Sunlight was the first thing Marco felt.
The kind that pressed hot and insistent against his face, as if the day itself had leaned in too close. He groaned and turned his head into the pillow, dragging the sheet up instinctively, already half-aware that something was wrong.
Too quiet.
His eyes snapped open.
Light flooded the room. Full morning light. Not early. Not soft. Late.
Marco fumbled for his phone on the floor beside the mattress, heart already racing. The screen stayed black. He shook it once. Twice.
"No," he breathed.
He sat up too fast, the room tilting violently, and swiped the cable from the wall. Nothing. Dead. Completely dead.
The time blinked up at him the moment it caught a breath of power.
8:14.
"Oh, fuck."
He was supposed to be there at seven.
Seven meant prep. Seven meant knives laid out, stock checked, produce washed, coffee already gone cold in the corner. Seven meant on time.
Marco was already an hour and fourteen minutes late.
He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over his shoes, fingers shaking as he yanked on yesterday's jeans. His phone buzzed violently the moment it came to life, missed calls stacking over each other.
Luca (5)
Luca (6)
Luca (7)
A text followed, sharp and to the point.
Where are you?
Another, seconds later.
Henri's not happy.
That made something cold settle in his stomach.
Marco dragged a hand through his hair, breath coming shallow. His phone must have died sometime during the night. The charger, loose in the socket. The alarm never stood a chance.
"I'm dead," he muttered, already pulling on his jacket. "I'm actually dead."
He didn't shower. Didn't eat. He barely managed to shove his feet into his shoes before grabbing his keys and bolting for the door.
The stairwell hit him like a wall, steep and relentless. He took them two at a time, lungs burning, the echo of his steps ricocheting around him. The elevator door sat dark and accusing at the bottom, the same sign still taped there.
EN PANNE.
"Of course," he gasped, shoving through the front door into the street.
The city didn't care. Paris moved on, unbothered by his panic, cafés opening, bikes flashing past, people already halfway through their mornings. Marco flagged down a taxi with shaking hands, sliding into the back seat and rattled off the address.
He checked his phone again, thumb hovering.
Luca called immediately.
"I know," Marco said the second he answered. "I know, I'm so sorry, I'm in a cab—"
"Get here," Luca cut in, not unkind but tight. "Just get here."
"And Henri?"
There was a pause. Not long. Long enough. "He noticed," Luca said carefully. "That's all I'm saying."
The line went dead.
Marco stared at the phone as the car surged forward, stomach churning. He'd wanted to make a good impression. He'd wanted to disappear into the rhythm, earn his place quietly.
Instead, he was late on his first morning.
The kitchen didn't stop when Marco arrived but everyone noticed.
He slipped in through the service entrance, breathless, jacket half-zipped, hair still damp from the cold air.
Knives kept moving. Pans hissed. Someone glanced up, then looked away again, a quiet ripple passing through the line.
Luca looked up, began making his way to him.
Marco barely had time to clock the room before a voice cut through the noise, calm and even.
"Marco." Henri stood at the pass, arms folded loosely in front of him. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Marco glanced at Luca who had paused behind the bench, missing his chance.
"My office."
The kitchen went very still.
Marco closed his eyes for half a second. Just long enough to steady himself. Then he nodded.
"Yes, Chef."
He followed Henri down the narrow corridor, every step loud in his own ears. Despite the impending doom, he couldn't help but notice how well Henri filled in his black chef jacket.
The office door shut behind them with a soft click that felt final.
The room was clean, one wall filled with shelves of awards and accomplishments. Certificates lined one wall, and a large oak desk filled up the center of the room.
Henri didn't sit. He crossed to the window instead, cracked it open, and pulled a cigarette from the pack on his desk with his teeth. He lit it slowly, deliberately, smoke curling through the small room.
Marco stood where he'd been left, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid.
"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Chef, I—my phone died overnight. My alarm didn't go off. I should have—"
Henri raised one hand.
Marco stopped.
The silence stretched. Henri exhaled smoke toward the open window, eyes fixed somewhere beyond it, as if considering the city rather than the man standing in front of him.
"You were meant to be here at seven," Henri said at last.
"Yes, Chef."
"It is now," he glanced at his watch, "eight twenty-six."
Marco swallowed. "Yes, Chef."
Henri's gaze was heavy and assessing. "Do you know what I care about, Marco?"
Marco hesitated. "Your work?"
Henri's mouth twitched, not quite a smile as he dragged in another breath and flicked the ash into the tray, "Everyone says that. What I care about is consistency. About reliability. About knowing that when I walk into my kitchen, the people I expect to be there are already working."
Marco's cheeks warmed with shame, "Yes, Chef."
Henri studied him for a long moment. Marco kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, pulse loud in his ears.
"You worked well last night," he said.
The words landed unexpectedly.
"You listened. You moved fast. You didn't get in anyone's way." A pause. "That matters. That means I know you know what is expected of you."
Marco's shoulders loosened by a fraction before he caught himself.
"But," Henri went on, voice still calm, "this" he gestured vaguely, smoke drifting between them, "cannot become a pattern."
"It won't," Marco said quickly. "I promise. It won't happen again."
Henri took another drag, hazel green eyes narrowing in on him as he blew smoke out the window then stubbed the cigarette out with precise finality. "Why Paris?" he asked suddenly.
Marco blinked. "Chef?"
"Why here," Henri said, meeting his eyes fully now. "Why my kitchen."
The question wasn't aggressive. It was worse. Curious.
Marco chose his words carefully. "I -" He stopped himself. A thousand different reasons flooded his mind. He tried again. "There was no place else I'd rather be." Internally, Marco cursed himself for the stupid answer.
"And pressure?"
"I work well under it."
"Everyone thinks they do."
Marco almost smiled. Almost.
Henri picked up a file from his desk, glanced at it, then set it aside untouched. "You have an impressive resume. Who taught you to cook?"
Taken off guard by the question, Marco shuffled on his feet, "My dad." he said. He tried to force more but it was as if a wall slammed down between them.
Henri's eyes assessed him, then he leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath, "You're late," he said again. "But you showed up. I see you were in a rush..." His eyes glanced up and down Marco's disheveled form, "And you came straight to me."
"Yes, Chef."
Henri stepped past him, the scent of amber and the subtle hint of aftershave brushed Marco's senses, and opened the door. "Apron on. Luca will put you where you're needed."
He paused, just long enough to look back.
"Do not make me ask twice," he said quietly.
Marco straightened. "You won't. Thank you, Chef."
Henri held his gaze a beat longer, long enough that Marco could see the shadowed stubble on his cheeks and feel the heat of him close, then opened the door. "And Marco," he said.
"Yes, chef?"
"Comb your hair. You look like a toaster exploded in front of you."
Marco stepped out out, the kitchen noise rushed back in as if nothing happened. His hand came up to his head and he felt for his hair sticking up and internally groaned, smoothing his curls back with two hands. His heart was still racing, the weight of every eye on him and somewhere behind him, the office door closed again, softly.
The noise rushed back in as Marco stepped into the kitchen, heat and motion swallowing him whole.
Someone clicked their tongue.
"Alive," a voice said.
Another added, "Barely."
Marco tied his apron with fingers that still hadn't stopped shaking. He felt the eyes before he saw them, quick glances, exchanged looks, a shared understanding passing through the line.
"Eight-twenty," Mathieu murmured.
"Eight-twenty-two," Elodie corrected, "If we're being precise."
Marco exhaled. "I know."
Mathieu leaned over, voice deep and hollow. "You cry in there?"
"No," Marco said. "But I considered fainting."
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the kitchen, careful not to carry too far. Someone mimed crossing themselves.
"Office on your first morning," Luca said, eyes shimmering with amusement. "That's a rite of passage."
"Lucky me," Marco muttered, feeling the sting sharp and unrelenting on his pride.
Luca brushed up beside him, towel slung over one shoulder. "Alright," he said, clapping once. "He's late, not contagious. Back to work."
A few exaggerated sighs followed, but people turned back to their stations. The kitchen loosened, just slightly.
Luca leaned in. "You good?"
Marco nodded, though it felt like a lie. "Define good."
"Still employed," Luca said. "We'll start there."