Chapter Text
The three-star restaurant is packed. The perfect setting for a high-end establishment. The waiters are dressed in black with immaculate white waist aprons. Just another Friday at Luca's in Copenhagen. The streets outside are lit by street lamps and the enchanting view is only visible from four tables. Small candles illuminate the white tablecloths, dishes are served, waiters move quickly and politely. Nothing is left to chance, everything is measured to perfection and the pastries are worth selling your soul to the devil for.
You always book in advance, the table near the bay window for Friday night. It has become a ritual, a sort of gift you give yourself at the end of the week. And today is no exception.
This is already the third time you've done this since discovering the restaurant tucked away at the corner of an alley. Three times you've come and sat at the same table with your gaze lost outside, and three times you haven't finished your meal. Chef Luca doesn't pay attention at first. At least not particularly. At the end of every service, he always inspects the leftovers to see what is appreciated and what isn't, and your plates are always half full. His blue eyes scan them every single time, no potatoes left untouched or vegetables pushed to the side, just half of the dish eaten. The first time, he tells himself it's nothing serious. The second time, he takes the plate and tastes it to see if something is wrong. The third time, he frowns. Which is why today, when you sit down at your usual table and stare through the bay window, he watches you from the kitchen.
He notices your tense posture, your legs crossed beneath the table and your phone that you check far too often for his liking. When your order comes in, he takes care of it personally. A citrus avocado starter, a risotto with shavings of Italian parmesan and, for dessert, a chocolate mousse. You ask for the mushrooms and seafood to be removed from the dish. A request that leaves him confused considering they're the very heart of the plate, but his muscular arms accept the challenge and he decides to make you something special.
The sous-chef watches him from the corner of his eye as Luca delegates the other dishes to focus entirely on yours. And about thirty minutes later, your appetizer arrives. He watches as the waiter places the plate in front of you and you order a glass of non-alcoholic wine. Strange once again, but he heads back into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on your meal.
Chef Luca is patient, kind with his team, orders fly around but are never shouted. He handles his tools with care and cooks with his heart. The Michelin stars are there to prove his excellence and he puts his expertise into your plate in a particularly personal way. It's not an ego thing, he simply hates knowing a customer has left dissatisfied with his food.
Classical music echoes through the restaurant, cutlery clinks and quiet conversations fill the space. Your flowing dress falls along your legs all the way down to your heels. Curly hair pinned into a bun, a few strands resting against your temples and a sad look directed at your plate. You place your fork and knife to the side before picking up your phone. You're alone, not a word, not a smile, just a plate returning to the kitchen with the entire right side untouched. Luca wipes his hands on his apron, his black shirt rolled up over his tattooed forearms, then picks up the plate and inspects it. The avocado is creamy, the radish shavings are crisp, the seasoning is perfect and everything blends together in harmony despite the absence of crab. He looks at you again from afar, you sip your non-alcoholic wine without even lifting your eyes and remain glued to your phone while waiting for the main course.
Luca sighs before pressing the bell to send it out. You welcome it with a small, polite smile before beginning to eat while watching passersby walk through the streets outside. Your expression is melancholic and your movements elegant. You look like a painting frozen in time through flavors and candlelight. He glances at the silver watch on his wrist, answers a few questions and then gets to work on your dessert. You eat slowly, a good hour passes before the waiter brings your plate back and once again Luca loses patience when he sees it unfinished. He even makes his sous-chef taste it and judging by the pleased groan that follows, the dish is excellent, so why don't you finish it? He can't understand it.
If you didn't like it, you wouldn't have eaten it. If it didn't interest you, you wouldn't have ordered it and considering the outrageous prices of his restaurant, you might as well enjoy it. He chooses to ignore his disappointment and send out the dessert instead. He practically follows the waiter into the dining room and positions himself at a reasonable distance. He shakes a few hands, those of regular customers, wealthy neighbors and simple admirers of his cooking, but he never looks away from you. No, you remain the center of his attention. At six foot three, he towers over almost everyone. He stays behind the register, arms crossed, leaning against the counter where menus and napkins are stacked.
Every bite is watched, analyzed, dissected. You barely react, no expression of pleasure, no dissatisfaction either. You eat your dessert quietly, ignoring the world around you as if there is only you inside your little bubble. He sees you as a loner. You come here alone every Friday and tonight, you somehow look even sadder than the week before. And yet he added little surprises to the chocolate mousse: caramelized hazelnuts, tiny biscuits and a sprinkle of crushed peanuts. A delight for anyone willing to be seduced by it, but you remain neutral. Every spoonful brings you closer to halfway and Luca holds his breath.
Then suddenly, you place a hand on your throat and begin coughing. Not a pretty cough. A frightening cough. The kind of cough that makes people think something is stuck. Luca doesn't waste a second. He crosses the restaurant with quick strides. He's the only one who noticed you were struggling to breathe.
“Hey, are you alright? Need help?” His hand brushes against your arm while you cough before sliding up to your shoulder.
“I’m- cough- fine- cough- the hazelnuts- stuck.”
“No, don't talk. Drink this.” Luca fills your glass with water and places it in front of you. “Drink.” he says as he leans over you. It doesn't sound like an order, but it isn't very far from one. You hear the urgency behind it and empty the glass in one go. “Easy now. Yeah, just like that. Better? Still stuck?”
You shake your head. Your coughing is less violent but still there. You take another sip of water. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes from the effort.
“Look at me.”
You lift your eyes and your gazes connect instantly. His is soft and blue, a mixture of certainty and confidence that reassures you.
“Breathe. It'll pass.”
You nod and swallow hard and he smiles.
“See? All gone.”
He straightens up and his hand leaves your shoulder. He moves to the other side of your table and leans against the chair while watching you catch your breath.
“Thank you.” You clear your throat softly and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
“So I suppose the hazelnuts were a bit too big.”
“No. No. It was fine. Delicious.” You push the empty bowl slightly across the table to show him you've finished eating. His gaze drops to it before returning to you.
“You're sure it was delicious? You might as well be honest with me. Any feedback is welcome.”
“Excuse me, who are you?”
“Fair.” He laughs quietly. “I'm the owner and the chef of this restaurant. My name is Luca, but you can call me Chef.” He offers you his hand. “For now.”
“Oh!” You shake it. His hand is large around yours, warm and surprisingly soft. “I'm-”
“You're Friday.”
He watches you frown.
“You've come here every Friday since last month.”
“You noticed?”
“I did. Especially when you don't finish your meal every single time. You offended a chef, that's quite an uncommon thing to do.” He smiles. “I'm kidding. I was curious about you. Well, about your taste, at least. Your satisfaction is mine. Help me achieve it.”
His hands grip the back of the chair and he leans a little closer.
“Please.”
He straightens up again and crosses his arms.
“What was wrong with the menu?”
“Nothing.” You swallow hard. “Really.”
“Try again.” The answer comes too quickly and he immediately reins himself in. “You're not obliged to answer, but I'd appreciate some honest feedback. It's the only way for me to know what you like.”
You look left, then right, then back at him. His gaze hasn't left you once. You take a deep breath and begin turning your glass slowly against the table.
“The appetizer... Good, but a little sour.”
“Too much citrus, alright.” He nods.
“The main course, too simple.”
“I should've replaced the protein instead of simply removing the grilled octopus.”
“And the dessert...”
“You nearly choked on it.” A smile stretches across his lips.
“More biscuit.”
“Interesting.” He thinks for a moment. “Good to know for next time.”
“Yeah...” You lower your eyes to your phone. It's almost ten o'clock already. And you're already thinking about the trip back home.
“Would you like some tea? Coffee? I have to make amends for the incident. The bill is on the house.”
You are about to refuse.
“Don't fight it. I'm a gentleman. It's the British side of me.”
“A tea would be nice.”
“Let me guess, green?”
“Black.”
You smile despite yourself. You have the vague impression that he's flirting, but you could be wrong, so you look away.
“Thank you.”
“The waitress will be back with your tea.” He smooths down his apron. “Have a lovely evening, ma'am.”
“You too, Chef.”
You watch him walk away, say something to a waiter while pointing toward your table and disappear back into the kitchen. A few minutes later, your tea arrives, along with a tray of miniature pastries, each one more tempting than the last. The waiter tells you they're compliments of the house and thanks you politely before leaving.
You start on the desserts with an appetite you hadn't expected and, about thirty minutes later, you push open the doors of the restaurant without knowing that the chef is watching you leave with a thoughtful expression.
The following Friday is a rainy day. Heavy drops fall over the canal, the streets are slippery and umbrellas are everywhere. Around seven thirty in the evening, you walk through the double doors of the Michelin-starred restaurant. The waiter guides you to a table you know all too well. You take off your trench coat and sit down on a comfortable chair. September is damp and slightly cold. You pull at the sleeves of your light sweater as you pretend to read the menu. You already know what you're going to order, the same thing as last time and the times before that. The brunette waiter with the mischievous eyes keeps a straight face when you tell him what you want. He doesn't write anything down as if he already knows. He brings you your non-alcoholic wine and a carafe of water. Then a bowl of warm homemade bread with salt and pepper on the side.
Your thoughts drift toward the people passing by outside. You've been holding back your tears for hours, a deep sadness pulling at your features. You swallow it down and fiddle with your phone. Videos scroll by, you don't listen, you only watch to pass the time. Some are funny, others thought-provoking. You rest your face against one hand, your expression passive when your appetizer arrives.
The first thing you notice is that the lemon is much softer, lighter, almost bright somehow. It's no longer served as a sauce but as an airy foam. The avocado melts in your mouth and the radishes are crisp. It's good, so good that you eat more than half of it but not the entire plate. The second course arrives a few minutes later and you lift your eyes to thank the waiter automatically, but a blond man with blue eyes greets you instead. He places the dish in front of you with almost reverential grace before giving you a wink. You can't help but smile.
“Hi, Chef.”
“Evening, Friday. I came myself to check whether the risotto is to your liking.”
“You mean you'll stay here while I eat?”
“If it doesn't bother you, yes. You look like you could use some company. Though don't hesitate to tell me I'm wrong. I'm perfectly willing to hear a very polite ‘leave me alone and go back to your kitchen, Chef.’”
“I wouldn't say that.” You laugh a little but he notices your smile doesn't quite reach your eyes. “You can stay. Do you want to sit down?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “Wouldn't be appropriate. I should maintain some composure while spying.”
He stands behind the chair, his hands gripping the wood. You can see his tattoos more clearly now, vegetables, drawings, all more artistic than the last. You pick up your cutlery and begin eating. You don't dare look up but you know his blue eyes are fixed on you. He's not intimidating, or maybe he is a little, but it isn't unpleasant. Something about him feels kind and there is something else beneath it, something controlled. Not in a bad way, at least not to you. The tears you've been holding back since this morning are almost forgotten. The dish is comforting, like an old grandmother's recipe he reinvented to fit within a fine dining setting. Silence takes up space as spoonful after spoonful disappears and eventually you decide to look at him. He smiles.
“Keep going. Almost there.”
You swallow the last spoonful and his smile widens.
“You did it.”
“Yeah...” You pull your sleeves over your hands and he notices. “You added bacon.”
“The very best for you. I mean for my clients.” He pauses. “I choose my suppliers myself.” Another pause. “Are you alright today?”
“Yes, why?” You smile awkwardly.
“You look... sad. May I ask why? I'm a curious sort, forgive my bluntness. You usually seem to drown in melancholy but today there's something else.”
“It's, uh... personal.”
“Right. Of course. I respect that.” He picks up your empty plate. “Your dessert is waiting for you. I'll be back with it.”
He starts walking away. Your breathing quickens and the words leave your mouth as if they had been waiting for permission all along.
“I'm pregnant.”
He turns around. Contrary to what you expected, he doesn't look surprised. He almost looks happy for you.
“That's good news. Congratulations. But it doesn't explain why you're sad.” He studies you. “The father?”
“Not in the picture.”
You pull at your sleeves again, a nervous habit or maybe he hopes you're simply cold. Luca doesn't want you to feel nervous around him and the thought intrigues him.
“How far along are you?”
“Three and a half months.”
“I see...” He nods as though he's suddenly understood something about you. “I didn't know.” He nods again. “That deserves a little treat. What's your favorite dessert? And don't tell me to surprise you, that's a death sentence for a chef. You might as well sleep here because I'd take far too long, so choose something and I'll bake it.”
“Really?” you ask incredulously.
“Come on, Friday. Try me. Don't be shy now when I can still fix it.”
“Cinnamon rolls.”
“An hour and a half wait. Does that sound fair to you?”
“Yeah. Thank you.”
You smile a little wider and Luca seems to freeze.
He grips the edge of the plate harder than necessary and nods before heading back into the kitchen. The waiter comes over with tea and little pastries, you tell him you didn't order any and he replies that the chef made them for you. The cup is warm in your hands, warming both your body and your heart. The sadness inside of you seems to lose some of its space and you feel grateful.
Finally, someone who sees you, who sees beyond the facade and acts for you. This gift may seem small but to you, this tea is worth all the gold in the world. The rain keeps falling over Copenhagen while you sip hot tea with a slightly lighter mind. The tables begin to empty as the night goes on. Conversations become rarer. Two hours later, the waiters clear the tables and there are almost no customers left apart from a couple in the corner and you. Luca returns with a plate of three steaming cinnamon rolls and places it in front of you. You slip your phone into your bag, the sweet smell makes you hungry.
“Mmm, it smells good.”
“Homemade bakery effect.” He stands behind the chair across from you as usual. “Extra butter and extra icing sugar for the lovely pregnant lady. I can add ice cream if you fancy it. And don't forget the feedback, I'm rather eager for that.”
“Alright, I taste and I tell you.”
“Please, be my guest.”
You pick up your fork and he makes a disapproving sound.
“Eat with your fingers. Better flavor. Trust me.”
You do as he asks without even arguing and he licks his lower lip.
“Good gi-... uh yeah.”
The dough is perfectly soft. The cream melts on your tongue. There is a little crunch to it, hazelnut chocolate. Sweet and not bitter. You close your eyes as you chew and a quiet moan escapes you. He watches you eat with your cheeks full, satisfying in a way that feels almost intimate. Watching you enjoy his cooking creates a kind of euphoria inside him and his smile widens. You eat one, then the second, then the last one. Your fingers are covered in thick cream and you lick them eagerly while Luca finds himself caught by your slow movements.
“Right. I'm definitely adding those to the menu. You seem to like them, Friday.”
“It’s really, really good. Oh my God! How can it be this good?!”
“Chef's secret. Want more?”
“No, no, that's enough sugar for tonight.” You laugh, happy for once. “Thank you, Chef. I'm going to wash my hands and head home. It's late.”
You stand up, move too quickly and the top of your thigh hits the edge of the table.
“Ouch!” you exclaim with a grimace.
“Hey. Hey, what happened? Did you bump yourself?”
He steps closer to you and it's only now that you realize just how tall he is. You stammer something but Luca is already crouching in front of you, inspecting your bare thigh beneath your skirt.
“Sharp edges... I should buy new tables with rounded ones.”
His warm hand moves across your skin as he checks whether a bruise is forming, too focused, too involved. You remain speechless somewhere between surprise and satisfaction. You blame your hormones because the way he touches you stirs something inside of you.
“You don't need to throw away the tables. I'm just clumsy.”
“I don't need to, no.” He rises slowly, his hand gliding over your skin, then your skirt which he adjusts slightly over your thigh before moving to your arm. “But I want to.”
“Okay...” you breathe.
The closeness is overwhelming for a few seconds. Neither of you moves and then he steps back and removes his hand at the same time.
“Doggy bag for later then. No discussion.”
“Chef?”
“No. Discussion.” He says seriously before his features soften and a smile appears. He steps back again to let you pass and you hurry away from him.
“Same time next week? I might have more surprises for you.” He laughs. “I'm talking about the menu. That came out wrong. I'd like to keep this routine. I work hard to make you finish your plates and it's surprisingly fulfilling. How does that sound?”
“Uh... good. Sounds good.”
“Will you give me the honor of coming back?”
“I will.”