Page 39 of In Somnis

It’s chaos, yes, a beautiful disaster only a restaurant mid-crisis can achieve, but it’s also organized chaos. The ticket rail is a mess, sure, and the prep station is cluttered, but the knife set is clean and carefully arranged.

He’s been trying. He’s been trying so hard.

I know that kind of trying. You keep a thing alive with adrenaline, instinct, and the stupid belief that if you work hard enough, collapse can be negotiated with.

But nobody can run a whole inn by themselves. You need people who are good at their jobs.

Good thing I’m great at mine.

I grab a clean apron off a hook, slip it over my head, roll up my sleeves, and head straight for the sink. Hot water. Soap. Rinse. Again. Again.

“You… know what you’re doing, right?” Jasper asks from where he’s leaning against the wall next to the swing doors, visibly torn between awe and panic.

I raise a brow at him. “Does it look like I do?”

He grins, dimples and all. “I’ll shut up then.”

It smells like chaos and desperation—scorched protein, old oil, stress-sweat, pure panic—but somehow that scent is also like home.

Five-star Michelin kitchens smell exactly the same, minus the burned chicken and ancient fryer oil. But the sweat and fear? There’s always plenty of that.

“How about some music?” I ask.

Jasper perks up. “On it.” He darts to the wall-mounted radio and cranks the volume.

“Yellow,” by Coldplay fills the kitchen, and I crack my neck, step into position, and wiggle my fingers. The lemons on my nails grin back at me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something besides exhaustion, pain, or panic.

Purpose.

Not happiness or peace, but close enough to keep me standing.

I slap the cutting board flat, reach for a knife, and test its balance, an old habit snapping back into place.

God, I’ve missed this.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Nevan

“Table 5 sent their food back.” Sydney shoves a plate at me with a sandwich burned to hell and back. “I told them I’d bring a new one, but I don’t know… maybe I should tell them to go grab lunch somewhere else? It’s not like you’re a good⁠—”

Her words dissolve into static as I stare at her mouth, and I hate that I’m chasing scraps again. Clinging to the memory of my twenty-sixth birthday party like it meant more than it did—one night, a year ago, when she paid attention to me.

One night. And I’ve been running on fumes ever since.

God, I’m pathetic.

I take a deep breath to ground myself, but it’s not helping because she smells like coconut frosting and hot-girl indifference, and my brain short-circuits the way it does every single time she’s within three feet of me.

A year of this, and I still react like a kicked puppy.

“Nevan,” Sydney snaps, and every muscle in my back goes tight. I drag my gaze up and away from her mouth, to her pretty nose, then finally to her hazel eyes.

She frowns at me, hard, then thrusts the plate into my hands. “Are you going to start a new order or what?”

“Uh… I-I sure, I’ll…”

She spins and walks away, ponytail swinging, perfect ass swaying, and my dignity dies a slow, embarrassing death.