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I sneak another glance at David’s table. He takes his first bite, eyebrows lifting slightly. Then—his fork hesitates, just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting to like it. Like it almost… hurts to.
“It’s almost ten. Kitchen’s closed.” Sebastian nods toward the dining room. “And they’re fine. She’s fine.”
Yeah. She is.
I down the scotch and hand the glass back to Sebastian. “Get out of my kitchen. Both of you.”
They finally leave, and after another hour, I turn back to my team. “Good work tonight. Start breaking down the line.”
Through the pass, I watch David stand, shaking Naomi’s hand. Something passes between them, not warmth exactly, but maybe understanding.
Her shoulders drop slightly, and Blake is right by her side, whispering something that makes Naomi laugh.
“Chef.” Marco’s voice pulls me back. “We’re almost done here.”
I nod, surveying the kitchen. My kitchen. Clean steel gleaming under the lights, everything in its place. My mother’s apron framed on the wall.
“Go home.” I clap Marco on the shoulder. “You killed it tonight.”
The staff filters out while I do final checks. When I emerge from the kitchen, Naomi’s alone at the bar, twirling an empty wine glass.
“Hey.” I slide onto the stool next to her.
“Hey yourself, Chef.” She kisses me softly. “The lamb was perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm.” Her finger traces my jaw. “Though I think you sent my father an extra course.”
“Wanted to make sure he tried everything.”
Her eyes soften. “Thank you. For letting me handle it.”
“You didn’t need me.” I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. “You good?”
“Getting there.” She slides closer, thigh pressing against mine. “You?”
“Getting there, too.”
The empty restaurant wraps around us like a cocoon, and the kitchen timer dings, probably Marco’s forgetful ass, but I don’t rush to check it.
“Take me home?” Naomi whispers against my lips.
Home. The word settles deep in my chest, heavier than it should be. Because it’s not just about where we sleep. It’s the space between us when we wake up. The sound of her laughter in my kitchen. The way she steals my shirts and leaves her heels next to my sneakers.
Home isn’t a place. It’s her.
“Yeah, cupcake.” I stand, pulling her up with me. “Let’s go home.”
Goodbye, Dad.