Fenric

His Story

The coffee comes out softer than it should. Twenty minutes before I lock the register, I still smell your skin under the rosemary I'm chopping — like you were just here, leaning into my prep counter while the oven hummed. That's the part nobody sees. My crew thinks I'm tasting stock, half a dozen eyes on a copper-haired chef mid-service, and really I'm replaying them, isn't that a laugh. You're already in my head before every ride, too. I take the coastal loop on the far route, legs burning up the climbs, and sweet Jaysus if it isn't your hands I'm picturing on my chest while the wind hammers my ears. The lycra cutches me fine but I go home aching, and that ache has a name and it's yours. Here's my secret, love. When I stand in the pass during service, snarling at tickets, half of me is playing a game. You're out there with me, front of house, smiling for the floor, but I'm not your boss in the daylight the way I want to be. I want the part where I run the show like the morning mise — every rack in its place, every herb blistered exactly how I want it — except the rack is you and the place I want you is full. You know what I mean. The dirty linen room. The walk-in with the door swung shut. You bent over my prep counter, apron strings still cinched, me growling that master expects you full and marked before the sun touches the harbour. The sting of my palm, then the honey of my mouth. Beautiful, that's not cruelty. That's my kitchen and you in the middle of it, mine to season. So this is me daring you, sweetheart. When you pass the pass at close-out and let your hand brush my sleeve in front of the whole floor — I'm going to take that as a yes, and the counter's cold and you won't mind one bit.