but it’s safer that way.

**Date: January 20, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

The restaurant closed early for a staff meeting. Mydei stayed behind to reorganize the cold room. I offered to help.

We worked in silence, stacking trays, counting produce. Then he asked out of nowhere, *“What do you think makes a dish memorable?”*

I said, “When it reminds you of something you forgot you loved.”

He didn’t answer. But I swear something flickered in his eyes—something like grief, or maybe longing.

Later, I realized I’d never seen him look so human.

**Date: January 23, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

Phainon’s words won’t leave me. “When it reminds you of something you forgot you loved.”

I’ve forgotten a lot. The rush of a perfect bite. The warmth of flavor sinking into memory. The taste of my own creation.

All gone.

I was diagnosed with Ageusia, they called it. Complete loss of taste. I never told the restaurant. Never told anyone. Just kept pretending.

I thought I’d made peace with it. But lately, when he looks at me with that earnest light in his eyes, I feel the old hunger again—the one I buried.

Not for food. For feeling.

**Date: January 26, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

It was raining today. Mydei let me share his umbrella as we left. He held it higher so I wouldn’t get wet, even though his own shoulder soaked through.

He doesn’t realize the kind of kindness he gives. The quiet kind.

He asked if I ever get tired of the kitchen.

I said, “Sometimes. But I think it’s worth being tired for.”

He looked at me for a long time before saying softly, “Maybe.”

It’s strange. Every time I think I’ve reached the edge of him, I find there’s still more.

**Date: January 29, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

He made me a dish tonight. His first one without guidance.

A simple bowl of tomato soup.

He watched me too closely as I brought the spoon to my lips. I couldn’t taste it, of course—but I felt the warmth, the weight, the texture. And something in that reminded me of my earliest days in the kitchen, when everything was new.

I told him it was balanced. That it had depth. I lied. But it wasn’t a cruel lie—it was gratitude.

He smiled, said, “I’m glad you liked it.”

And for the first time in years, I almost did.

**Date: February 2, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

I’m starting to see it now. He hides it well, but sometimes when he eats—or pretends to—there’s a flicker in his eyes, like pain or disappointment.

I don’t know what it is, but I want to be gentle about it.

He’s teaching me that mastery isn’t about perfection, it’s about restraint. I think he’s forgotten that emotions don’t have to be tidy. Maybe that’s what I’m here for—to remind him.

-

**Date: February 6, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

He brought laughter back into the kitchen. The others respond to him. Even I find myself softening without meaning to.

He offered to walk me home tonight. I said no. Then he followed anyway, just talking about anything—the weather, the scent of rain, how he wants to travel someday. I didn’t stop him.

When we reached my street, he said, *“You look less lonely when you talk.”*

I told him, *“Then I’ll stop talking.”*

He laughed. I didn’t.

But I wanted to.

**Date: February 10, XXXX**

**Phainon’s Journal**

He’s starting to let me in. Small things—the way he corrects my knife work without irritation, or how he listens when I ramble.

He’s still distant, but his walls are no longer impenetrable. More like glass than stone. You can see the light through, but it’s fragile.

Sometimes I wonder what he’s protecting himself from. Whatever it is, I want to stand beside it.

**Date: February 13, XXXX**

**Mydei’s Journal**

He gave me a small jar of spice today—cinnamon and clove. Said it reminded him of winter mornings.

I opened it and inhaled. I couldn’t taste it, but the scent sparked something faint and buried—a childhood kitchen, a flicker of warmth, my mother humming by the stove.

I told him it was good.

He said, “I knew you’d like it.”

I think, for the first time in years, I did.