Vincent Charbonneau had learned long ago to endure neglect. Growing up, he had been little more than a shadow in his parents' eyes, forever eclipsed by his delicate, sickly sister, **Manon**. She had always been the priority, their precious doll made of glass, her every wish granted without hesitation. Meanwhile, Vincent had been left to fend for himself. His parents barely noticed him, except when they needed someone to care for her. He had been the forgotten son, a ghost in his own family.
When Vincent was fourteen, he had stopped asking for new clothes or school supplies. His parents would give him empty promises, only to forget once Manon so much as sniffled. So, he got a part-time job at a local restaurant, scrubbing floors and washing dishes, just to afford the basics. It was there, surrounded by the hum of the kitchen, the heat of the stoves, and the scent of food being prepared with care, that Vincent found something that was truly his: cooking.
He fell in love with the rhythm of the kitchen, the precision and focus it demanded. Unlike his home, where nothing he did ever seemed to matter, here, his effort yielded tangible results. Food was something he could control, something that didn't betray him.
But then, like always, **Manon** decided she wanted what he had.
When he told his parents he dreamed of becoming a chef, they barely acknowledged it. It didn't surprise him anymore. What surprised him was when, two weeks later, **Manon** announced that she wanted to be a food critic. The announcement was met with delight. They praised her for her ambition, for her "refined palate." And, of course, they paid for her culinary school education without a second thought.
Vincent, meanwhile, had to take on multiple jobs, working late into the night to save for his own education. Every penny he earned, every hour spent working-he did it alone. His parents couldn't even be bothered to help. **"It's your choice to struggle,"** his mother had said dismissively one evening when Vincent asked for help with tuition. **"You should have picked a more practical career, like Manon."**
Bitterness took root in Vincent's heart, festering over the years. But he swallowed it down, as he always did, turning it into something sharp and precise in his work. He clawed his way through culinary school, sacrificing friendships, sleep, and any semblance of a social life just to prove to himself that he could. The kitchen became his salvation, and for a while, it was enough.
Then, in his final year of school, he met **Rody Lamoree**.
---
**Rody** was everything Vincent wasn't. Where Vincent was quiet and guarded, Rody was open and carefree, with a smile that lit up every room he walked into. They met at a party Vincent had been dragged to by a classmate. At first, Vincent hadn't wanted to go-he hated social gatherings, hated the noise and the forced conversations. But when Rody struck up a conversation with him, Vincent had found himself drawn in, despite his reservations.
They clicked in a way Vincent hadn't expected. Rody, with his quick wit and infectious laughter, made Vincent feel something he hadn't felt in years-light. They started spending more time together, sneaking away after classes to talk, sometimes meeting in small cafés where Vincent could critique the food, and Rody would make him laugh until his sides hurt.
For the first time in his life, Vincent had felt seen. Not as Manon's brother, not as the forgotten son, but as **himself**. And when Rody had kissed him for the first time, Vincent had felt something he couldn't name. Something that terrified him and thrilled him in equal measure.
But, of course, nothing good in Vincent's life ever lasted.
---
Vincent should have known better. Should have realized that someone like Rody would never stay with him forever. He had always been a fool when it came to hope.
