Chapter 0151
Abby

The restaurant has long since closed, but the aroma of sauteed onions and garlic still lingers in the air.

The sound of sizzling oil on the stove and the faint melody of a song that I don’t like wafting from a

speaker in the corner mix together to create a tense symphony that I absolutely don’t need to be

hearing right now.

I’m stressed, to say the least. Really stressed.

John stands next to me, his eyes focused as he skillfully dices tomatoes. His posture is rigid, the

tension between us as palpable as the texture of the dough I’m kneading for our homemade pasta.

“How’s the dough coming along?” he asks, throwing a quick glance my way.

“It’s fine. Just needs a bit more kneading,” I reply, my palms pushing and folding as I get lost in the

repetitive motion.

John grunts in acknowledgment and moves on to chop basil. There’s an air of seriousness around him,

an unwavering concentration that should make me feel reassured.

And yet, it doesn’t.

of the disconnect, the invisible yet unignorable gap between us.

different

you pass me the olive oil?” he asks, interrupting

hand it to him, our fingers brushing for a moment, but there’s none

when Karl and I worked side by side in the

it was

but we worked well together. I like John and he’s a good cook, but

chemistry in the kitchen. What should feel effortless instead feels like

looking at the array of

“I think a touch of paprika would give

lip. “The recipe

throw it off.”

polite so as not to rock the boat, but in reality, I’m thinking to myself: “Paprika?

John? Are you crazy?”

not following the recipe to the letter, are we?

was to

mean ruining the integrity of the dish,” I retort, a

I intend

down the paprika and takes a deep breath, visibly trying

your sous chef for this competition. If

here?”

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