I drop my hand to my thigh, pinching myself through the fabric. That kind of thought isn’t necessary, not for whatever it is we are.

My phone buzzes on my palm, the screen lighting up with a notification from an app I haven’t checked in days, an app I haven’t felt the need to punish myself with at all recently. Between giddy, silly thoughts about the owner of my restaurant and how to save said restaurant, I’ve been too distracted to chase the too-small dopamine hit. It’s glorious. Freeing.

The back door to the restaurant hits the brick wall with a clang and I snap my gaze up. Amy stands in the doorway. She holds up her wrist, pointing to a watch that isn’t there. “We just got a reso for twelve people tonight. We’re full. Let’s start prep.”

Shit. How did she even know I was here?

They are few and far between, but some days Amy brings a gray cloud with her to work. Mostly, she’s exceptional at keeping her personal problems at home. She doesn’t snap at the servers, she doesn’t slam doors or throw dishes. But through the windshield she looks like a live wire ready to spark.

She jabs at her wrist again before closing the door behind her with a thud. Serves me right for daydreaming. I reach behind my seat for my bag, dropping my phone inside. Every time I look back there I see her again, laid out in front of me, flushed and beautiful and slick. Vulnerable, as much as Amy will let herself be.

Slowly, I smile, feeling like the cat who caught the canary. If she’s feeling a little frustrated tonight, maybe there’s something I can do—besides fast prep—to help ease some of her tension.

By the time I’ve stuffed my bag into my locker and pulled my clean chef’s whites on, Amy has a pile of chopped onions beside her. Her knife moves fast, with precision, leaving behind rows of identical onion-y cubes.

“What?” she asks, never taking her eyes off her work or breaking rhythm.

“Do you think maybe that’s enough onions?”

She stops, taking stock of the pile. There’s got to be at least four onions’ worth in there.

“How about you just let me be in charge of food prep?” I cover her hand with mine over the knife. This close she smells like her signature peaches with something woodsy and spicy underneath.

“What?” I sniff again, trying to identify the scent. “Where were you today? You smell like...is that patchouli?”

Amy slowly turns to look at me, her hand slipping out from beneath mine. The contact was totally harmless but the loss of it leaves a burn behind, like when I’ve stood over a boiling pot for too long. The kind of warmth that hurts but I want to feel it again, regardless.

“My smell is different?”

I shrug, scraping the onion into a container and avoiding her eyes. “You have a very distinct smell.”