2. RACHEL --- (Part 2)

Rachel stumbled back to the front desk, cheeks pink, eyes wide, looking like she had just narrowly escaped a firing, or a kiss.

Asha was already there, perched on the counter with a half-eaten muffin in hand. "Why are you blushing?" she asked, crumbs flying as she spoke. "You look like you've just been told off and proposed to at the same time."

Rachel groaned, snatching the other muffin and biting into it like it owed her money. "I think I've just humiliated myself in front of Mr Bloody Scary himself."

Asha perked up immediately, her eyes glinting. "What did you do?"

Rachel buried her face in her hands. "I thought he was going to kiss me, so I might have... you know..."

Asha leaned forward. "You know what?"

Rachel's voice came out muffled. "...puckered up."

For a second, there was silence. Then Asha exploded into laughter, a loud, musical sound that made the nearby concierge turn.

"You puckered up?" she cackled. "Oh my God, Rachel! You actually leaned in?"

Rachel swatted her arm. "I didn't lean in! I just... reacted! He was standing this close!" She gestured wildly, their noses practically touching in demonstration.

Asha gasped theatrically. "That's dangerously close. Maybe he was going to kiss you. But then, tragedy. You'd just nicked his muffins."

"Oh, shut up!" Rachel snapped, though she was laughing too, red as a beet.

Asha wiped tears from her eyes, still giggling. "Honestly, Rach, if that's how you flirt, no wonder men get confused. Poor bloke's probably pacing around his office, questioning his entire life."

Rachel groaned again, hiding behind a napkin. "I'm never showing my face in the kitchen again."

"Shame," Asha said breezily, licking a crumb off her thumb. "He's rather easy on the eyes for a man who terrifies everyone."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Yes, well. My dignity's in crumbs, just like your muffin."

Asha laughed again, that carefree, infectious sound filling the lobby, and despite herself, Rachel could not help but laugh too. But even as she joined in, her heart gave one last, stubborn flutter, because, damn it, that blush refused to fade.

Back in his office, Luke paced the floor, hands braced on his hips, letting out a sharp, disbelieving laugh at himself. Of all the women he could have been drawn to, of all the predictable, effortless conquests, he had to find himself intrigued by Rachel.

It was irritating.

There was something about her that refused to sit neatly in place, something that pulled at him, needled at his composure, invited him, no, challenged him to know her better. And that, more than anything, unsettled him. Curiosity about a woman was not a habit he entertained. Usually, it was simple: he would see, decide, pursue. A glance, a smile, a night. By morning, whatever spark had existed would have cooled into nothing. No questions. No lingering thoughts. Just the quiet certainty that it was time to move on.

But Rachel... she lingered.

Absurdly so.

At one point, he found himself thinking about a slow-roasted pork belly, whether she might like it. The thought had arrived uninvited, tangled inexplicably with the memory of her voice, her laugh. It annoyed him enough that he stayed behind in the kitchen long after lunch service had ended, sleeves rolled, knife in hand, working with a precision that bordered on aggression.

He scored the fat, rubbed in the spices, rolled the meat with meticulous care, tied it neatly with butcher's string. Into the oven it went, as though the act itself might silence the thought.

It did not.

"What the hell are you doing?" he muttered under his breath hours later, standing before the oven, watching the pork blister and crisp to perfection.

Even after half a day, after the meat had cooked to a perfect, melting tenderness, after he had carved it with precision and arranged it with far more care than necessary, separating the sauce, plating the sides with almost surgical neatness and even adding two slices of chocolate cake into the bag, he still could not quite believe himself.

"For God's sake, Luke," he said, eyeing the neatly packed container as though it had personally insulted him. "This is embarrassing."

He grabbed a paper bag, placed the food inside, then paused, his jaw tightening before calling out, "Billy."

One of the kitchen staff appeared almost instantly. "Yes, Chef?"

"Take this to the front desk," Luke said, handing over the bag with clipped authority. His grip lingered for a fraction of a second, as if silently reinforcing the importance of the task. "For the girls."

He glanced once at the neatly packed contents, then back at the staff member, his tone sharpening with quiet command.

"Make sure they get it now-while it's still warm."

"Yes, Chef."

Billy took it without question and disappeared through the doors.

Luke stood there for a moment after, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

"What the hell, Luke Kingswell," he muttered again, though quieter this time.

And yet, though he would never admit it, there it was. Beneath the irritation, beneath the mockery, something else pulsed steadily in his chest.

Anticipation.

Would she like it?

The thought barely formed before he scoffed at himself, shaking his head as if to rid it entirely.

The clock blinked past nine. Asha and Rachel had just clocked out, collapsing onto the carpeted floor of the staff locker room like two overcooked noodles. Their uniforms were crumpled, their hair a mess, their eyes glazed with the kind of fatigue that comes from smiling at strangers for ten hours straight.

Asha rummaged through her tote bag, muttering, "Come on, come on... I swear I had a fifty-pence coin left. Where did it go?"

Rachel, sprawled beside her, peered into her own purse. "I've got twenty pence and a Greggs loyalty card. If we glue them together, maybe we can buy a single cup noodle to share."

"Or," Asha said dryly, "we just feast on our disappointment."

Rachel groaned dramatically. "Payday feels like folklore. Like unicorns. Or affordable rent."

Asha slumped beside her. "If Sandy and Fern were still here, they'd sneak us leftovers from the café. Remember those sad little Danish pastries they used to toss out at midnight?"

Rachel laughed. "Oh yes. I'd sell my soul for one of those right now. Where do you reckon they are these days? We should hang out with them again."

"Somewhere with actual food, probably," Asha said. "Anyway, we can't even afford dinner. What business do we have hanging out with people who can?"

They both sighed at the same time, the kind of synchronised despair only achieved by the very broke and the utterly done. Rachel and Asha sat there in resigned silence, staring at the rows of lockers in front of them absent-mindedly.

Then the door creaked open. A young kitchen staffer stepped in, still wearing his apron, holding a large paper bag.

"Uh, hi. Chef Kingswell sent this for you two."

Rachel blinked, suspicious. "Chef... Kingswell?"

"Yes," the boy said. "Said it's dinner for the front desk girls. Told me to make sure you get it while it's still warm."

He handed over the bag and disappeared before they could ask another question.

Rachel and Asha stared at it for a long beat, as if the thing might explode.

Then Asha lunged for it, tearing it open with zero ceremony. Inside were two boxed dinners: golden roast pork belly, its skin glistening and perfectly crisp; buttery vegetables on the side; and, unbelievably, two slices of chocolate cake that looked as though they belonged in a romance film.

"Oh my God," Asha breathed. "He actually did."

Rachel frowned. "Maybe it's a bribe, to make us forget about the muffin heist."

"Or maybe..." Asha waggled her brows. "Chef's got himself a little crush."

Rachel snorted, though her cheeks betrayed her. "Don't be ridiculous. He probably just felt sorry for us."

Asha gasped in mock offence. "Sorry? We're the picture of thriving poverty! Who wouldn't fall in love with this?"

Rachel rolled her eyes, trying not to smile. "Shut up and pass me the box before I faint."

They sat cross-legged on the floor, eating straight from the boxes, laughing through mouthfuls. The food was warm, comforting, and tasted like mercy itself.

Down that quiet corridor, their laughter echoed, two hungry girls, tired but glowing, unknowingly cared for by a man who had not yet realised why he did it.

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