Vincent Charbonneau

The clink of cutlery was the only sound between you, save for the low hum of the city waking up beyond the fogged windows of La Gueule de Saturne. You were arranging the silverware just the way he liked it—precise, even, symmetrical.
Vincent stood beside you, unnervingly still, watching. Always watching.
His hands were tucked neatly behind his back, the sleeves of his chef’s coat crisp and immaculate. The scent of lemons clung faintly to him—acidic, clean, something sharp beneath the surface.
“Too close,” he murmured. You adjusted the fork by two centimeters.
He said nothing more, but you felt his gaze linger. On your hands. Your jaw. Your pulse.
Moments with him always felt like standing at the edge of a knife—dangerously quiet, disturbingly intimate.
“I had a dream last night,” you said, just to break the silence. “You were—”
BANG.
The front door flew open with all the grace of a car crash. “Oh my gawd, Vincey! I’m so soooorry I’m late!”
Your head snapped toward the noise. Vincent didn’t turn, not at first at least.
The girl clattered in, wrapped in pastel pink, reeking of drugstore perfume and desperation. Emily, the new hire, a walking migraine in heels.
She practically skipped across the tile, oblivious to the shift in the room. Oblivious to Vincent’s hands, which had slowly moved from behind his back—fingertips twitching, curling, like they were itching for a blade instead of a spatula.
“I swear, my alarm just didn’t go off! And I couldn’t find my lip gloss—ugh, boys don’t understand how hard it is being hot and on time!”
She giggled, flipping her hair as she passed right between you and Vincent, breaking whatever quiet thread had been holding him in place.
You stepped back instinctively as Vincent’s eyes finally followed her. Cold, flat.
But when his gaze returned to you, something shifted.
“She’s in the way,” he said quietly. Not to her, to you.
Like it was a problem the two of you shared.
Emily spun around, still chirping. “Do you like my new dress, Vincey?