if you wanna be as sad as i was when i wrote this, watch the music video for Charlie Puth's We Don't Talk Anymore before you read lol

It had been six months since the breakup, and Souma figured he'd finally moved on.

Kind of.

Truth be told, he'd completely overloaded his schedule in an attempt to max out his brainpower so he wouldn't have time to think about her. Or that familiar white cloth she'd been wearing at the grand opening of Shino's London a few months ago instead of the trademark red neckerchief that most head chefs in the Shinomiya franchise wore.

God, he missed her.

Fuck. It was always like this; convincing himself that he was no longer hung up on her only to have his willpower deflate like popped salmon roe every time he glimpsed those orchid eyes and honey blonde hair on his socials and whatever culinary blog he happened to read. It had taken four shots of scotch and Gatorade to get over that inebriated finsta post of her and Alice going head to head in a drinking game.

He was sitting at the bar of a Tuscany hotel with the brand new (actually, everyone had bet on it back in second year so it wasn't that new) item that was Takumi and Megumi, discussing plans to potentially open another restaurant in Chicago after he got his third star at Fountainhead. And then she walked in.

All sultry smiles and warm brown eyes, journalist Marina Vesca was one hell of a sight to behold. She walked with the cautious, lithe confidence of a panther, young and tall and dark-skinned; her hardened Mediterranean features were unnaturally beautiful. Every so often, she would run a graceful hand through her dark, wavy hair. The informality of her white blouse and khaki shorts accentuated the way she carried herself like covert royalty.

Nobody in the media industry failed to appreciate how remarkably eloquent her words were, and her entertainment articles were coveted all around the world. Quite literally, because she spoke and wrote twelve different languages so fluently nobody could guess which was her native tongue.

For the first time since he and Erina had broken it off, Souma felt a glimmer of attraction surface deep within him. It was an emotion he'd trained himself to suppress over the last six months, because he thought he'd reserved it for Nakiri Erina and Nakiri Erina alone.

But this…

Souma shook his head to clear his thoughts and returned to Megumi's question. "Yeah, I was thinking somewhere near Lake Michigan, maybe."

"Why don't you set up in downtown Evanston?"

Souma whirled around on his stool.

Marina Vesca picked up a rossini and observed him over the rim of the martini glass. "I'm a student at Northwestern," she said casually. "If you want, I can help you get started in Illinois."

Takumi and Megumi promptly exchanged a grin and excused themselves, leaving a moderately disgruntled Yukihira Souma sitting in front of the journalist.

"Miss Vesca."

Marina stuck out her hand. "Marina, please. Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Yukihira."

"Souma." They shook. "What brings you here?"

The Italian shrugged. "Business. I'm heading back to NU tomorrow."

Before he could think twice, Souma offered, "Care to get dinner tonight?"

Marina lifted an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"We can talk about my restaurant," Souma said slowly. "And then drinks."

"Trattoria Aldini and you have yourself a deal."

Trattoria Aldini and you have yourself a date.

And for the first time since they'd first crossed paths, Nakiri Erina was no longer at the forefront of his mind. It seemed north stars could be changed.

It had taken six months, but Erina was almost positive that she could go a full hour without wondering how Souma was doing. Now, this was major progress, because until yesterday she couldn't go fifteen fucking minutes without staring at his cloth, her useless sentimental brain flooded with all the memories they'd shared. She hadn't even deleted a single picture of them together from her phone, and should someone ask she would blame this on the existence of nine hundred said pictures that would take up way too much time to delete. Oh, who the fuck was she kidding?

Erina hadn't opened the cursed app since the breakup because she knew if she took one look at his giddy smile whenever he put his arms around her for a photo she'd at worst run back to him, to hell with her pride, or at best start reminiscing about the good times and the thousand hues of gold in his honey eyes and—

Fuck!

She was alone in Shino's London, chewing gum and taking inventory and blessing Shinomiya's regulation three-hour break between lunch and dinner service, when she heard a knock at the front doors.

Muttering under her breath—plebs these days really thought they could just barge in without reservations during staff break—Erina went to the reception area with the full intention of reaming out the imposter until they begged for mercy.

Erina yanked open the doors. "Shino's London," she said with thinly veiled irritation.

Then she blinked.

Standing in front of her was an immaculately groomed adonis bearing a small bouquet of forget-me-nots.

"Head chef Erina Nakiri?" the man asked, more statement than question, and she was taken aback at the crispness of his Oxford accent.

"Yes, this is she," Erina replied with a frown. "I'm sorry, do you have a reservation?"

Now, Nakiri Erina was renowned for her god tongue, but her other senses were just as refined as her palate. She took one look at the man and automatically judged him to be a thoroughbred with a degree from Oxbridge and an inheritance of some bigass company. It would be either Burberry or…

"I'm Paul Schraeder," he introduced himself. "Heir to British Airlines." Dammit, that was her second guess. "I was here for lunch earlier today and your food tasted melancholy, so I thought I'd drop by and see how you were feeling."

Well, it seemed that this man could read emotions pretty well. Had she actually been so involved with thinking about Souma that she'd let the feels slip into the dish? How careless of her! It wasn't like she missed him. Hell no.

Paul extended the bouquet and, hating that her subconscious automatically associated his hand with Souma's arm and Souma's face, she accepted it and thanked him.

"Are you feeling any better?"

Erina gave him a half smile. Hopefully he wouldn't look into it and see how strained it was.

"When does your shift end?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your shift. Can I take you out for dinner?"

Erina squinted at Paul Schraeder. He was unusually cognizant (she assumed this because if he weren't then she'd have to admit that her cooking had been so profoundly tainted with longing that any ordinary pleb could taste it and there was no way in hell she was doing that), attractive, and came from a privileged family. In essence, he was one of those bland elites her parents would've probably approved of before that idiot of a diner brat blasted his way into the Nakiri keep like a goddamn cannon.

"Alright," Erina said. "I'll meet you in the parking lot at nine."

It was time she started making a tangible effort to get over Yukihira Souma, no matter how many times Alice gave her another trademark Singularity of the Soulmate lecture, but she knew full well that she'd never have genuine feelings for Paul Schraeder. She started scrolling ahead a few months in the Google calendar that was her brain, trying to find the optimal day to turn him loose.

Considering it was only September, anything before December was too early. She wouldn't know if it was really working, if she was getting over that fool.

December was vicious. In no way was Nakiri Erina a natural empath, but she was not heartless enough to break up with a guy right before Christmas.

January was always a bad time for businesses as the hoi polloi struggled to compensate for their extravagant spending over the holidays, so that was unnecessarily cruel.

February? That was inconvenient, because Valentine's Day was a thing.

Another sign of progress — she was actually taking Paul's feelings into account as she planned their breakup months in advance.

March… March would do. She would dump him then, and if she saw fit (rather, if she could go a week without thinking about Souma), she'd repeat the cycle with another impeccably well-bred elite, maybe through setups engineered by mutual connections, maybe by her own volition. She couldn't say which.

But she could say that she was going out on a date with Paul Schraeder tonight, and unless three shits hit the fan, she was going to give him her phone number after.