Jordan POV
And I saw… eyes.
Two intense eyes. Locked on mine. Dark, focused… way too close.
I blinked. Once. Then again. My brain was still stuck somewhere between dream and reality. But those eyes… they were really there.
Was I still dreaming?
I felt hypnotized by his stare. Still dazed, still trying to piece together where I was, who he was, what was even real.
"Feeling any better?" he asked, voice deep, slow, low — more like a whisper between us than a real question.
"Yes," I managed to reply, still a little dizzy. My heart was racing — maybe from waking up like that… Or maybe… from something else.
I tried to move. And only then realized — I was stuck. Adam was sitting beside me, leaning over me, both of my hands gently pinned to the mattress beneath his.
Panic and embarrassment hit me at once. Oh God. Did I… do something in my sleep? Did I try to kiss him? No. No way. I would remember that… right?
"You're still flushed," he noted, releasing one of my hands and bringing his to my face. "But your fever's gone."
Right… but I still felt like I was burning inside.
He was too close. And I… I noticed. I noticed everything.
His dark hair, slightly tousled but still unfairly perfect. The short, clean beard that framed his jaw like it had been carved by a sculptor with way too much talent. He was in a white shirt now — sleeves rolled up, top button undone — revealing broad shoulders, a strong chest… and that firm neck.
That neck could easily belong to the mystery man from my dream. Wait — that was a dream, right? I didn't actually kiss Chef Adam… did I?
Focus, Jordan. Breathe. Get a grip.
I looked away, trying to regain some sense of reality — and only then realized… I wasn't in the office anymore. I wasn't where I remembered falling asleep.
The confusion thickened, along with the awkwardness of having him so close. He pulled back slightly, maybe picking up on it.
"Um… where am I?"
"You fell asleep on the office couch. I brought you to this room."
"You brought me here?" Oh god, what a stupid question.
He gave a rare smile — almost dangerous — and shrugged, like it didn't even deserve a real answer.
We went quiet. I was still half-lying down. He was now standing by the bed — yes, a bed.
And if he brought me here… Did that mean he carried me?
Oh. God.
His face stayed neutral, calm. But his eyes… his eyes never left mine. And if it was all just a dream? Then what wasn't?
"You should eat something. You barely had lunch. And the meds are kicking in — you'll feel better soon," he said, changing the subject.
Honestly? I was grateful. That mounting tension needed to be silenced.
I nodded. Not because I was hungry — I wasn't — but because food sounded like a great excuse to escape this weird fog. Or to hide. Or both.
"I'll fix you something before I go down for service."
"Down?" I repeated, still confused, looking around.
"You're in my apartment, Jordan. Above the restaurant," he explained, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"Why?" I couldn't help asking. He hesitated. I saw him weigh his words before giving me the simplest answer possible:
"You looked uncomfortable on the office couch. And I might've had to meet with a supplier." He moved away from the bed, heading for the door.
"You can rest here a bit longer. I'll get you something to eat."
"You're blurry," I mumbled, more to myself than to him, rubbing my eyes.
That's when I realized — I wasn't wearing my glasses.
"My glasses?"
"They're still in the office. I'll get them… and your phone too," he said, leaving before I could say anything else.
And just like that, I was left there. Frozen. Trying to process… everything.
What I dreamed. What had actually happened. And what the hell was happening now.
Was Chef Ogre… being… nice?
Adam POV
What the hell was I doing?
Why, exactly, did I carry Jordan from the office couch to my apartment? To the guest room, at least, but still. I don't even remember deciding to do it. I just remember carrying her up the stairs in my arms — and everything going to hell from there. Her fever had started to drop, but she was still drowsy. Burning hot, honestly.
No idea how it had escalated that fast. But I'd seen the sneezing start during lunch service, and she just got worse as the minutes passed.
She was lighter than I expected. Not too skinny — no. She had curves, a body that was… Goddammit. Why did I think my intern was attractive?
That's not right. It's not professional. It's not anything.
But her — in my arms — for one second, just one… It felt right.
Stupid. So damn stupid.
I should've left her on the couch. Or — bare minimum — asked Melissa to look after her. But no. Instead, I brought her upstairs. I told myself it was the logical choice. Rational.
But clearly, I and logic haven't been speaking lately.
And then came the real problem.
The second I laid her down… She leaned into me. Instinctively. Like I was… comfort. Shelter.
Her nose brushed against my neck. Then her lips. She kissed me.
Just like that. As if… as if it was her right. And then… she moaned. Soft. Low. Unmistakable.
It hit me like lightning. And my body — of course — reacted.
As if that wasn't enough, she wrapped her arms around my neck. Pulled me down. To her mouth. Eyes closed. Breath fast. She looked like she was halfway between sleep and… something else entirely.
Like she was dreaming.
And for a second — just one damn second — I hesitated. I almost gave in. Almost leaned in. Almost kissed her back.
But I didn't.
I grabbed her wrists. Held her down — not hard, just firm. I held her there to stop everything. To stop myself.
Because she's my intern. Because I'm the Chef. Because there are rules. Rules I put in place. Because I can't lose control.
Not again.
That's when she stirred. Frowned, like the dream was shifting. Her breath quickened. Her lips parted slightly, murmuring something I couldn't catch. Then her whole body tensed. She tried to move her arms — and froze.
Her eyes opened — brown, wide, still hazy from sleep… or fever. And they locked onto mine.
We froze there. Caught in that impossible moment. She was confused. And me… I didn't even know what the hell I was.
And instead of letting go immediately — I hesitated. Stayed there for one stupid beat longer.
Then I asked if she was okay. Still touching her face. Checking her temperature. Sure. That was the reason.
I left the room with the excuse of fixing her something to eat.
Chef Adam Black — the man who hates breaking routine, who never cooks outside of service — was about to make a snack. In his own apartment. For a woman. For an intern.
I only ever do this for my niece. And now… for her.
I needed to get away. Now. To breathe. To get my head straight. Because those eyes — wide, confused… They made everything worse. And yeah. My pants were way too tight to ignore it.
I went to get her glasses and phone. She was just stepping out of the room when I came back. I handed them over like I was delivering a lab report — fast, neutral, no eye contact. But of course… our fingers touched. Didn't like it. Didn't like her touching me. Because I felt… things. And I don't want to feel.
"I won't take long with the food," I told her, already halfway to the kitchen. She was fidgeting with her hands in front of her, awkwardly. But followed me in silence.
"I can cook…" she started.
"Next time," I cut in. Next time, Adam? What next time are you even thinking of?
"Sit."