Day 4
Rody had always been intense-a simmering energy that made him a star waiter at La Gueule de Saturne. But lately, that intensity had begun to warp into something darker, something twisted that writhed and coiled in his chest whenever he caught a glimpse of Vincent.
Rody stood behind the counter, his eyes locked on Vincent as the chef moved through the kitchen with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly. Vincent was meticulous in his work, never wasting a motion. Each step was in perfect rhythm with the sizzling pans and boiling pots. His black eyes, usually so cold and distant, softened ever so slightly when he tasted a dish or adjusted a seasoning.
Rody's heart pounded against his ribs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He could barely focus on his tables anymore, his thoughts consumed by the sight of Vincent's slender fingers carefully arranging plates, the slight furrow of his brow when something didn't meet his exacting standards.
*What would those hands feel like on me?* The thought made Rody's blood surge with a primal need that he struggled to suppress. The fantasies started simple-Vincent's hand grazing his as they exchanged a plate, a brush of his fingers across Rody's arm when he handed him a glass of wine. But as the days passed, those fantasies grew bolder, darker, fueled by the insatiable hunger that gnawed at Rody's sanity.
Vincent glanced up from his work, catching Rody's stare. For a moment, their eyes met, and Rody's heart nearly stopped. But then Vincent blinked, his expression unreadable, and turned back to his task.
Rody clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. *He's just so... perfect.* The thought twisted inside him, growing roots in the fertile soil of his obsession, winding tighter and tighter around his mind.
The kitchen felt too hot, too small, with Vincent just feet away but impossibly out of reach. Rody couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Vincent-something beyond the polished exterior, beyond the quiet efficiency, something dark and passionate that only Rody could uncover. He needed to know Vincent, needed to have him, like he needed air to breathe.
And yet, Vincent was so distant, so detached. He spoke little, his words always clipped and to the point, never revealing anything more than necessary. It drove Rody mad. How could someone so beautiful, so enigmatic, not see what was right in front of him? How could he not see that Rody was the one who truly understood him, who could give him what he needed?
Rody's obsession began to seep into every aspect of his life. He found himself arriving at the restaurant earlier each day, staying later into the night, all just to catch glimpses of Vincent. He memorized the chef's every movement, every expression, cataloging them in his mind like precious treasures. He would lie awake at night, replaying their brief interactions over and over, dissecting every word, every glance, searching for hidden meaning.
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Day 5
The obsession grew, festered, gnawing at him like a hungry beast. Rody began finding excuses to linger in the kitchen, to watch Vincent from the shadows as the chef worked late into the night. He studied every detail-the way Vincent's hands moved, the curve of his lips, the way he sighed when something didn't meet his standards.
It wasn't enough to just watch anymore. Rody needed more. He needed to feel Vincent's presence, to leave a mark of his own on the chef's life, no matter how small. He started leaving little notes in Vincent's office, scribbled confessions of his feelings that he would never dare to say aloud.
At first, they were simple-compliments on his cooking, admiration for his skill. "Your hands are like poetry," one note read. "I want to feel them on my skin, to know what it's like to be touched by someone so perfect."
