The lunch rush at The Iron Beak was brutal. The air in the kitchen was a thick, stinging mist of hot vinegar and pepper powder that made the back of the throat itch.

“Told you we made a team, Jun,” Ren said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the dining room.

Jun didn't look up. He was whisking the Ghost Pepper Glaze with a steady, rhythmic hand, the muscles in his forearm flexed and slick with sweat. “Save the talk for closing. Orders thirty-two and thirty-three. Table four. Go.”

Ren didn't move. Instead, he stepped into Jun’s space and caught Jun’s chin in his palm, tilting his head up just enough to break his focus.

“Smile, Jun,” Ren said. He looked annoyingly polished despite the heat. “This is the dream, remember? Look at all these happy people.”

Jun’s jaw tightened, but his eyes flickered with something less than annoyance for a split second before he swiped Ren’s hand away. “Go. Before the fries get cold.”

Ren chuckled, spinning on his heel and navigating the greasy floor with an easy, practiced grace. He wove through the tables until an old woman in a corner booth flagged him down.

“Another two glazes and one buttermilk fried chicken for takeaway, dear,” she said, her eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. She watched Ren write the order, then looked toward the kitchen where Jun was buried in the steam. “You and the chef… you’re close, aren’t you? Reminds me of a noodle shop across town. A young man and his wife, side-by-side every day for twenty years. They knew what the other was thinking before a word was even spoken. A real family operation. They went under last month, poor thing.”

She tilted her head, watching the way Ren stood—relaxed, yet clearly keeping an eye on the door and the kitchen at once. “It’s rare to see a partnership like that. You two give off that ‘old married couple’ energy.”

Ren didn’t miss a beat. He leaned in and gave her a wink. “That just means we're that close together, ma’am.”

The lady let out a raspy laugh. “Youngsters. So damn unserious. Someone might mistake it for something different.”

Ren excused himself, but as he walked back, the words wouldn't leave him. Old married couple. The idea of being a romantic couple with Jun should have been a joke, but it hit him somewhere quiet and heavy. He looked at Jun—hunched over the prep station, a smear of flour on his cheek, his work shirt straining against the back of his neck.

Ren’s mind drifted. The clatter of dishes faded into a dull hum. The world narrowed until there was only steel, heat, and the man in front of him.

In his head, he wasn’t holding a notepad. His fingers were wrapped around Jun’s wrists, pinning them flat against the cool stainless steel of the prep table. He imagined the kitchen door clicking shut, locking them in, trapping the heat between their bodies. The hum of the fryer became a pulse, vibrating through the metal and into Ren’s own chest.

Jun’s shirt was damp with sweat; in Ren's mind, it came away slowly, inch by inch, revealing the tension of broad shoulders and hard muscle. He imagined the friction of his own skin against the solid weight of Jun’s chest.

The air was thick with the scent of him. Ren could almost taste the salt at the curve of Jun’s neck. He moved in, lips hovering, then pressing—tracing the frantic pulse against Jun’s skin.

Then, he bit.

A sharp, possessive pressure meant to mark him, his teeth sinking into that sensitive spot on Jun's throat. He ground his weight forward, pinning Jun against the steel just to draw out that one sound.

That low, guttural groan. The rough, broken noise Jun only made when he finally lost control.

Even in his head, Ren pushed harder, wanting to feel every muscle shudder—just to feel exactly how much a man like Jun wanted to be broken.

“Ren!”

The voice cut through the fog. Ren blinked, his vision clearing as the harsh kitchen lights burned back into view.

Jun was staring at him, his brow furrowed. “Something wrong? You’ve been staring at the floor for ten seconds.”

“Nope,” Ren said. He forced his face to relax, though his heart was still hammering against his ribs. “Just the order. Two glazes plus one buttermilk for the lady in the booth. I’m going to check the inventory in the back.”

Ren beat a quick retreat to the storage room. Jun watched him go, eyes narrowing. He didn’t need to be told Ren was lying; he’d spent too many years watching for the signs of a man losing his focus. He’d seen the hitch in Ren’s breathing and the way his pulse was still thudding in the hollow of his throat.

Jun didn’t push. He just turned back to the vat, the oil hissing as he dropped the next batch of chicken.

That evening, the "Open" sign was flipped to "Closed," and the shop felt heavy with silence.

Jun was slumped in a booth, legs kicked out, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest to catch the fading breeze of the customer-side AC. His apron was balled up on the floor.

“We’re getting a unit for the kitchen,” Jun muttered. A bead of sweat traced a slow line from his hairline down the center of his chest.

Ren stayed at the counter, stacking receipts. He didn't look up, but his eyes tracked that sweat drop until it hit Jun's collarbone. “In the kitchen? I think you just can’t handle the heat anymore, Jun.”

“I handle it fine,” Jun snapped, though the humidity had stolen his usual bite.

“Do you? Prove it.”

Ren dropped his pen. He didn't say anything, just moved across the tile with a quiet, restless energy. He ignored the empty chair across from Jun. He didn't take the chair across from Jun. Instead, he hopped onto the edge of the table, his thigh forcing Jun’s legs further apart as he crowded into his space.

He leaned down, his thumb and index finger catching Jun’s chin and tilting his face up into the light.

“Prove it,” Ren whispered.

The air in the room suddenly felt thin. Jun went dead still. He sat there with his hands flat on the table, his lungs tight. He should have shoved the hand away, but he could feel something inside creeping up his neck, something warm, pinning him in place.

For a long beat, neither of them moved. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the distant hiss of a streetlamp outside.

Finally, Jun exhaled, his hand firmly catching Ren’s wrist and shoving it aside. He stood up abruptly from the booth, the move almost jarring.

“Let’s wrap this up and go home, Ren,” Jun said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Ren didn't look offended. He just hopped off the table, a playful, knowing look in his eyes. “Why so fast? The night is young.”

Jun didn't answer. He grabbed his keys and his jacket, moving toward the back door with a purposeful stride that looked a lot like a retreat. “Come on. I’m locking up.”

“Alright, alright,” Ren said, gathering his things with a soft chuckle. “See you in the morning, Jun.”