Chapter Text
It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.
You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.
You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.
You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.
Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.
You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service.
You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.
He starts unloading his haul without a word.
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A 2 liter bottle of cola.
- Repackaged chicken feet.
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A pint of heavy cream.
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A family-size bag of marshmallows.
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Three lemons.
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Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).
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A tray of century eggs.
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A novelty fish-shaped lighter.
You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.
“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”
He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.
“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”
“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”
“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”
You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”
“I like to leave my options open.”
He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.
“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.
“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”
You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.
The guy takes one look and laughs.
“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?”
“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”
He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.
“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”
You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.
He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.
“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”
You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”
He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”
And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.
...
You didn’t really expect to see him again.
Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”
But then, a few nights later, he’s back.
Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.
He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.
The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.
“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.
“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.
You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”
“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”
You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”
He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”
“You’ll need more butane for that.”
You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.
You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.
“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.
He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”
You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”
“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”
“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”
“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”
As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.
You push it across the counter with his bag.
Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.
“You know, these are actually... really good.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I mean it. You’re talented.”
You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”
He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.
“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”
You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.
“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”
He doesn’t have a comeback for that.
You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.
On his way out, he glances back once.
“The soup pot’s got good linework.”
You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.
Except you do.
...
It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.
Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.
You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.
Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.
Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”
You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.
You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.
You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.
“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”
You don’t answer.
He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”
You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”
He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.
“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”
You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:
“That sucks.”
It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.
You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.
“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”
You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”
You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”
Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.
“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”
You blink. “What?”
“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”
You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”
He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”
It’s stupid.
It’s really stupid.
But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.
You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.
“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.
A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”
You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”
Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”
“Only if it’s expired.”
He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.
When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.
“I’m Phainon, by the way.”
You blink. “What?”
“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”
You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right.
You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”
“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”
“Points for subtlety.”
“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.
You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.
He bumps back.
And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.
You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.