Chapter Text
11 August 2024
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
The clock struck 2 a.m.
Another hour and forty-five minutes of his life had vanished.
105 minutes. 6,300 seconds.
Carlos sat with his head in his hands, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the cold, dirty concrete floor. The commotion around him, screaming, swearing, weeping, was distant, muffled by the storm in his mind. None of them, he thought, could possibly feel as hollow as he did right now.
He could have spent these 105 minutes back in the sanctuary of his kitchen, immersed in the quiet solace of his craft, perfecting next week’s menu. His thoughts drifted to his latest creation, mentally listing its elements like a mantra. Scallops, hazelnut purée, seaweed oil, a delicate balance plated with precision.
The Pacific Harbor.
“I’LL KILL THAT BLOODY BASTARD! THINK I’M SCARED? HA! I’LL DO IT RIGHT HERE AT THE STATION!”
Carlos’s gaze flicked up, catching a glimpse of the man shouting, being restrained by two officers. The sight should have been shocking, but it barely stirred him. London thrived on chaos. Everything here moved too fast, consumed too quickly, discarded without a thought. He’d defied that rhythm to chase his dream, enduring the grueling years of training, the sleepless nights, the relentless pressure.
He had earned this. A fine dining restaurant, Passion Lumière, his own.
Yet here he was.
A brawl outside the restaurant. A ridiculous spat that escalated into an absurd spectacle had dragged him into this police station at an hour meant for calm and creation. His sous chef had foolishly intervened, and with his business partner Charles conveniently unavailable, the responsibility had fallen on Carlos.
He hated the unexpected, the disruption. It grated against everything he meticulously planned.
Now, 106 minutes had slipped through his fingers.
He felt someone sit beside him. He didn’t bother looking up, rubbing his temples as he exhaled heavily. His eyes flicked to the clock again, counting the seconds as though willing time to speed up. He hadn’t felt this angry in a long time, not since… well, it didn’t matter.
His thoughts were interrupted by the person beside him shifting uncomfortably, their presence insistent. Carlos glanced sideways, and his breath caught.
The face was unmistakable.
Those eyes, unfocused but undeniably familiar, stared blankly at the wall ahead. For a moment, Carlos froze, his stomach lurching.
He should have looked away. He should have stood and walked to the other side of the room. But the moment their gazes met, it was too late.
The grin spread across the man’s face, lazy and crooked. He leaned forward, eyebrows arched in mock recognition.
“Oh, you’re my destiny.”
Carlos blinked. He didn’t respond. He didn’t move.
The man’s voice cut through the din again, playful and bold.
“What are you doing here? Did you finally realize you’re into bad boys?”
Carlos fought the urge to roll his eyes. It was infuriating how easily this stranger (a stranger?) could unnerve him. Yet, inexplicably, Carlos couldn’t look away. He could have ignored him, pretended he didn’t exist.
He didn’t.
When his silence lingered too long, the man tilted his head, his confidence faltering. He leaned closer, speaking in a softer, uncertain tone.
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember me. Lando. We met at the museum.”
Carlos could smell the alcohol wafting off him now, the kind of sharp, sweet sting that made his stomach churn. And up close he could see the half-lidded eyes, the pouting lips, the riot of curly hair framing a face speckled with freckles and smudged eyeliner.
Somehow, impossibly, he still looked stunning.
When Carlos forced his gaze from those lips back to his eyes, he noticed the smirk playing on Lando’s face. A lazy, teasing curve that made Carlos’s palms itch.
“I remember you,” Carlos finally said, his voice taut. “I’m just here as a witness. Nothing more.”
Lando slumped back in his chair, a flash of disappointment crossing his features before he unabashedly raked his gaze over Carlos.
“Well, if you’d like, I could teach you how to call someone from a completely fake number on your own phone,” Lando said with a sly grin.
Carlos frowned, his mind stumbling over the absurdity of the offer. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to understand.
“What? How drunk are you?”
Lando threw his head back and laughed, a sound so loud and uninhibited that it turned heads across the room. He laughed like the question itself was the funniest thing he’d ever heard, and by the time he calmed down, tears sparkled at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with one hand, the other clutching the oversized coat draped over his shoulders. His eyeliner was now a full-blown mess.
“I hate alcohol, you idiot,” Lando said, still chuckling.
Carlos tilted his head, his suspicion sharpening. “Are you trying to tell me you’re sober right now?”
The laugh that bubbled up from Lando’s chest was quieter this time but just as unrestrained. “Hell no. I’m drunk as fuck, mate. How’d you figure it out?”
Carlos didn’t answer, just shrugged, his lips pressing into a line as he glanced away again. He didn’t want to admit how much effort it was taking to avoid getting swept up in Lando’s reckless energy. His eyes darted to the clock. 112 minutes.
When would this nightmare end?
He could feel Lando fidgeting next to him, his presence impossible to ignore. The silence between them wasn’t long-lived. Carlos found himself glancing back, drawn by a strange mix of irritation and curiosity. He caught Lando staring at him, unashamed and unbothered by being caught.
A wide smile stretched across Lando’s face as their eyes met.
“Why are you here?” Carlos asked before he could stop himself. He wasn’t sure he cared, but the words tumbled out anyway.
Lando tilted his head, lips parting to answer, but before he could speak, a police officer stepped forward. They grabbed Lando by the arm, pulling him to his feet. The movement sent the coat sliding off Lando’s shoulders and onto the floor, revealing the handcuffs binding his wrists.
Carlos blinked, his brows shooting up. Of all the ridiculous things, this he hadn’t seen coming.
Lando caught his expression and bit his lip, grinning like he was sharing a dirty little secret. “Guess you’re in love with a criminal.”
“I’m not in love with you,” Carlos shot back reflexively, his voice flat.
Lando laughed again, this time a soft, knowing chuckle, as though Carlos had said something adorable. He didn’t resist as the officer began leading him away. Instead, he turned back one last time, his curls bouncing as he winked.
“Not yet,” he called over his shoulder. “Call me!”
Carlos stared after him, the ridiculousness of the situation leaving him rooted to his chair. The memory of their first meeting flickered in his mind, how Lando had charmed him then, too, without even trying.
A sharp cough from another officer brought Carlos back to the present. He tore his gaze away from the now-empty hallway and shook his head.
The last thought he allowed himself about Lando was that he didn’t have time for this, and he sincerely hoped they’d never cross paths again.
Not that it mattered. Lando hadn’t even given him his number.
---
June 2024, The National Gallery, London
"Your eyes are between green and grey. It's beautiful."
Carlos couldn’t take his eyes off the stranger he’d met just ten minutes ago. They had been discussing the life story of some obscure painter or at least Lando had been, with such earnestness that Carlos couldn’t tell if it was truth or pure fantasy. Either way, the passion in his voice made Carlos believe it.
At the compliment, Lando’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, and he turned his gaze away, a shy smile tugging at his lips. The sparkle in his eyes, the way he animated every word, that subtle but sincere reaction to being admired, Carlos found himself drawn to those details even more than the story itself.
Lando looked back at him, catching Carlos mid-stare. Carlos didn’t bother looking away. He didn’t care that he’d been caught. A few moments of charged silence passed before Lando exhaled deeply and said something Carlos would struggle to forget.
“You and I… we’re destined to be.”
Carlos blinked, the words landing on him like a weight. Was this… a confession? It took a second too long for the meaning to register, and when it did, he frowned, scrambling for a response.
“What?”
Lando grimaced, pressing a hand to his chest as though his heart had suddenly betrayed him. Carlos watched, still dumbfounded, as Lando massaged the spot over his heart.
“Forget it, man. I think I’m having a heart attack.”
Before Carlos could even process the absurdity of what had just happened, Lando turned and began walking toward the museum exit, leaving Carlos frozen in place, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly agape.
What the actual hell had just happened?
“That smoking hot guy you were just talking to. Don’t tell me you didn’t get his number after ten straight minutes of eye-sex!”
Charles’s voice was far too loud for a museum, and his arm was slung casually over Carlos’s shoulders like they weren’t already attracting glares from everyone in the room. Carlos snapped out of his daze, shrugging Charles’s arm off and shooting him a scowl.
“I have no idea what just happened,” Carlos muttered.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Charles quipped, grinning like he’d just solved a riddle. “You two had a deep, soulful chat and undressed each other with your eyes the whole time...”
Carlos grabbed Charles by the arm and silenced him with a sharp tug, his gaze still fixed on the exit where Lando had disappeared. When he finally turned to face Charles, his friend raised a single brow, clearly expecting an explanation for the interruption.
“It was… weird,” Carlos admitted. “And maybe a little… unsettling?”
Charles threw his hands up dramatically, his disbelief practically dripping from his expression. “That doesn’t make him any less ridiculously attractive!”
And as if Carlos’s words were irrelevant, he groaned loudly for the entire room to hear.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t get his number!”
Carlos’s patience snapped. He gripped Charles’s arm again, practically dragging him toward the museum doors. People turned to glare, their looks dripping with disdain, but Carlos ignored them, focused only on shutting Charles up.
“¡Dios mío! Just stop talking! Everyone can hear you!”
Charles finally quieted, though he offered a sheepish smile to the judging onlookers. It did nothing to help; the glares only grew sharper. Carlos, meanwhile, couldn’t stop replaying Lando’s words in his head.
And his eyes.
But as the weeks passed, the memory of Lando faded, buried under the weight of opening the restaurant. Passion Lumière consumed every waking thought, and Carlos convinced himself it didn’t matter.
Sure, on rare nights, as he laid his head on his pillow, he thought about Lando, his ridiculous talk of fate, the way he’d smiled, but Carlos knew better. Even without the bizarre talk of destiny, there was no room in his life for someone like that.
Love was just a waste of time. And time was something Carlos couldn’t afford to lose.
Besides, he was certain he’d never see Lando again.
---
9 September 2024
Carlos had been staring at the same plate for 45 seconds. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He narrowed his eyes, oblivious to the trembling figure of Franco beside him, and finally spotted the issue. Straightening up, he fixed his gaze on Franco and pointed to the plate.
“How hard is it to use a piping bag? Is it impossible to plate the same damn sauce consistently? Or are you just this incompetent, Chef?”
Franco quickly nodded, swallowing hard as he stammered, “No, Chef.”
“Then fix it. Now.”
Franco snatched the plate and hurried away. It was a hectic Friday night, and on days like this, Carlos’s temper flared dangerously, something the entire kitchen staff was painfully aware of. He turned back to his own work, carefully filling the zucchini flowers with honey.
Cooking had once been his greatest joy. Even now, despite the chaos of busy nights and the pressure of running a new restaurant, it brought him a quiet sense of satisfaction. But perhaps he was too much of a perfectionist, like all great chefs. Every dish needed to be flawless: the exact weight, the freshest ingredients, the perfect symmetry in presentation. He inspected each plate like a jeweler examining a diamond, and the slightest imperfection could send ripples of panic through the kitchen.
Like just now.
Satisfied with his work, Carlos set the filled zucchini flower down just as Charles appeared beside him.
“A guest wants to speak with you,” Charles announced.
Without looking up, Carlos grabbed another flower, his movements deliberate and precise. “You know I hate leaving the kitchen.”
“He seemed upset. I tried handling it, but he insisted on speaking to you personally.”
Carlos frowned and glanced at Charles briefly. As the restaurant manager and unofficial head waiter, since they still hadn’t found one. Charles handled most of the front-of-house drama. Despite his knack for the role, Carlos knew Charles secretly loved it. When they’d first met, Charles had dreamed of opening a cozy, quaint café. Now, here he was, navigating the chaos of fine dining with an ease that baffled Carlos.
And yet, Carlos couldn’t stand him most days. Charles was too chatty, too warm, too fun-loving. It annoyed Carlos endlessly though everyone else seemed to adore him.
“Should I tell them the Chef doesn’t give a damn about them, or are you going to handle it?”
Snapping out of his thoughts, Carlos rolled his eyes, set down the flower, and wiped his hands on his apron.
When they reached the kitchen door, Charles pointed out the guest through the glass. Carlos sighed and pushed the door open.
Approaching the table, he forced a polite smile. Why was smiling so hard?
“Good evening, it’s a pleasure to have you with us...”
“Oh my god, Carlos Sainz! See? I told you if we sulked long enough, he’d come out!”
The man turned excitedly to the woman beside him, completely cutting Carlos off. As realization dawned, Carlos mentally cursed but kept his face neutral. No matter what, he had to be polite to guests.
After a brief, stilted exchange, Carlos made his excuses and turned to head back to the kitchen. But then his eyes landed on someone, a figure with impeccably styled curls, his back turned toward him. Familiar.
Too familiar.
Carlos tried to brush it off, but as he walked past, he had no choice but to pass by the curly-haired man.
“Carlos?”
Damn it. He should’ve taken the long way around. And now, to make matters worse, Carlos’s gaze met Lando’s.
Lando was sitting there in a partially unbuttoned white shirt and navy dress pants, looking entirely too good for Carlos’s peace of mind. He stared back at Carlos with a mix of surprise and amusement.
“Wait,” said the man sitting across from Lando, clearly confused.
“Oh, I know him,” Lando said casually, waving his free hand. The other was still holding the man’s.
Carlos squinted, his instincts screaming at him to walk away and ignore the interaction. But curiosity gnawed at him.
“My date,” Lando added, his grin wicked. “Jealous?”
“No,” Carlos said flatly.
“Really? That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
The man across from Lando frowned. “What exactly do you mean by ‘know him’?”
Lando ignored him completely, his gaze fixed on Carlos, as if he were savoring the moment.
“Ah, so you work here,” Lando said, a spark of realization lighting up his expression.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Carlos glared. He was ready to argue when Ollie appeared beside him, speaking quietly.
“Chef, we need you in the kitchen. That word makes you a monster, respectfully, but it’s urgent.”
Carlos snapped out of the strange tension with Lando and turned to Ollie. Nodding briskly, he followed him back toward the kitchen. Still, as they walked, Carlos couldn’t help but glance back one last time.
Lando was already watching him. He grinned, winked, and mouthed, See you.
Carlos tore his gaze away, muttering a curse under his breath. He wouldn’t let this nonsense interfere with his work.
Stepping into the kitchen, Carlos could feel the tension in the air. Everyone was staring at him. He cracked a sharp, humorless smile.
“All right. What’s urgent, and who am I going to kill, fuckers?”
Ollie hadn’t been wrong. That word really did bring out the worst in him.
As the kitchen settled into the rhythm of final service, Carlos slipped out the back door into the alleyway for his customary five-minute break. The cold air hit his face, sharp and uninviting, but he welcomed it. From his pocket, he pulled a cigarette, the habit he’d sworn to quit but couldn’t seem to let go. He reached for his lighter, but stopped mid-motion.
Someone was already there.
Lando.
Carlos suppressed a groan, his fingers tightening around the cigarette. This night was relentless. But he wasn’t about to let someone, especially him, ruin his only moment of peace.
Lando hadn’t spoken yet, but he knew Carlos was there. The silence was almost worse than his usual teasing. Without a word, Carlos walked over and sat in the empty spot beside him, lighting his cigarette with practiced ease. He wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t speak. Just five minutes, then back to the kitchen.
“Isn’t smoking bad for your taste buds? I thought chefs were more careful about things like that.”
Lando’s voice was soft, almost contemplative. It was the kind of tone that made Carlos’s skin prickle, a voice too calm for someone who’d already caused so much chaos tonight. Carlos tilted his head back, staring at the dark, clouded sky. London wasn’t just cold; it was suffocating.
He didn’t answer.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and taut, until finally Carlos gave in and glanced his way. Lando was staring up at the sky too, his expression unreadable.
“Why are you here?” Carlos asked, his voice rough.
“Hiding from my date,” Lando said without missing a beat.
Carlos let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “What do you want from me?”
The words came out harsher than he intended, but he didn’t regret them. Lando turned to him, his gaze steady, his lips curling into the smallest of smiles.
“Taking a chance.”
Carlos stared at him, unsure whether to scoff or laugh. Instead, he sighed, his breath clouding in the freezing air. He owed this man nothing, but something in Lando’s unwavering expression made him pause. He chose his words carefully.
“Don’t. There’s no chance. No fate. No... whatever it is you think this is. I won’t change for anyone, least of all someone who keeps showing up out of nowhere and disrupting my life.”
He stood, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel.
“I won’t even change my five-minute break for you. Understand?”
Lando didn’t flinch. He didn’t argue. He simply nodded, his smile unwavering, as though Carlos’s rejection was the most fascinating thing he’d heard all night.
“10:15 to 10:20. Got it. See you tomorrow.”
Carlos blinked. “Excuse me?”
But Lando was already standing, brushing off his pants. He walked toward the street with an easy grace, and just before he disappeared around the corner, he turned back.
Carlos was still watching him.
Lando’s grin widened, playful and maddening, and he raised a hand to his lips, blowing a kiss. “Sweet dreams, chef.”
Carlos stared at the empty alley long after he was gone, the faint echo of his voice still lingering in the cold air.
He shook his head, muttering a curse under his breath. Maybe he was lucky. Maybe this persistent, infuriating man would lose interest and disappear, leaving Carlos’s carefully ordered life untouched.
But as he stepped back into the warmth of the kitchen, a strange unease settled in his chest.
Because something about Lando, his timing, his smile, the way he seemed to unravel Carlos’s world without even trying, felt like more than just a fleeting distraction.
It felt like trouble.
The kind of trouble you don’t escape from.