Chapter nine

The first week felt like stepping onto a tightrope without a net. Every morning I woke before the city stirred, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the coffee maker and the faint smell of herbs from prep the night before. My body ached in new ways,  my shoulders stiff from chopping, my feet sore from pacing the restaurant floor. The space had started to breathe under my hands. The ovens hissed, pans clattered, and the subtle scent of roasting vegetables mixed with freshly baked bread.

 Each day I tweaked a station, adjusted a table, or shifted a light, constantly imagining the flow of guests, servers, and food. I relied on the temporary staff more heavily for now. My two servers had learned the rhythm of the room. The quiet glance to indicate a finished plate, the practiced step to avoid collisions in narrow walkways. My sous-chef was indispensable, keeping the prep line moving even when I had to step away to handle an unexpected delivery. The dishwasher hummed like a metronome, keeping pace with the chaos.

Even with the support, the week was relentless. A delivery of ingredients arrived late one day, forcing me to improvise an entirely new appetizer on the spot. Another evening, a table requested a special dietary substitution that threw the timing of the entire kitchen into disarray. I felt my pulse spike, adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I thrived on it. The problem-solving, the immediacy, the need to make decisions that affected real people in real time. By the end of the week, I was exhausted. Juggling working as a private chef and managing the restaurant wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. One Friday night, I had just finished a private client’s dinner, everything platted as promised, when my phone kept blowing up.

The restaurant had a fool house, more reservations than I’d ever seen in a single evening. I grabbed my bag and ran to the car. The streets were alive with city lights, honking horns, the faint scent of exhaust and wet pavement. By the time I reached the restaurant, the ovens were roaring, the counters gleaming under the soft glow of the lights.

 “Dinner service starts in five,” I shouted  over the hum of the espresso machine and the clatter of pans. “Everyone ready?”

My temporary staff moved into position, a practiced rhythm I had drilled into them all week. Servers lined up, tasting spoons ready, plates arranged, and my sous-chef gave me a quick nod.

Hours passed like seconds. Plates moved from kitchen to table, guests smiled, murmured compliments, laughter spilling like warm light across the walls. I tasted sauces, checked plating, corrected a server mid-step, all while feeling the room pulse around me. The last dish went out, the dining room slowly emptied, and I leaned against the counter, hands trembling slightly from adrenaline and relief. I looked around at the quiet, glowing space, my chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

I quickly understood the full weight and thrill of  what I’d signed up for. I was ready to go home for the night when Crest showed up. He stood in the doorway, not saying anything, just looking at me with intensity, eyes dark. I knew that look. That look meant he was holding back everything he’d been holding inside for months, and it terrified me a little. He walked toward me, boots echoing softly on the tile floor. When he stopped in front of me, he didn’t reach for me right away. He just looked, as if he was trying to measure every scar, every tremor of fatigue, every flicker of doubt. Then he spoke, voice low but trembling.

“Do you have any idea… what it’s done to me, watching you pour yourself into all of this? Watching you rise, watching you shine… and pretending I don’t feel it?”

My chest tightened. “Crest…”

“No, let me finish.” He leaned on the counter, hands curling into fists at his sides. “I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve tried to bury it, tell myself I’m too broken, too scared. But I can’t. I can’t watch you, hear you, have you in my life without wanting… everything. All of you. I’m in love with you. Every thought, every heartbeat, every goddamn second you’re not near me, I feel it gnawing at me.”

The words “I’m in love with you,”  hit me like a punch. I felt the tremor in his voice, the fear, the need, the intensity.

“I respect you.” He continued, voice broken. “I respect your strength, your fire, the way you don’t need me… and that scares the hell out of me. Because I want to provide for you, to claim you, to have you completely and not because you can’t survive on your own, but because I can’t survive without you.”

I reached for him, but he stopped me with a shaky hand.

“Don’t touch me yet. Hear me. Hear me fully. I’m not asking for permission, I’m not being polite, I need you Sasha. I’ve loved you in every way I can manage without shattering, but I’m at the edge, and I can’t suppress it anymore. You are mine, and nothing else matters. My past, my fears, none of it matters.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, my chest tight, my heart hammering. I knew he loved me, he showed it in actions but hearing him  confess it to me like this, tore through me. And now, he was standing there, broken, open, offering me all of himself.

 “I’m yours,” I whispered. “Completely, I’ve been yours for a while now Crest.”

He exhaled, a shuddering, ragged release, and finally closed the distance between us. His hands cradled my face, his lips pressed to mine. I felt every beat of his heart, every ounce of love and desperation he’d tried to hide.

Days slipped into a new rhythm. I started spending most of my nights in his apartment, we went on dates whenever we could steal time from our busy schedules. He had even asked me to leave some of my personal belongings at his place. “For convenience.” He had  said. One night, after the restaurant closed, I found him sketching on a napkin. Plans for a patio extension, the lines neat and precise. He didn’t notice me watching until I said softly.

“You can’t stop designing, can you?”

He smiled, that rare, honest smile that always caught me off guard.

“Not when I see what the place means to you. I keep thinking of ways to make it better.”

 

I sat beside him, resting my head against his shoulder. The smell of coffee lingered on him.

“You already have,” I murmured.

He turned slightly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I love you so much. More than words could  convey. So I’ll just keep showing you.”

That stayed with me long after he left that night.

Crest’s apartment was flooded with late-morning light. The kind that made the polished concrete floors glow and the air feel too clean for comfort. He was half dressed on the couch, working on his laptop with one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. It was supposed to be our day off. Supposed to.

“Are you really working on a floor plan? On a Sunday morning?” I asked, emerging from the hallway, hair tied up messily, wearing his old sweatshirt.  He glanced up, caught, but not guilty.

 “It’s not work. It’s… spatial therapy.”

 “Spatial therapy?” I raised an eyebrow.

 He grinned, tilting his head toward me. “You say that like you don’t reorganize your spice rack when you’re stressed.”

 I opened my mouth, closed it.

“Touché.”

 He chuckled and went back to his work.The quiet between us wasn’t awkward. It was easy, lived-in. The kind that existed when two people had learned each other’s rhythms well enough to share silence without needing to fill it.

I wandered into the kitchen, scavenged through his over stocked fridge, and brought out some eggs and cilantro.

“You really could feed half the city with all that food you barely eat,” I muttered.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes flickering with amusement.

“You complaining, or volunteering?”

 I snickered, cracking eggs in a bowl. A few minutes later, the smell of onions and butter filled the air. He came up behind me, warm and close, leaning on the counter. I could feel the weight of him there without him saying a word.

 “You can’t relax, can you?” I said softly, glancing at his sketchbook and laptop lying open on the table.

“I am relaxing,” he murmured. “I just like knowing how things fit together.”

 “Control freak.” I teased.

He sighed dramatically. “More like occupational hazard.”

We both laughed quietly. The kind that didn’t demand eye contact, that came from familiarity and the small absurdities of each other’s habits. He poured two glasses of water, handed me one.

“So what’s your version of relaxing, then?”

“Cooking something that doesn’t involve a client’s dietary preferences.” I said.

He cocked his brows, “Mm. Dangerous rebellion.”

 “Wild, I know.”

We ate by the kitchen island, barefoot, without plates, just toast, eggs, and the faint hum of the city outside. Nothing posed, nothing polished. But beneath the teasing, there was something more in the quiet moments. In  the way he reached over to brush a crumb from my lip, or how his gaze lingered just a second too long when I wasn’t speaking. After breakfast, he collapsed onto the couch, I joined him. Both of us too stubborn to admit that being this still together, tangled limbs, mismatched breathing, felt more intimate than anything else we’d done all week. He cleared his throat.

 “There’s something I’d like to ask of you Sasha.”

I looked at him curiously, “what?”

 “If it’s okay with you, I would like for you to meet them.”

I immediately knew he meant his kids and I flinched slightly, not out of fear of him, but because of the tiny humans whose lives he carried in his heart.

 “Over dinner, if you’re okay with it.” He said.

I swallowed hard, trying to imagine myself with them. A five year old’s bright, curious eyes, a four year old’s laughter and chaos. What would they think? Would they like me? Would they understand my place in his life? And worse… could I hold up to the kind of woman I wanted them to see me as?

 “I… I don’t know,” I admitted, voice small. “They’re so little. What if they… I don’t know… they won’t like me? Or they’ll be scared?”

 He moved closer, tilting his head, studying me with quiet intensity. “They’re little,” he said softly, “but they’re smart in ways adults often forget. And I don’t want them to scare you. I just… want them to meet someone I care about. Someone I trust and love.”

  I felt a lump in my throat. There was something in the way he said it, not entitlement, not pressure, just honesty, and a deep desire to share his world with me.

“I… okay,” I whispered, heart hammering. “I’ll meet them. We can… do dinner.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face. He reached out, brushing a hand over mine. “That’s all I ask. No expectations. Just a start.”

I nodded, letting myself feel the warmth of his hand, the weight of his trust. Even as anxiety and questions lingered in my chest. I felt hopeful, hopeful that I could belong in this little world he carried with him, that I could be a part of something bigger than just us. That maybe, slowly, I could find a place not just in his heart, but in the life he’d built for himself, for his kids, and maybe, eventually for myself too. And as I watched him lean back, relaxed and quietly content, I realized love wasn’t about perfect timing. It was about the courage to step forward, even when the path was uncertain, and to let someone in. Heart first, boundaries intact, and entirely visible.

The evening smelled of roasted chicken, warm bread, and something faintly sweet. Vanilla from the little desserts Crest had a Chef prepare for the kids. I stood at the doorway, hands clasped in front of me, feeling my stomach twist with nerves. I took a breath, trying to steady myself, but my mind raced with all the “what ifs.” What if they didn’t like me? What if I said the wrong thing? What if I wasn’t enough? Crest appeared behind me, his presence reassuring me.

“You’ll be fine,” he said softly, his hand brushing my back. “They’re just kids. You don’t have to be anything other than yourself.”

I nodded, though my chest was tight. “I just… I want to make a good impression. I don’t want them to be scared of me… or disappointed.”

He smiled, a mix of reassurance and something more vulnerable. “You’re not going to scare them. And they’ll never be disappointed by you. I promise.”

The door opened, and the nanny brought the kids in. They ran to him. The five year old, a boy with curious eyes and an endless supply of energy, flung himself into Crest’s arms. The four year old, a little smaller and quieter, peeked from behind his brother, holding a stuffed bear like armor. I felt my heart squeeze at the sight, the raw love between father and children palpable in the air. Crest knelt, scooping up the smaller one, holding them close for a moment. “Hey, buddies,” his voice was warm. He asked them how they were doing, joked around a bit then said.

“I want you to meet someone very special.”

I took a cautious step forward.

“Hi,” I said, voice a little trembling. “I’m… I’m Sasha and I’ve heard so much about you two. I’m excited to meet you.”

The older one tilted his head, eyeing me with a mixture of curiosity and calculation, like he was testing the waters. “You’re… his friend?” He asked.

“Yes,” I said, smiling nervously. “I’m his friend. And… someone who cares about him a lot.”

The younger one clutched his bear a little tighter, eyes wide. I knelt slowly, keeping myself low and non-threatening. “Hi there,” I said gently. “I’m glad to meet you.”

 Crest watched me, his hand brushing mine for a fleeting moment, a silent reminder that I wasn’t alone in this.

Dinner started with the adults serving the kids first. I tried to keep it casual, asking about their favorite foods and toys, trying to gauge the dynamic without overstepping. The older one, Ethan, cautiously accepted a small piece of chicken, while the younger one, Ivan, hesitated, glancing at Crest before taking a bite.Throughout the meal, I felt tension in my chest, the weight of wanting to be accepted pressing down. Every glance, every pause, every quiet question from the kids felt amplified. And then something shifted.

Ethan smiled at a joke Crest made. Ivan reached for my hand to steady himself as he tried to pour a glass of water. A quiet warmth spread through me. A small, precious acceptance, the first real step towards belonging. Crest’s eyes met mine across the table. No words were needed. I could see it in him. Relief, love, pride, and a quiet awe that I was here, navigating this delicate space with him.

By the time dessert arrived, small chocolate cupcakes with swirls of vanilla frosting. Laughter had started to fill the room. The older boy asked for seconds, the younger one giggled when frosting smeared on his cheek. I helped wipe it off, and the simple touch, the shared laughter, the normalcy of this family moment, made my chest ache in the best way.

After the meal, the kids were tucked into bed, sleepy and content. Crest pulled me into the kitchen, and I leaned against him, exhaustion and relief mingling in a tangible warmth.

“They like you,” he said quietly, voice full of wonder and something deeper. “And I… I knew they would.”

 I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the tension slip away.

“I was so worried,” I admitted softly. “I didn’t want to ruin this for you… for them.”

He cupped my face gently, thumb brushing my cheek. “You didn’t. You were perfect. You were real. That’s all I ever wanted, for them to see you as you are, and for me to finally have someone I trust and love.”

I felt tears prick my eyes, but they weren’t tears of fear. They were relief, joy, and the raw power of being accepted, not just by him, but by the life he had built. The one I was now stepping into.That night, lying beside him later, I realized that love wasn’t just about the passion between two people. It was about trust, courage, and showing up, even when the stakes felt impossibly high. And I had shown up.