The kitchen was bathed in the dull glow of an overhead lamp, casting long shadows across the countertops and steel appliances. The warmth of the ovens had long since faded, leaving the room cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling atmosphere of earlier in the evening. The scent of roasted meat, wine reductions, and herbs still lingered faintly in the air, but now the bistro’s kitchen was still, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clink of Vincent’s knife as he carefully wiped the blade clean.
Rody leaned back against the counter, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the scars of long hours of work. His green eyes tracked Vincent’s every movement, a familiar pang of worry creeping up on him. They had been here before—late nights, just the two of them, hearts full yet shadowed by the fear of what could happen if someone found out about them. But this time, something felt different.
Vincent, always calm and composed in the kitchen, was slower tonight. His fingers, pale and precise, moved methodically over the knife’s blade, but there was a tension in the way he held it, as if the weight of their secret was finally beginning to wear him down. His dark, tired eyes—eyes that Rody loved, eyes that had softened for him in private moments—were now clouded with an unease that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re overthinking again,” Rody said softly, his voice low but firm, trying to break the heavy silence between them. His usual grin was nowhere to be seen.
Vincent paused, his fingers going still on the knife handle. He glanced up at Rody, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was a storm of emotions in Vincent’s gaze—fear, sadness, but also something fierce and protective.
"How can I not?" Vincent muttered, his voice strained, quiet, like the words themselves could hurt them if spoken too loud. He turned away again, placing the knife on the counter as he reached for a towel to dry his hands. "Every time we do this… it feels like we’re tempting fate."
Rody’s chest tightened. He hated when Vincent spoke like this, as if what they had together was something wrong, something dangerous. But Rody knew the truth—knew the risk they were both taking just by being together, especially here, in 1950s France. It didn’t matter that they loved each other. It didn’t matter that every stolen kiss, every whispered confession in the dead of night felt more real to him than anything else in his life. None of that mattered if someone caught them. If someone reported them.
"No one knows," Rody replied, pushing himself off the counter and stepping closer to Vincent. His voice was steady, but the knot in his stomach betrayed his confidence. "We’ve been careful, Vin."
Vincent gave a small, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "It doesn’t matter how careful we are, Rody. People like us don’t get to be careful. If they find out…"
He let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished, but Rody didn’t need him to say it. They both knew what would happen if they were caught. The humiliation. The arrests. The trials. The prison cells.
And that was if they were lucky.
Rody frowned, his jaw tightening as he stepped even closer, his broad frame almost blocking out the light as he loomed over Vincent. "Stop it," he said, more forcefully this time, grabbing Vincent’s arm. "We’ll be fine."
But even as he said it, a chill ran down his spine. They couldn’t be sure of that, and they both knew it.
Vincent looked up at him again, his expression softer now, though the worry hadn’t left his eyes. "You don’t know that," he whispered, his voice almost breaking.
Before Rody could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway outside the kitchen, growing louder with each passing second. Rody froze, his hand still gripping Vincent’s arm, and both men exchanged a look—one filled with dread.
