SEBASTIAN’S POV
The moment we step into the diner, Sasha’s eyes widen. Her gaze flits around, taking in the warm lighting, the polished chrome finishes, and the chequered floor, as though she’s absorbing every detail. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, which seems to spark something curious in her.
The place has a simple charm to it. Red leather booths line the walls, and old-school neon signs hang in the windows, casting a soft glow over the room.
I keep my hands in my pockets, watching her with a hint of amusement. She’s wondering why the diner’s completely empty and why there isn’t a single customer or server in sight. It’s only us, and the silence is amplified by her curious glances.
“Not what you expected?” I finally ask, stepping closer to her.
She looks over her shoulder at me, a slight smile playing on her lips. “I’m guessing you rented it out just for us?” Her voice is teasing, but there’s a genuine glimmer of intrigue in her eyes.
“Didn’t peg you for the private-diner kind of guy, Sebastian.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “You think I’d go to all that trouble for just a meal?” Her eyes widen slightly, and I feel a satisfied grin tugging at my mouth.
“I didn’t rent the place, Sasha.” I pause, watching her expression shift as the realisation dawns. “I own it.”
She stares at me, mouth slightly open, trying to process this new piece of information. It’s rare to see her caught off guard, but when it happens, it’s worth every second.
“Of course you do,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief. “What, exactly, don’t you own?”
Her reaction makes me laugh a real, full laugh that I rarely allow myself. “Just a few things left to conquer,” I say, guiding her toward one of the booths. I gesture to the booth with a slight bow. “After you.”
She slides into the seat, still looking at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she’s just barely beginning to understand. I join her across the table, leaning back and watching as she relaxes into the booth, her curiosity piqued.
“Order whatever you’re craving,” I tell her. “The kitchen’s at your disposal.”
She raises an eyebrow, glancing around sceptically. “Considering there’s no chef in sight, I’m assuming you have some grand plan for this meal?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, keeping my expression unreadable. There’s a thrill in knowing she’s in the dark, that she’s wondering what I’ll do next. The element of surprise keeps her guessing, and I like it.
Sasha drums her fingers on the tabletop, eyeing me with that challenging look she gives when she’s trying to outwit me. “Well, if I can’t see the chef, then who’s cooking?”
I lean forward, placing my elbows on the table as I flash her a grin. “How do you feel about a homemade meal… by yours truly?” Her eyes widen in surprise again, and before she can respond, I stand up, making my way to the kitchen.
I find an apron hanging on the hook near the door, a faded old thing with our diner’s logo on the front. It’s been a while since I’ve cooked for anyone, but the process is a bit like riding a bike.
I tie the apron around my waist and turn back to see Sasha watching me with an expression that’s a mix of disbelief and amusement.
“You’re serious?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she watches me from the booth.
“Completely,” I reply, giving her a wink. “Just sit back and enjoy the show.”
I pull open the fridge, surveying the options. Fresh eggs, bacon, vegetables, bread.
This diner has always prided itself on quality ingredients, and I keep it stocked in case the staff ever needs anything for after-hours.
I glance at her as I start to prep, catching her studying me with that sharp, unyielding curiosity. “Any requests?”
She taps her chin, pretending to think it over. “I’d say surprise me, but you’re full of surprises today,” she says with a smirk.
“Let’s keep the trend going, then,” I reply, grabbing the eggs and some vegetables from the fridge.
I move with confidence, grabbing a cutting board and knife, and setting to work on chopping up peppers, onions, and tomatoes.
I can feel her eyes on me, a silent observer to my every move. The soft sound of the knife against the cutting board fills the diner as I focus, getting lost in the simple motions of cooking.
“Didn’t know you could cook,” she finally says, breaking the silence. Her voice is light but carries that hint of scepticism I’ve grown to expect from her.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Sasha,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder with a smirk. “Consider this your lesson for the day.”
She chuckles, shaking her head as she watches me. “So, how did you get into cooking?”
I crack the eggs into a bowl, giving them a quick whisk as I consider her question. “When I was younger, I didn’t have much choice. Learned how to fend for myself early on.” I don’t elaborate, and she doesn’t press, just nods thoughtfully.
The oil sizzles as I pour it into the pan, and the smell of frying vegetables fills the diner. I toss in the peppers and onions, stirring them around as they begin to soften and release their aroma.
It’s a comforting smell, one that brings back memories I don’t often revisit.
“Is that something you… miss?” she asks quietly, watching me with a softness in her eyes that catches me off guard. “The simplicity?”
Her question pulls me back to the present, and I nod slowly. “Sometimes, yeah.” I glanced at her, surprised at her perceptiveness. “There’s something… satisfying about doing things with your own hands.”
I turn my attention back to the stove, adding a pinch of salt and pepper to the pan. The vegetables are starting to caramelise, a rich, earthy aroma filling the kitchen.
“Didn’t think I’d see Sebastian, Mr. Power and Control, wearing an apron and frying veggies,” she teases, leaning back in the booth with a grin.
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. “There’s a first time for everything.”
I pour the eggs into the pan, watching as they bubble and set around the vegetables. The edges start to crisp, turning golden brown.
It’s simple, nothing like the gourmet meals we’re used to, but it’s real. It’s something I’ve put effort into, something she can’t simply order off a menu. And maybe that’s what makes it feel different.
Once the omelette is ready, I carefully slide it onto a plate and add a side of toast, buttered and golden. I carry it over to her, placing it on the table with a slight flourish.
“Your meal, madam,” I say, bowing theatrically.
She laughs, shaking her head in disbelief as she picks up her fork. “I have to admit, I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
I slide back into the booth across from her, watching as she takes her first bite. Her eyes close briefly as she tastes the food, and a small, satisfied smile spreads across her face.
“It’s good,” she admits, almost begrudgingly, as if she didn’t expect me to succeed.
I lean back, crossing my arms as I watch her. “You sound surprised.”
She laughs softly, shrugging. “Maybe a little.” She takes another bite, savouring the simplicity of it, and for a moment, there’s a comfortable silence between us, a shared peace I rarely experience.