Page 45 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

Once the emergency was under control, we didn’t drift apart. There wasn’t time. Trays came in faster than we could fill them. Somewhere in the panic, we ended up shoulder to shoulder at plating—me handling sides, him managing mains.

And, to mysurprise, we worked like we’d done it for years.

No bickering. No snide remarks. No power struggle.

Just fast, fluid coordination. He handed off without me asking. I anticipated his moves before he made them. It was a rhythm. A dance. Forks clicked, ladles poured, hands brushed, but we didn’t miss a beat.

Once—just once—I glanced up and caught him already looking at me.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t say anything.

He just nodded, like…this. Whatever this was—it worked.

By the time the last tray was sent out, the kitchen looked like a battlefield. Crumbs, splatters, and flour dust coated almost every surface. Half the team was leaning against counters, gulping water or collapsing onto empty crates with exhausted groans.

Mia appeared beside us, hair clinging to her temple, and held up both hands like a victorious champion.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Culinary gods.We survived.”

Barely.

I let out a long breath, my body aching, sweat trickling down my back.

But deep down—beneath the fatigue, beneath the stress—I felt something else.

Pride.

Because we pulled it off.

And because I’d worked a station with Sebastian Laurenteand hadn’t tried to stab him once.

Personal growth.

The kitchen was still echoing with the last few bursts of laughter when Mia clapped her hands and called out, “Alright, troops. You’ve earned your stripes today. I say we go celebrate. First round’s on me.”

A few tired cheers went up.

But Liam, still perched on an overturned crate, groaned. “If I see another piece of food, I’m gonna hurl. I love you, Mia, but I’m emotionally damaged.”

That got a round of snickers.

“Seconded,” one of the junior chefs muttered, dragging himself toward the breakroom like a zombie. “Respectfully declining.”

“Same here,” someone else chimed in. “I need a shower, not a plate.”

In the end, everyone politely turned her down, one by one, until even Mia threw up her hands. “Fine. Next time. But I’m holding you all to it.”

The team started packing up—wrapping leftovers, scrubbing down surfaces, putting the final touches on the cleanup effort. Most of them had that glazed, post-battle look in their eyes, the kind that only came after surviving culinary war.

I stayed behind to help. So did Sebastian.

I didn’t ask why.

He didn’t offer a reason.

We just… kept moving. Wiping down counters. Rearranging trays. Gathering silverware that had wandered off to odd places. The kitchen slowly dulled, the noise softening with each departing team member, until only the hum of the overhead lights remained.

That’s when I felt it.

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