ONE WEEK LATER

RIVERSIDE GRILL

“What the hell is this?”

The line comes to a halt—plates, knives, and tongs frozen in mid-air. More than a dozen pairs of eyes belonging to line cooks, commis chefs, servers, and dishwashers turn to the front of the kitchen where Jensen is standing opposite his sous chef. The offender is a square white plate sitting on the counter between them holding what is supposed to be Riverside’s Chicken Provencal special.

At least three people in the kitchen flinch when Paul crosses his arms and throws back a haughty, “I don’t see what the problem is.”

From her spot next to Jensen where she’s waiting for table seven’s entrees, Genevieve begins backing away from the metal counter as Jensen battles the heat lamps to be the object in the kitchen most likely to spontaneously combust. Even the heat lamp flickers, realizing it’s losing.

“The problem is,” Jensen measures each word, “I asked for roasted spring vegetables and you’ve handed me something that looks like baby vomit and smells worse.”

“You’re blind, Ackles,” Paul strains to speak between his clenched teeth. “They’re fine.”

“You wouldn’t be allowed to serve this shit at the fucking Golden Corral, much less in my kitchen,” Jensen hisses. So much for Sebastian’s advice of ignoring Paul. “Make it again.”

By now, nearly the entire staff has stopped working, waiting for a total knock-out or surrender. Saban’s pulled the steaks from the grill so they won’t overcook (now that’s professional), and Libby’s stabbed her filet knife through the salmon she’s working on. Only Mark continues to work, frosting his tarts, though Jensen would bet he’s got one ear tuned towards the front of the kitchen.

“I’m not going to waste my time redoing the entire plate,” Paul says. “You’d probably invent a problem with that one, too.” He spins towards Genevieve. “Serve it.”

Jensen drops his voice into sub-zero territory. “That plate’s not leaving my kitchen.”

Stepping into the standoff, Dom attempts to settle both gunslingers. “Paul, c’mon. Just plate up another—”

“I’ve got this, Dom,” Jensen warns, setting his sights back on his sous chef.

“Getting serious now, are we?”

“Make it again.”

This time, Paul grabs the edge of the plate and all but throws it at Genevieve. Jensen owes her a drink for the way she’s keeping her composure while sitting directly in the line of fire. “Serve it before it gets cold, sweetheart.”

Make that two drinks for the way Genevieve manages to resist slapping the shit out of Paul. Jensen, on the other hand, has reached his limit. He whips the plate out of Paul’s hand and watches in satisfaction as it hits the kitchen floor and shatters, spraying stringy vegetables on Paul’s pants. The chicken bounces out of sight under the stove.

“What the fuck?” Paul curses. Jensen’s grateful he has enough sense not to yell, the sound carrying out into the dining room.

“Don’t make me tell you again.”

“The hell with that,” Paul growls. “Remake it yourself.”

That’s it. Jensen fumes and even the heat lamp must know the battle is lost. His voice is heavy yet steady when he says, “Get the hell out of my kitchen, Paul. I won’t tolerate this from someone working under me.”

Paul’s expression mutates into something sharp and monstrous. His perverse laugh echoes throughout the kitchen. "That’s not what I’ve heard, Jensen,” he says, low and buzzing as if he’s whispering directly into Jensen’s ear. He leans over the counter, feigned privacy, but it won’t matter. Everyone’s listening. “I’ve heard that you tolerate quite a bit when someone’s working under you.”

Jensen’s heart skips a beat but he controls his voice enough to say, “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. Get out.”

“C’mon, Jensen. No need to be shy about it. I’m sure everyone knows the way you run things. If you want to get ahead, you’d better get on your—”

Jensen can only stammer. “What the—are you serious right now?”

“I’m only speaking from personal experience—”

“Enough!” Mark pushes his way between Jensen and the counter, forces him back with a hand over his chest. Jensen was right; he had been listening. Through wide and disbelieving eyes, Jensen watches Mark shove Paul back to his station. “Remake the fucking dish before I tell Miranda that you’re cocking up her dinner service.” Paul’s still as a statue and Mark’s lip twitches. “Now!”

That sets Paul in motion, but the rest of the staff remains frozen. “What the hell are you lot waiting for, eh?” Mark’s cockney accent roars. “Back on the line!”

In a flurry of movement, the kitchen’s up and running again. Genevieve sets the other plate for table seven under a heat lamp and retreats to the dim calm of the dining room. Saban’s got the grill sizzling in no time at all and Libby starts singing an old Sam Cook song at her station.

Without Paul in his personal space, Jensen can finally take a breath. Apparently that’s not good enough for Mark. “Go get some air, Ackles,” Mark tells him, nudging him towards the back of the kitchen with a far less brutal touch than he’d given Paul.

“I can stay.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “We can survive without you for five bloody minutes. Go.”



The back door opens with a whine, careful footsteps crunching on the gravel covering Riverside’s back lot.

“Need me to come back in?” Jensen asks as the shuffle of small stones goes silent behind him.

“Actually things have slowed down,” Dom tells him, walking around to sit beside Jensen at the battered, old café table set up for the smokers. The metal is pocked with little black char marks where countless cigarettes have been snubbed in exhaustion and frustration. Jensen understands the appeal. “Thought I’d take a break, too.”

He considers letting it go; there’s nothing wrong with grabbing a few minutes of peace away from the stifling heat and steam inside. But Jensen’s too wound up.

“Nice try,” he says. “I saw the line of tickets waiting. What’s up?”

“Dawson,” Dom mutters as if he’s speaking against his will. “He keeps running his mouth.”

“Saying what?”

The lines on Dom’s face pull tight, reluctance in his eyes. But his expression melts into resignation after a minute of enduring Jensen’s gaze. “He’s saying that you’ve been sleeping your way through the staff. I guess Miranda told him it was a habit of yours or something.”

Jensen tries to muster the energy to kick-start his rage, but it can’t move past his stomach, settling there like a weight.

“And that’s not all.” Somehow, Jensen knows what Dom’s about to tell him. “He said that you—that you and he…”

The pressure threatens to force its way up from Jensen’s gut. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Dom’s quick to reassure him. “Jensen, we all know better than to listen to Paul. He’s a fucking moron if he thinks bullshit like that’s gonna fly. And the fact that you’ve haven’t slept with a single person on the staff since the re-opening is more than enough to discredit him.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Huh?”

“That I haven’t hooked up with anyone.”

“Please,” Dom scoffs. “You’ve been too busy trying to stay one step ahead of Miranda and her lackey,” he explains, injecting a minor dose of humor into his voice. “Plus, there’s Jared. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so serious about a relationship—no way you’d fuck that up for one of us.”

Jensen knows he’s saying it in friendship, but Dom assuming there’s more to his relationship with Jared doesn’t relieve the pressure at the back of his throat. If anything, Jensen feels worse, because as much as he’d like to cross that line between roommates and boyfriends, Jared’s got a solid grip on his collar, holding him back.

Jensen needs to focus on what’s in front of him. “I’m not leaving.”

“I am,” Dom says, making Jensen look up. “Come on, man, you can’t be that surprised. I made a mistake when I didn’t take the job as your sous chef when you offered it to me, and I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Maybe we could’ve avoided all this shit if I had, but I can’t change it now.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Stacy typed up a letter giving my two weeks’ notice,” Dom says, avoiding Jensen’s stare. “It’s in my bag. I did it because, despite what you say, you’re not gonna stick around here forever, and I can’t work for Miranda. I started looking after we talked, you know, about you and Paul…”

“Do you have a plan?”

Dom nods. “You know Lionel Thibodeau?”

“Of course,” Jensen says. “He wants to open a French-Asian-Southern fusion restaurant down off Meeting Street.”

His old friend smiles. “Who’s got two thumbs and a new job as his sous chef?”

“Shit, really?” Jensen forces the grin to stay on his face. “That’s awesome, man. Congrats. You deserve that job.”

“Dealing with you for the last year? Damn right I do.” Dom shares his smile, clearly thinking he’s got Jensen on the better side of his funk. He throws his hand over Jensen’s shoulder. “Let’s get back in. I have a feeling Mark’s keeping Dawson cornered like a scared little puppy, and Genevieve’s already organizing drinks for later. Man, you should have seen her go off on Paul,” he adds, whistling. “She told him she’d castrate him with a boning knife if he called her sweetheart ever again.”

“If I was straight, I’d fall at her feet and beg her to sleep with me,” Jensen says, following Dom across the gravel lot.

“If I didn’t have Stacy,” Dom teases, “I’d totally join that threesome.”



HOME

The first beer was a good idea. Jensen needed to digest something other than indignation, and it felt so good going down. Genevieve, Dom, Libby, and a handful of Riverside’s other servers and cooks had flocked to the Market Street bars, claiming a corner full of cocktail tables for themselves.

The second and third beers helped to dull his rage; helped him laugh when Libby made a crude joke; helped him react when someone slapped his back and reassured him that Paul was full of shit.

Jensen’s fourth beer was a bad idea. Maybe it was his empty stomach, or the fact that nothing could override the emotions seared in his mind, but instead of catching a buzz, Jensen fell deeper and deeper into the pit his thoughts were digging.

By now, everyone’s starting to relax (and they all deserve it, Jensen thinks), but by the fifth beer, Jensen’s had enough. He’d come too close to losing it tonight. For fuck’s sake, he’d almost let Paul win. The thought is unbearable. So Jensen says his goodbyes, leaves half a beer sitting on the table along with a couple of twenties to cover a round of shots for the group, and walks back to his car.

The alcohol had dissolved the wall he was trying to maintain between the issues at home and the clusterfuck at work. He hadn’t wanted them blending together, because Jared is the only thing keeping Jensen from sinking completely. Riverside consumes Jensen, but Jared is his distraction; when Jensen’s at home, Jared makes it possible to forget.

And yet the two of them are stuck in a domestic non-relationship, the intricacies of which are boggling.

He makes it across the James Island Connector and home without incident, turning into the driveway to find the lights still on in the house. Jensen checks the Prius’ clock. 12:03. Walking inside, Jensen’s sensing a touch of déjà vu—Jared looking soft and familiar in knit pants and a t-shirt, waiting for Jensen with a pensive strain to his features.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Jensen can’t help the scathing reply that comes on instinct. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Gen called me,” Jared says, gently pulling Jensen’s bag off his shoulder and propping it against one of the counter stools. “Jesus Christ, Jen. You should have texted me or something.”

He sighs. This is a scene he’d wanted to avoid. Ideally, Jensen would have walked in and gone straight to bed. “What’d she tell you?”

Jared’s recap doesn’t cover half of what went down between Jensen and Paul, but Genevieve had covered the basics. Jensen tries not to relive the details, but Jared appears to be working himself up and he can’t help it.

“She forgot to mention that Paul accused me of being the kitchen slut,” Jensen says without much emotion. To that, Jared has no response. He stares at Jensen, eyes hidden behind the shadow of his hair. Seeing an escape route, Jensen drops the rest of his things on the counter and turns towards the hall, deserving nothing more than a pillow over his face.

But Jared isn’t letting him have the last word. “That’s it?” he asks, cut-off laugh of disbelief. “You’re just leaving it there?”

When Jared steps closer, Jensen notices the rigid set to his jaw, the way his lips are tight over his teeth. “What else do you want me to say, Jared?”

“I want you to tell me that you decked the bastard!” Jared is seething. “I hope you at least told him to go fuck himself!”

Jensen puts some distance between them, circling back towards the kitchen counter. “No, but Mark did right before he sent me outside to ‘get some air.’”

“Jensen—”

“Dude,” Jensen can feel the alcohol’s slight effects on his speech, “it’s not like anyone believed him. It was just a rumor Miranda was using to try and discredit my position.”

Jared throws his arms up. “Unbelievable. Why the hell didn’t you quit?”

Jensen grits his teeth. “We’ve been over this so many times, Jared.”

“And you’ve never given me an answer that made sense.”

“It’s the perfect job for me,” Jensen says, aware that it’s a weak argument.

“How is it perfect?” Jared asks, doing an admirable job of keeping his anger roped in, considering Jensen can see the storm brewing in his green eyes. “You’re miserable! Your boss is telling people you’re some kind of slut, and you can barely get through a shift without finding something to be angry about. That kitchen—”

“It’s my kitchen!”

Jared’s voice finally crackles. “Not anymore apparently!”

Before Jensen can even think through a response, his frustrations come pouring out. “At least in the kitchen I know where I stand,” he snarls, “unlike with you where I’m never sure what the hell we’re supposed to be! We’re sure as hell not fucking, I know that much.”

“Is that what you want?” Jared quietly asks.

And seeing Jared deflate is like smothering a grease fire. Jensen wins back some of his composure. “It’s tough to tell you what I want when I don’t know what’s being offered. When we hooked up, I thought we were going somewhere, but you run warm one night and cold the next. The second I think we’re settling back into the friend-zone, you kiss me, or say something that makes me feel more than I think I’m allowed to.” He shakes his head. “Maybe you’ve realized that I’m kind of a mess. I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to get involved.”

“You are kind of a mess,” Jared says, not without humor. Jensen appreciates the chance to smile. “But that’s not why I’ve been trying to keep my distance. Even that’s hard to do, because I like being around you.”

Jensen agrees. “Then what is it?”

Sheepishly, Jared looks at the floor and says, “I make you happy.”

“And you’re telling me that’s a problem?”

Jared sighs. “It’s a problem because I’m the only thing that makes you happy right now, and that’s a lot of pressure on me. I don’t think we’d survive at your pace. And before you try to deny it,” he adds in a rush, “just think about it. You know it’s true.”

Without needing to think, Jensen can’t deny it. Josh is too far away to lend real support, and all he has is Jared. Here he was, thinking it would be enough.

“I feel so much for you, Jensen, but I’m terrified,” Jared goes on to say. “I don’t want to see you become the callous, twisted person you’d need to be in order to continue working for Miranda. I don’t give a shit how well you think you’re handling it—she and Paul are destroying you. And instead of doing anything about it, you keep going back. It’s like you’re trying to punish yourself by not quitting.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jensen insists, waving the idea off before it can take root. “I’m not some fucking masochist.”

“No,” Jared says, “but you’ve spent years working the worst hours in the most stressful kitchens you could find that would hire you. And ever since Miranda took over Riverside, you’ve been jumping through hoops, playing her goddamn games and competing for your own job against that douchebag, Paul.” He takes a deep breath. “I want you to be happy, Jensen, but you’re not. You’ve gotta do something different. You’ve gotta keep moving forward.”

Jensen’s breath stops on the way from his lungs to his lips. His eyes snap up to Jared’s and he blinks away the image of his brother standing there, saying the exact same thing. Keep moving forward.

“Cooking is my life,” Jensen says, feeling as if he’s repeating one of the last arguments he’d had with Josh before his brother left. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

“So you have to do it in Miranda’s restaurant? Come on,” Jared scoffs. “That’s bullshit. You’re wasting your talent for a boss who sees you as a tool—a replaceable one. Tell me that’s what you’ve always wanted and I’ll drop this whole thing right now.”

Jensen could respond in any one of a dozen ways, but they all stick on his tongue and Jared gets nothing but silence. He’s beginning to resent the fact that Jared waited up for him, because Jensen could have gone his entire life without the stress of this conversation.

“And I’m not stupid, Jen,” Jared continues with a more forgiving tone. “Your animosity towards Paul comes from something beyond your rivalry in the kitchen. Something happened between you two, and from the way you clench your fists every time I say his name”—Jensen lets up on the furrows his blunt nails are digging into his palm—“it wasn’t pretty.”

“Don’t,” Jensen says, glad his mouth still works, at least. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking, but I don’t want to talk about it.” Grasping for any excuse not to talk about Paul, Jensen shifts into reverse. “My ‘happiness’ aside,” he says, “if you feel all these things for me, why aren’t we together? Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go? I care about you, you care about me, we go out on dates, have mind-blowing sex, and get another dog?”

Jared’s smile is so wistful, Jensen fights the impulse to run over and kiss him. But he has a feeling any contact would spark a violent reaction, sexual or not. Then again, anything would be better than facing this rational version of his roommate, trying to break through Jensen’s overworked and beer-soaked obstinance.

“We’re not part of a recipe. There’s more than one way for this to go.”

“So you’ve chosen the hard way for both of us.”

“Maybe you see it like that,” Jared says, dragging his sock-covered toes across the hardwood, “but I see it as the best way for me. No matter what, you’ll always be my friend, but I can’t be with the guy you’re becoming when you’re not at home. I can’t watch you burn out and get left with nothing, because if you continue to let Miranda and Paul dictate your every move, that’s exactly what you’re gonna have.

“So I can’t make the decision for you.” Jared pushes away from where he’s been leaning against the back of the sofa. “But I can tell you what I think and I can choose not to let myself get more involved right now.”

Struck mute, Jensen looks for the rest of an explanation in the play of cotton across Jared’s muscled back as he turns away. Nice to stare at, but there’s nothing there. He thinks about calling out, stopping Jared and finding some way to get them on the same page, but Jensen’s brain is close to overflowing and he barely has the energy to blink. That and he has no idea what would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak: regrets, confessions, or unfiltered anger. They’re all dangerous.



SEBASTIAN ROCHÉ, MD., & ASSOCIATES

“I was really hoping for one of your pasta dishes.” Sebastian eyes the plastic to-go box containing Jensen’s butter lettuce and poached pear salad. “But this way I’m not cheating on the diet.”

Jensen looks at his therapist. “No offense, but you’re kind of a stick. People like you make me want to add a block of butter to everything I make.”

“It’s not my diet,” he says, popping the container and stirring bits of gorgonzola in with his lettuce. “My girlfriend believes that if we’re both following the same routine, it’s harder for her to cheat. Not that she needs it either.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because I enjoy having sex, Mr. Ackles.” Sebastian grins at his own mockery. “And one must learn to adapt in a relationship. So unless you’re offering up that fine physique of yours, I think I’ll try to keep her happy.”

He watches Sebastian eat, listens to his comments on the balance between the tanginess of the homemade dressing and the sweetness of the crumbled pralines. And then he thinks about the way he’d nearly slammed Paul’s hand in the oven while he was poaching the Asian pears and the vehemence in Miranda’s eyes after Paul had fucking tattled. She reiterated that Jensen could either shape up or ship out.

And then he asks, “Am I working at Riverside because I’m trying to punish myself?”

Sebastian’s lucky a mosquito doesn’t fly into his open mouth. He flips through his notes, mouth pinched. “That’s not something I said, was it?”

“Jared, actually,” Jensen admits.

“Does Jared have a degree in psychology?” Sebastian admonishes.

“Nope, he’s a business major.”

Sebastian hums. “Maybe he should consider changing fields.”

“Wait.” Jensen leans forward, fingers threaded together. “You’re saying he’s right?”

“As loathe as I am to agree with your…”

“Roommate,” Jensen supplies.

“Yes, your roommate,” Sebastian acknowledges, a slightly sarcastic twist to his mouth. “Despite his lack of training, I think Jared’s hit on something. The fact that you’re even mentioning it to me means that you’ve been thinking about the idea quite a bit, and it bothers you.”

“You think?” Jensen bites. “But he’s wrong. I wouldn’t do that to myself.”

“Then there’s no reason to get worked up over it,” Sebastian says calmly, but the shrewd glint in his eyes means Jensen won’t escape without a little head-shrinking. “But why do you think Jared said that to you?”

Jensen drops his shoulders. “Probably because he was pissed off at me.”

“What caused that?”

Figures Sebastian won’t let that slide. “I had a few really terrible days at the restaurant and I took it out on him. I was trying to vent, but it got too personal.”

“What did you say?”

Between his confrontation with Paul, going out with his crew, and facing Jared afterward, that entire night is a blur in Jensen’s mind. Trying to remember specifics makes him cringe. “I told him I wasn’t going to quit despite the problems. He didn’t understand that being a chef is my dream job.”

Sebastian uncrosses his long, black denim-wrapped legs. “A chef,” he queries, “not Riverside’s head chef.”

“That’s what I meant,” Jensen says. “But Jared told me I was wasting my talent there.”

“I need to meet your roommate. These sessions would go much more smoothly if he were here telling me everything about you.” Setting his notes aside, Sebastian looks Jensen square in the eyes. “What do you love about being a chef, Jensen?”

The face Jensen pulls must not impress Sebastian; the doctor grins and waits as if they have all day. “Seriously?” Sebastian waves him on with a gesture. “Alright, I’ll play your little mind game. I love teaching people about food, whether they’re customers or on my staff, because I want them to appreciate what goes into making a great dish. Combining flavors in new ways, winning the respect of other chefs, and seeing someone truly enjoy what I’ve made for them.”

On the other side of the plum-colored area rug, Sebastian’s silent. He doesn’t pick up his pen, doesn’t shift his gaze away from Jensen’s. He’s thinking, and Jensen has a nasty feeling he’s about to be kicked in the face by shrink-logic. As much as he can in a microfiber armchair, Jensen braces himself.

“And when was the last time you accomplished any of that working for Miranda?”

Before his brain cells can even being cataloguing the last few months, Jensen knows the answer. “Before the re-opening,” he mutters, already feeling the phantom bruise. “Ever since then, I’ve been putting out fires, defending my turf, and trying to keep my crew from quitting on me. I spend most of my time jumping through Miranda’s hoops and fighting to keep my job, and I’ve barely had a chance to develop new items for the menu, and that’s…that’s”—the realization shudders throughout his body—“that’s never going to change, is it?”

“I wish I could tell you, for sure, one way or the other,” Sebastian says, shifting to lean on the arm of his chair. “But I think our hour’s nearly up.”

Jensen startles, looks at the clock. Slumps after noticing that Sebastian’s right and he needs to be back at Riverside for dinner prep—just in time to be maneuvered out of running the pre-shift meeting and told, in detail, in just how many ways he’s disappointing Miranda.

Suddenly, a longer session doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. But Sebastian’s already filing his notes, disposing of the take-out container that held Jensen’s carefully put-together salad.

“I have to say,” Sebastian says just as Jensen’s getting ready to walk through the door, “if there’s one thing I’ve noticed about your cuisine, it’s that the recipes you create yourself are far and away the best.” The corners of his mouth curl up in self-amusement. “Just some food for thought.”



RIVERSIDE GRILL

“I can’t believe I’m going to do this,” Jensen whines. His ear burns from pressing his cell phone against it for too long. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

“You’re definitely crazy.” Josh sounds so far away; there is dead air at the tail end of his mocking response. “Come on, Jen. What are you so worried about?”

Jensen’s back-of-the-kitchen office is short on space, but he paces anyway, too frothed up to sit still. Beyond the door, he hears the sounds of the dinner rush heating up, but not even the thought of cooking could cleave him from this phone call. “You have no idea how scared I am, Josh. This could blow up in my face! I’d be starting from scratch all over again.”

“Hello. Living in Hong Kong, remember?” His smart-ass brother has a point. “Scary, life-altering decisions are my thing.”

Jensen sighs. “Not mine.”

“Which is why you’re analyzing the hell out of it,” Josh reminds him. Of course, Jensen disagrees; he’s being thorough. And safe. He’ll talk to Miranda with his pre-rehearsed ultimatum, and if nothing changes, he’ll brandish his two-week notice and that will be the end of it. “Seriously, I wish you would just throw a fit and walk out.”

“Yeah, because that’s a better plan.”

“You’re angry enough to do it. Hell, I’m angry about what’s happening to you. Trust me, if I ever see Pierre again, I’m going to punch him in the face for screwing around in the first place and causing this mess.”

“What good would that do?” Jensen asks. He had no idea Josh was so incensed on his behalf.

“Probably nothing, but I’d feel a lot better.”

Jensen listens to his big brother laughing. It’s hollowed out from the long distance connection, but it’s a good sound—one he wishes he could hear in person.

He’s spent the last week listening to other people rule on his future. From Miranda and her colorfully arranged threats, to Sebastian’s cleverly concealed judgments. Even Dom hasn’t let the subject drop, using his new job as a way to convince Jensen to follow him out. But Jared has kept his thoughts to himself since their argument, and though Jensen knows what his roommate’s opinion would be, he actually wants to hear it. He misses the sound of Jared’s voice.

They haven’t spoken much in the last few days. Finals and presentations have claimed most of Jared’s free time and Jensen put in extra hours trying to figure out his next move. Jensen continued to bring home leftovers and leave containers of home-cooked meals in the fridge, which disappeared with their regular frequency. When their paths crossed in the living room, or when Jensen would meet Jared on the front steps as he left for work and Jared returned with the dogs, the looks shared between them were stuffed with meaning.

Josh clears his throat. “Before I left for Hong Kong, do you remember when I asked if you wanted me to stay? I know you thought about saying yes, because it would’ve been easier for you.”

Jensen says, “I was trying not to be selfish.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been trying not to be selfish for the past few months,” Josh admits. “Every time you called to tell me what happened with Miranda, or I read your emails about Paul and the crap he pulled, I wanted to tell you to quit. I never did, because I knew this was your dream job and if I told you to leave, I was afraid you’d do it. But for my own peace of mind, I wanted you out of that place, Jen.”

“You’re telling me to quit now,” Jensen points out. “What changed?”

“Maybe I’m being a little selfish. Knowing you wouldn’t have to put up with Riverside anymore would make me really happy.” Then, as Jensen stops pacing and stands in front of the little circle of daylight cut into the back wall of his office, Josh adds, “But now I know your heart’s not in that place anymore, Jen. You’re ready to go forward, but you’re scared to give up on an old dream.”

“My dream never changed,” Jensen argues softly, watching the magnolia trees in the alley dance in the light wind. He takes a deep breath; he’s never admitted this aloud. “But Riverside did. As long as I’m here, I can’t be the chef I want to be, so unless Miranda agrees to get this place back on track”—even as Jensen suggests this, he knows it’s utopical—“I’m gone.”



A few minutes after Josh lets him go, Jensen’s ready to face his kitchen, keeping his fingers crossed that the drama will be kept to a simmer.

Jensen hears the sweet, old sound of The Drifters coming from Libby’s station; she claims the music keeps her blood pressure down, and the one time Paul had tried to turn it off mid-shift, Libby had thrown a two-and-a-half pound live lobster at his face. By the grill, Jensen sees Saban and his guys through the sweet fog of smoky mesquite. Dom is manning Jensen’s station where he handles four pans with ease. Ever since he’d accepted his new job, Dom’s been lighter than French meringue, walking out of his shifts wearing the same smile he had coming in, working through his last two weeks with more enthusiasm than Jensen’s ever seen him apply to food.

The only one missing is Paul, and Jensen couldn’t care less.

Seeing his line well in hand, Jensen bypasses the sauté burners and checks tickets at the counter, summoning any idle servers he sees to run food before his cuisine is sabotaged by the heat lamps.

“Jensen?” Genevieve steps up to the counter, the deep cut of her black v-neck framing milky skin. “The customers at table eleven are big fans of yours, and they asked if you would stop by so that they could compliment you on your food.”

“Genuine or snobby?”

“Oh, totally genuine,” she says. “They’re awesome.” Awesome being a term that usually translates to a hefty tip.

Listening to a foodie compliment his entrées would really season Jensen’s night, so he thinks nothing of untying his apron and checking his coat for stains. “I’ll be out in a second,” he tells her, toweling sweat from his face. “Let me wash up a bit.”

Out in the dining room, he finds barely-managed chaos. The wieldy line of tickets in the kitchen doesn’t reflect the amount of activity at Riverside’s tables, and the bar is standing-room only as Julie’s copper ponytail swings back and forth as she rushes from one customer to the next. Normally Miranda would handle bar-overflow (it’s a great way to meet-and-greet without working too hard), but she’s nowhere to be seen. On his way to table eleven—a cozy two-top in the front corner—Jensen spots a familiar face in the throng around the bar.

“Reid,” he greets the man wearing a kiwi polo shirt and black slacks. “I didn’t know you’d be stopping by.”

“I was looking at office space up on Meeting Street,” Reid tells him, returning Jensen’s handshake, “and I thought I’d swing down here for a bite while Andy’s out of town.”

“Offices for the magazine?”

“We’re almost up and running,” Reid says with a smile. “In a few weeks we’ll start putting together the first issue. Hopefully we’ll be able to distribute one or two promotional issues before the holidays. Actually, since you’re right here, I wanted to talk to you about—”

They both turn at the sound of glass breaking. Near the host stand, the waiting crowd had swelled around a waiter, knocking the glass of wine out of his hand.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full tonight,” Reid says.

“You wouldn’t know it in the kitchen. This is the first time I’ve been out here.” Jensen gestures over his white coat and chef’s pants. “Think anyone would mind if I started taking orders?”

Reid nods at a point behind Jensen’s left shoulder. “Your sous chef may have beaten you to it.”

And that’s when Jensen sees Paul standing over table eleven with a stomach-turning smile on his face. Miranda’s polished talons are wrapped around his forearm—the bitch and her new stud—as the two of them poach compliments from Genevieve’s table.

Jensen’s vision goes red as if he’s been soaked in bitter cabernet. He stands, rigid, watching Miranda schmooze and simper alongside her chosen one, and a bell rings in his head. The time has come to make his choice; he’s way past safe and thorough.

Reid, sensing trouble, steps away. “Now might be a bad time to talk business,” he says, shrugging. “Feels like more of a Basil night anyway.” Jensen barely notices Reid’s hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you give me a call sometime next week?”

Jensen collects himself enough to see Reid off, but then his focus returns to the scene-stealing pair hovering over table eleven. Ignoring the looks he attracts from his customers, Jensen slides up behind Miranda just in time to overhear her mindless sycophancy.

“—and Chef Dawson has wonderful ideas on how to take our menu to new heights. His vision—which I share—is the future of Riverside Grill.”

“But the food is already wonderful,” the man at Genevieve’s table is saying. “Chef Ackles is one of this city’s rising stars, and he’s done an incredible job transforming traditional Southern cuisine. Why would you want to change that?”

Jensen butts in, holding his hand up. “I’d like to hear the answer to this.”

“Jensen!” Miranda, after a sharp double-take, manages to tame her shock. “I didn’t think…”

“Didn’t think I’d come out of the kitchen to hear you turn your back on the menu I created? The kitchen I built?” He fumes internally while making sure a smile is stuck to his face.

“Jensen,” Paul hisses, sticking his misshapen nose into the conversation. “Now’s not the time!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Paul,” Jensen says. “Now is the perfect time.” He turns to his customers—who appear to be his last at Riverside Grill. “I’m sorry for disrupting your dinner, and thank you for your business, but I’m afraid that Riverside Grill and I have decided to part ways.”

His declaration brings a chorus of responses.

“—intend to cause a scene in the middle of my—“

“—such a shame, we enjoyed your food so—“

“—typical of you, trying to ruin my moment by—“

By now, their trio has drawn the attention of half the dining room, which is enough of an audience for Jensen’s finale.

“I quit, Miranda,” he says, feeling the pressure leak out of his chest as soon as the words are gone. “Effective immediately.”

It’s that simple—there are no rants and no hysterics. Unlike what Miranda accused him of, Jensen doesn’t want to cause a scene. He wants to leave this instant. It’s not that he fears regret, but he can see an entire book of possibilities opening up, and Jensen’s eager to start cooking for himself again.

Customers shift away to let him pass, creating a path to the kitchen. He opens the door and the familiar sounds of metal-on-metal, hissing steam, and pots rattling on the stove are silenced immediately—someone has obviously carried the gossip back here.

“Bad news, guys,” Jensen says. “Looks like y’all are on your own for the rest of the night.”

Dom looks over from the sauté line. “I think it’s great—”

“How dare you!”

Miranda swoops into the kitchen, swinging doors flapping behind her like a harpy’s wings, with Paul on her heels. Both are boiling over with irritation, but Jensen’s interested to see that Paul’s is focused on Riverside’s owner.

“You can’t just quit, Jensen! And in front of my customers!”

“Why not?” Jensen throws back. “You’ve practically been begging me to quit for a month. Or have you finally realized that losing me means you’re stuck with Paul as head chef, and you know—you just know—that this place won’t survive him?”

“Fuck you, Ackles,” Paul snarls, but no one is paying attention, not even Miranda whose green eyes are considering Jensen. Her lips thin out until they’re flat and pulled between her teeth.

“Are you telling me you want to stay?” she asks Jensen.

He laughs at the absurdity. “Fuck no, Miranda! That’s what ‘effective immediately’ means. I wouldn’t stay if you got down on your knees and begged me to.”

Seething, Miranda reaches out and grabs the first thing her hand touches: the handle of a ladle sticking out of a pot of cucumber-mint sauce for one of Libby’s dishes. The metal whirls unsteadily through the air and connects with Jensen’s chest, splattering foam green sauce everywhere. Jensen glances down at his whites; it looks as if he’s bleeding green, gored in the chest by the enormous stainless steel spoon.

“If you walk on me,” Miranda snarls, her perfect veneers flashing, “I’ll make sure you never run a kitchen in this city again. You’ll be lucky if someone hires you as a prep cook!”

That reduces Jensen to a bent-over, knee-slapping laugh. “You think your word goes past the front door? I’ve got more connections than you’ll ever be able to scheme your way into. So go ahead,” he warns her, “try to blacklist me. See how well that works out.”

Jensen spins on his heel, oblivious to the cucumber-mint sauce splattered up and down his white jacket. He expects to feel more as he passes between his station and the rest of the line; he thought the weight of giving his soul to this place over the past year would flatten his shoulders and break his back, stop him before he made it to the door. But Jensen breathes easily and finally understands that his soul left Riverside a long time ago—Jensen just hadn’t been paying attention.

“Jensen! I—”

He doesn’t stop for Miranda’s last-ditch appeal, but he hears Paul’s sniveling tone as he talks over her. “Let him go,” Paul insists, loud enough for the entire kitchen to catch it. “You know I don’t need him.” Jensen smirks, knowing Miranda’s expression won’t display the same confidence. Maybe Paul was a pawn she used to ensure Jensen’s cooperation, but he’s the only ally she has left. Given how often he’s witnessed the two of them turning on others, Jensen wonders how long it’ll be before they’re turning knives on each other.

But they’re not his problem anymore. The restaurant Jensen created with Pierre closed its doors a long time ago. Taunting Paul, Jensen throws a glib, “best of luck,” over his shoulder and moves on.

Locking eyes with Mark, Libby, and Saban, Jensen nods and smiles. They’ll understand his move tonight, and they’ll survive. If Jensen had the means to open his own restaurant tomorrow, he’d hire all three of them with no reservations.

To Dom, Jensen extends his hand and says, “See you on the outside, man.” His old friend reels him in, crushing them chest-to-chest and slapping Jensen in the middle of his back.

“We’ll be celebrating this very soon,” Dom says, and lets him go.

Jensen collects what few personal belongings he’d moved into his office, tucks Reid’s mock-ups under his arm, and pulls out his cell phone as he leaves through Riverside’s back door for the last time.

Josh is never going to believe this.



HOME

Jensen‘s not sure what to expect when he pulls up in the driveway, but it isn’t Jared standing on the front porch in a pressed suit and tie, shooing the dogs in through the door with their leashes dangling from his hand. His flyaway hair has been whisked behind his ears, and he’s watching Jensen step out of the Prius with alternating flashes of concern and hassle.

They start talking over one another when Jensen steps onto the porch.

“Nice suit—”

“I was just on—”

“Sorry,” Jensen says. “Keep going.”

“I was just on my way down to the restaurant, but the dogs needed their walk.”

“Let me guess, Genevieve called you,” Jensen says, and Jared confirms it with a nod. “How does she do that so fast? She was in the weeds when I left.”

Jared shrugs, and Jensen tries not to study how the movement lifts Jared’s jacket. The suit is an ounce too tight for him—he’s obviously added some bulk since the last time he wore it—but that does the overall cut a favor, drawing Jensen’s gaze along the ‘V’ of Jared’s upper body to his tapered waist.

“She must’ve thought it was important.”

“I was going to call you from the car,” Jensen says, “but I’ve been talking to Josh since I walked out.”

Jared waves it off. “Dude, it’s okay.” Walking into the house, he leaves the door open for Jensen to follow. “I get it,” he adds, a dull edge to his voice.

“You get it?” Jensen shuts the door, drops his dirty coat and keys on the counter, and catches up with Jared in the back hallway. Hooking Jared by the elbow, he steers them against the wall outside Jared’s room. “Hang on, Jared. What is there to get?”

Jared’s eyes flare at the close contact; Jensen puts an arm’s length between them. “You just quit your job!” Jared exclaims, words rushing out like steam from a teapot. “I’ve been trying to get you to quit for weeks, but you came up with excuse after excuse as to why you couldn’t. You love your job, Jensen, and I’m sure you blame me for the fact that you no longer have it—”

“Okay, you’re insane,” Jensen tells him, cutting the arm’s length down to a hand’s width. “I’ve been through a lot tonight. I humiliated myself in front of a hundred customers. I quit my job and told my boss to go fuck herself, and she responded by throwing a ladle full of sauce at me. I walked out of my own kitchen unemployed and filthy”—Jensen looks Jared straight in the eye; he wants Jared to hear this—“and I think this is the happiest I’ve been in the last eight years.”

The caramel tones in Jared’s eyes begin to melt. “Jensen…”

“It’s true, okay?” Jensen wants to reach out and touch, but Jared’s frame remains inflexible. “I did this for me, because it’s what I want. I want to see what opportunities are out there, and maybe my next job won’t even be in a kitchen,” he adds, thinking of Reid. “Someday, I want to open my own restaurant, but it’s gonna take time. And right now, I want you to tell me that we have a chance,” he says, trying to keep from pleading. “You know me better than anyone—even better than Josh, because you weren’t afraid to tell me what I needed to hear. I thought about you the second I told Miranda I wasn’t coming back, because you were right. I don’t want to be the type of person I’d need to become to survive in her kitchen.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to make you as happy as you’ve made me. And it’s okay if you want to wait until you’re sure—”

Jensen’s grateful that Jared’s tongue slips into his mouth and stops the rest of that thought from going past his teeth. It’s better left unfinished. Too stunned to respond with any kind of coordination, Jensen lets the kiss happen. Jared uses his astonishment to deepen the contact between their mouths, sliding his tongue so far it robs Jensen of his breath. Through all of that, he can still feel Jared’s smile against his lips.

With Jared’s extra three inches (of height, thank you very much), Jensen is forced to tilt his chin up, finding he doesn’t mind the angle where their lips meet, anxiety-seared cheeks cupped in Jared’s palms. His hands slip under the smooth licorice-black fabric of Jared’s suit jacket, measuring out the planes of skin he plans on exploring later.

“Oh thank God,” Jensen says when Jared lets him speak again. “I was totally lying about that waiting crap.”

Jared says, “So you’re a liar? Good to know.”

“Shut up.” Jensen leans up, flicking the dimples he can reach with his tongue. “Let’s just move on to that mind-blowing sex we’re supposed to be having.”

Jared draws his thumbs down Jensen’s throat, a pinch of pressure that sends Jensen’s blood racing south. Against his hip, he feels Jared’s dough rising as well—and the adrenaline must be messing with Jensen’s brain for it to come up with metaphors like that.

Jensen tugs on Jared’s tie, steering them toward the master bedroom. “So what’s the deal with the suit?”

“I—ah…I had an interview,” Jared says, kissing along Jensen’s jawline and nipping at his chin as they walk-stumble along the hallway, kicking shoes off their feet and trying not to trip one another. Jensen wants to get Jared horizontal, but not on the hallway floor and definitely not in a scenario where they’d be nursing bruises for days afterward.

Jensen’s shoulder hits the doorjamb. “This late?”

“Dinner meeting at Magnolias.”

Jensen pulls back. “With Scott Cohen?”

Jared chases Jensen’s skin, pulling him flush as they finally fall onto the bed. Twisting at the last second, Jensen rolls Jared beneath him.

“He told me you called him.”

“I did, but you never told me you had an interview.”

“You and I weren’t really talking,” Jared says, response muffled by the way his mouth works down Jensen’s neck, stretching the collar of his t-shirt to expose more skin. “And I didn’t want to jinx it.”

“Scott runs one of the best restaurant groups in the city.”

“I know,” Jared says, drawing Jensen’s leg between his and arching up into the friction. Jensen bears down into the heat, his pants and underwear feeling like a pressure cooker around his firming dick.

“They own Magnolias. Blossom. Cypress.”

“Yep.” Jared’s hands slip under Jensen’s shirt, raking down his back. Tired of the impediment, he pulls it over Jensen’s head and tosses it on the floor.

“How’d it go?” Jensen asks, taking a moment to approve of his bare skin under Jared’s hands. “Did Scott offer you a job?”

“Jensen—” Jared playfully shoves Jensen off of his chest, laughing when he nearly bounces off the comforter. Jensen looks over and smiles at Jared’s open expression. “Are we gonna have sex or are you going to grill me about my interview?”

“You’re right,” Jensen says, advancing towards his previous position. “Questions can wait.”

On his hands and knees, Jensen lowers his head until he can capture Jared’s bottom lip between his teeth, tongue following to soothe the tender abrasion. When his tongue continues on past Jared’s lips, Jensen tastes a hint of rosemary and lemon, peppers and sweet potatoes—the remains of his dinner at Magnolias.

“For the record,” Jared says as Jensen’s in the middle of a scuffle with Jared’s tie, “the interview went great.”

Peeling Jared out of his jacket, dress shirt, socks, and pants requires an aggravating measure of concentration, but it’s worth it to uncover a landscape of perfect skin: sun-bronzed shoulders and forearms, a dusting of toffee-colored hair between his pectorals thinning out as it winds down through the valley of his core.

“Damn,” Jensen gasps, his fingers mapping the topography of Jared’s abdomen. “The only six-pack I’ve got is the one in the fridge.”

Muscles quiver under his hand as Jared laughs. “Shut up, you’re fucking hot.”

“I’ve got nothing like this.” Jensen kisses each ridge, lets his tongue linger in the divots shaping Jared’s hips. When Jared’s underwear hinders his journey, Jensen pulls them down, mounting the hill of Jared’s knees and letting them fall away on the other side.

“Gonna stare at me all night?”

“I didn’t get a good look last time,” Jensen says, eyes drinking their fill while Jared flexes on the bed. “Jerking off was tough when I didn’t have the whole picture.”

“Then by all means…” Jared works himself into a full body stretch, muscles becoming more defined through the pull. His thighs are thick, locked in a wanton spread, and his quads seduce Jensen’s gaze from his knees up between his legs, where his cock is full and leaking. Jensen is rapt, sitting back on his heels, trying to decide where to begin with the delicious buffet in front of him.

Jensen makes no secret of what he’s about to do, but as soon as his lips touch Jared’s skin, Jared shivers and tenses his thighs, framing Jensen’s shoulders between them. Jensen samples and licks, gathering fluid on his tongue and passing it back over his starving taste buds. Beneath him, Jared moans like a man who’s been stuck dating his right hand for too long (Jensen would know), garbled sounds of encouragement working their way past the gasps and groans.

Jensen has always enjoyed giving head (receiving it is a no-brainer), but he would award his experience with Jared three Michelin stars. Exceptional, not to be missed, and worth a special trip. Jared has a world-class cock with exquisite shape, which is appealing to the eyes—a succulent rhubarb head and a wide shaft—as well as the other senses. Pleasing to touch; its heft settles perfectly on Jensen’s tongue and tickles the back of his throat. A blend of tastes Jensen would enjoy sampling over and over, and aromas of sweat, cotton, and cologne that are drawn into his nose, completing the picture.

“God,” Jared keens, “you love this.” Jensen’s ravenous pleasure is too obvious; Jared doesn’t even make it a question.

Past his initial shock, Jared gains control of his body, and he uses his hips to work his cock deeper into Jensen’s mouth, spreading the flavor over his palate. Jensen takes the full prominence, getting lost in the wide stretch of his lips (it’s been so long). Slick pre-come seeps from the broad head, coating the inside of Jensen’s cheek. He swallows it down, stomach growling for more, along with the wetness his mouth produces to keep the long slide smooth and satisfying for Jared.

Jensen could suck Jared for hours and be left craving more. Now that he’ll have more opportunities, he plans to take advantage until he’s blown Jared in every single room of the house, begging and panting if he has to. He can’t wait to drop to his knees in the kitchen, the smell of something baking in the oven, and pull out his soon-to-be-boyfriend’s cock (Jensen has no problem getting ahead of himself), swallowing his come as an appetizer. Or sit on the couch while Jared fucks his face with deep, slow strokes, Jared’s hands tangling in Jensen’s hair while he bastes his throat.

So fucking hot. If Jensen’s not careful, he’s going to explode all over the sheets without ever touching his dick.

“Do you want me to come?” Jared asks, words unsteady as his lungs expel each shaky breath. “I bet you want to taste me,” he says while Jensen moans, lapping up the flavor on the underside of his cock.

He doesn’t stop sucking, which is enough of a response for Jared to grind his hips up into Jensen’s face, his legs tight around Jensen’s torso. His lips are wet and nearly frictionless as Jared shudders and throbs, climax breaking him wide open. And none of Jensen’s finger-licking-good fantasies could ever match Jared’s real taste; his come is tangy and full-bodied, warm as it runs down Jensen’s throat.

When he’s taken all there is and held Jared’s sensitive flesh between his cheeks through the aftershocks, Jensen crawls out from between Jared’s thighs on numb elbows, collapsing on his side. Jared, his breathing back to normal, rolls with him.

“Did I break you, Jen?”

“If I could move,” Jensen mutters, “I’d take you again.”

Jared hums, leaning in to steal a kiss from Jensen’s flushed lips. “Sounds promising, but I think it’s my turn.” His hand traipses across Jensen’s stomach, pushing his pants and underwear out of the way and grasping Jensen’s cock like a handle. “I couldn’t fully appreciate this when we hooked up, but I don’t think I can take my time right now either.”

Jensen finds the energy to free his legs from his pants, loose under Jared’s hands as he’s guided onto his back. Between Jared’s swift strokes—he could work a sauté pan like a pro—and the whispers dripping from Jared’s mouth into his ear, his arousal hasn’t cooled off; Jensen’s cock is harder than a fresh leek.

“I want to see you come.” Jared’s lips flutter around the whorls of his ear, pushing him higher, bringing him closer. His mouth is open around a soundless cry, wishing he could rip the ache right out of his chest. “Do it, Jen. Come all over my hand, and then I’ll let you lick it off,” Jared says, clearly trying to melt Jensen’s brain with the heat of his words. “I have a feeling you’ll enjoy that.”

As if he’s stuck his head in an oven, every breath Jensen takes burns his throat; he can barely breathe during Jared’s wicked torture. When it comes, Jensen’s orgasm is half desire and half desperation, tremors wracking throughout his body. Jared draws Jensen against his mile-wide shoulders, shaking with him, and when he brings his come-frosted hand up between their bodies, Jensen doesn’t care how eager he seems—the idea of tasting Jared’s skin under his own come makes his mouth water.

Jensen looks Jared in the eye while he sucks each of Jared’s fingers. Jared’s tongue joins in, though he finds Jensen’s mouth more than his own skin.

As suddenly as the scene had overheated, it cools quickly, leaving Jensen sprawled in a de-boned heap over Jared’s chest. Between stained lips, sticky hands, and semen solidifying in all the wrong places, they’re a mess, but Jensen is too relaxed to care. He’s actually starting to drift when Jared clears his throat.

“Now what?”

“Hmm?”

“You quit your job,” Jared says. “Remember? It was only, like, an hour ago.”

“Either it hasn’t hit me yet,” Jensen ponders aloud, “or you provided an excellent distraction.” That wins Jensen a kiss on the shoulder, both of them too tapped out to move. “I feel way too good to care about the next step right now.”

“You don’t have a plan?” Jared asks, snuggling contentedly into the grooves Jensen’s worn into the mattress. He’s going to have to buy Josh a new bed; there’s no way he can give this one back with a straight face.

“Maybe I do,” Jensen mumbles, “but I need to clear my head after everything that’s happened.”

“Doing nothing sounds pretty good.”

“I won’t be doing nothing,” Jensen clarifies, tightening his hold around Jared’s waist. “You’re in the middle of finals, so I’m thinking I need to take care of you for a change.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Jensen assures him. “I’ll let you manage the dogs, though, since they clearly love you more than me.” Jared gently grasps Jensen’s chin and tilts him up for a true kiss. The cool pressure reaches Jensen’s toes. “I can take care of the yard.”

“Do you even know how the push-mower works?”

Jensen shakes his head. “I’ll do your laundry and keep the house clean.”

Jared chuckles. “Can you afford to buy me a whole new wardrobe?”

“Fine,” Jensen huffs, not at all put off his brilliant idea. “But I can cook.”

“No argument there.”

“You’ll have a different menu every day,” Jensen says, already planning his next shopping trip. Fresh fruit for blueberry cream and banana pecan pancakes; relish and cranberries from the farmer’s market to mix into a delicious summer chicken salad; the day’s fresh catch to pan-sear and season for dinner. “A happy body means a happy mind.”

“I can think of a few other ways to make my body happy,” Jared says, “but that comes later.”

Jensen can tell Jared won’t be conscious much longer—and he has no idea how he’s evaded his own post-coital nap this long—but he’s compelled to add, “I just want to make you feel good.”

He’s not anticipating an answer, and he certainly doesn’t expect Jared to nuzzle his forehead and say, “You already do. Just promise me one thing,” Jared adds, words garbled through a yawn. “You’ve got to apply for Chopped.”

Feeling extra generous after his better-than-mind-blowing orgasm, Jensen just goes along with it.

“Alright. Why not?”




EPILOGUE