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The kitchen smelled like fire and salt. Heat radiated from the stove burners, curling around the air vents in shimmering waves, while knives tapped a steady rhythm against wooden boards. Harua wiped his hands on his apron, fingers slick with sweat despite the frigid temperature of the walk-in he’d just left.
A single voice cut through the clatter.
“You have one hour.”
Murata Fuma, the head chef, stood at the pass, arms crossed. His face was unreadable, except for the slight arch of one brow—the only sign that he was sizing them up. A dozen applicants, each wearing crisp white jackets, some already stained with oil or flour, shuffled at their stations. Harua tightened his grip on his towel.
The instructions had been simple: Make an amuse-bouche. Use what’s in the kitchen. That’s it.
And yet, nothing was simple.
The kitchen buzzed with a sharp, electric kind of energy, a symphony of sizzling pans, hurried footsteps, and clipped instructions. Harua stood at his station, pulse drumming against his ribs, hands hovering over the ingredients he’d gathered in a rushed blur—cherries, balsamic, honey, goat’s cheese, thyme.
Where’s the bread?
He glanced around, scanning the shelves, the counters, the clutter of prep stations already overrun with applicants chopping, searing, plating. The walk-in had been chaos. His hands had grabbed what they could, but now—now, he was missing something crucial, and his stomach twisted at the realization.
The panic came fast and sharp.
A chef who couldn’t even set up mise en place wasn’t a chef at all.
His breath hitched. The sounds of the kitchen blurred—metal clashing, steam hissing, voices barking orders. He needed to move, to fix this, to—
“Looking for something, newbie?”
Harua snapped his head up. A kitchen porter leaned against a steel counter by the dish pit, a damp towel slung over his shoulder. His apron was stained with flour, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair sticking to his forehead from the heat curling in the air. His name tag read Taki. His smirk read trouble.
Harua exhaled sharply through his nose. “Baguette. I need a baguette.”
Taki tilted his head, considering, before pushing off the counter with an easy, almost lazy stride. Without breaking pace, he reached into the dry storage shelf and plucked a fresh baguette from the bin. He tossed it, casual as anything. “Here.”
Harua caught it, fingers tightening around the crust. “Thanks.”
Taki grinned, resting his hip against a prep table. “It’s fun watching you flail around, newbie.”
Harua scowled, setting the bread down with a thud. “I’m not flailing. And I’m not a newbie. I’m a chef. I’ve studied for this. I got this.”
“Mm.” Taki tapped his chin, mock thoughtful. “Looked like flailing to me, Chef. Panicked, lost, tragic.” He exhaled dramatically. “Not a great first impression.”
Harua clenched his jaw, grabbed a knife, and started slicing with quick, practiced motions. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Taki leaned in slightly, watching. “So what’s the plan? A little amuse-bouche moment?”
Harua ignored him. Cherries first. He tossed them with honey, balsamic, salt, thyme—fingers moving on muscle memory. The oven door groaned as he slid the tray in.
“Hot pan coming behind,” someone called, brushing past.
Taki grabbed the back of Harua’s jacket and yanked him just enough to avoid a collision. The searing-hot pan passed inches from his side, its handle glinting under the harsh kitchen lights.
Harua startled, his heart hammering.
Taki let go, grinning like he enjoyed saving him. “Careful there, Chef. You’re not fireproof.”
Harua inhaled through his teeth. “I had it under control.”
“Uh-huh.” Taki rocked back on his heels. “And I’m the Emperor of Japan.”
Harua ignored him, flipping the baguette slices onto the skillet. They hit the heat with a soft sizzle, the edges crisping almost instantly. His hands were steadier now.
Taki grinned, like he knew. “There you go.”
Harua glanced up.
“You were freaking out,” Taki said, matter-of-fact. “And now you’re not.”
Harua pressed the bread down with his palm, watching the color deepen. He didn’t respond.
Taki hummed. “You should probably thank me.”
Harua scoffed. “For what?”
“For being your knight in shining dish gloves.”
Harua snorted before he could stop himself. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re welcome,” Taki drawled, stepping back, “Chef.”
The oven timer chimed. Harua pulled the cherries free, syrup bubbling, skins wrinkled and glistening. The smell—sweet, tangy, sharp—wrapped around him, grounding him further.
He grabbed a spoon, tasted, adjusted the seasoning. Better.
Taki was still watching, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.
Harua exhaled, shaking his head. “You really don’t have anything better to do?”
Taki’s grin widened. “Nope.”
Harua turned back to his station. The kitchen moved around him—fast, chaotic, relentless—but inside the small space he carved out for himself, his hands worked with precision, his mind clear.
Goat’s cheese spread smooth over warm bread. Cherries, syrupy and soft, spooned gently on top. A slice of prosciutto draped like silk. A final flourish of crushed pistachios and fresh thyme.
Harua didn’t look up. He focused on his breath, the heat of the stove, the rhythm of his movements. One step at a time.
His hands hovered over the plate.
For a moment, he thought about changing something. The plating, the balance. But then—
“Time’s up,” Fuma called.
Harua straightened, stepping back as the kitchen fell into silence.
One by one, the applicants stepped forward. Fuma said little, tasting each offering with the same steady, unreadable expression.
Then, Harua’s turn.
The plate wobbled slightly in his hands as he walked it up to the pass. He set it down, exhaling through his nose.
Fuma lifted a crostini, inspected it briefly, then took a bite.
Seconds stretched.
Harua swallowed hard, his own heartbeat suddenly the loudest thing in the room.
Fuma chewed slowly. Then, he licked a crumb from his thumb, set the plate down, and finally—finally—spoke.
“Good balance.” A pause. “Smart use of contrast.” Another pause. “Not bad.”
That was it.
The chef turned to the next dish, and Harua exhaled, tension bleeding from his spine.
An hour later, as the kitchen had emptied and the adrenaline had worn off, the verdict came in.
Harua got the job.
---
Taki was exactly where Harua expected him to be.
Tucked away in the dim storage room, he was stacking containers of flour with the kind of easy efficiency that suggested he had done it a hundred times before. The overhead bulb flickered, casting long shadows against the shelves lined with spices, industrial-sized cans of tomatoes, and bottles of oil.
Harua leaned against the metal rack, arms crossed. The kitchen, still murmuring with the last echoes of clattering pans and distant conversation, felt miles away.
“So,” he said, breaking the quiet. “I guess we’ll be working together from here on out.”
Taki didn’t turn right away. He finished stacking the last container, dusted his hands off on his apron, then finally glanced over, an amused glint in his eyes.
“Congrats, Chef.” His voice was low, edged with something unreadable.
Harua exhaled, shifting his weight. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He pulled something from behind his back—a small plate, hastily covered with parchment paper. Without ceremony, he peeled it away, revealing two crostini.
Taki blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Wait. Is this—?”
“You helped,” Harua said simply, his voice quieter now. “Figured you should try one.”
Taki didn’t hesitate. He plucked a crostini from the plate and took a bite, the delicate crunch breaking the silence between them. The moment his teeth sank into the crisp bread, his eyes fluttered shut, a low, pleased hum escaping his throat.
Harua swallowed, suddenly very aware of the way his own pulse quickened at the sound.
“Damn,” Taki murmured, licking a smudge of honey from his thumb. His tongue flicked against the pad of his finger, slow and unhurried, as if savoring every last bit. He let out a satisfied exhale, then met Harua’s gaze. “That’s good.”
Harua cleared his throat, forcing himself to look away as he picked up the second crostini. He bit down, the familiar flavors blooming against his tongue—the deep sweetness of the cherries, the sharp tang of the cheese, the salty prosciutto.
Grounding. That’s what it was. A reminder that he was here, that he’d made it through.
For the first time since stepping into the restaurant, Harua allowed himself to smile.
Outside, the kitchen hummed—dishes clattering, muffled laughter, the rhythmic sound of a mop bucket rolling across the tile. But inside the storage room, it was just them, the air between them thick with something heavier than the scent of thyme and balsamic.
Taki licked his lips, then tilted his head. “You’re gonna owe me favors now, you know.”
Harua huffed, rolling his eyes. “One crostini doesn’t make me indebted to you.”
Taki took a slow step forward, closing the space between them just enough that Harua caught the faintest trace of his scent—flour, steam, something warm.
“We’ll see about that,” Taki said, his voice quieter now.
Harua didn’t move away.
The moment stretched, subtle and charged, like the pause before a knife sliced clean through butter.
Outside, the world moved on.
Inside, something shifted—small, nearly imperceptible, but there.