3.75 years post grad

If anyone at Totsuki's 92nd scouting gala a few years ago had told Souma that he would earn three Michelin stars within three and a half years of graduation, celebrate for all of thirty minutes with his girl best friend, then be dragged by said journalist to Evanston to start prepping for his second restaurant — which had somehow magically been constructed and staffed (again, by said journalist) without him knowing — he would have laughed and passed the recruiter another champagne.

But alas, as fate would have it, he was dozing off on a stool under a recently replaced lightbulb in Origin half a block down from Northwestern U on the waterfront of Lake Michigan when his best friend/relationship counselor walked in wearing her varsity volleyball uniform. She was typing furiously on her phone, an NU pen stuck between her teeth as she expertly maneuvered through the labyrinthine setup of the dining hall.

"Your posture never ceases to amaze me," she said through closed lips without looking up.

Souma yawned, got off the stool, and picked up the faulty lightbulb.

Marina finished her email, opened the battered Wildcats duffel bag slipping off her shoulder, dug through neatly folded gear, and spiked a wrapped something at him. "Coach's Gateau Breton is to die for and I'm betting you haven't eaten anything today. What the hell is the point of being a god-tier chef if you can't even make yourself an instant ramen? Basic necessity, Souma. Food and sleep. You do zero of that shit."

"You noticed?"

"No shit, Sherlock," she frowned, taking the pen out of her mouth. "You haven't been in your flat since last week. I bet you've been sleeping in the backroom."

Ah, that was true.

She glanced over the hall. "At least you got all the deco done."

"No shit, Sherlock," Souma mimicked.

She rolled her eyes. "We both have a big night ahead," she reminded him. "I'm going to have to write a shit ton of articles."

"I'm assuming that's a friendly warning not to fuck up, right?"

Marina gave an exaggerated gasp. "You know me so well!" Then her expression turned serious. "Is Erina coming?"

Souma paused, the French cake half in his mouth. "Actually, I don't know. I asked but she hasn't texted back in a few days."

"Don't you have her Google calendar on your phone?"

"Oh, she made me sign out," he said dejectedly. "Now I have nothing to do on my phone."

Marina laughed. "Trust me, you should just call her until she picks up."

"She'll block me," Souma pointed out.

"Erina might be a tsundere, but even I know that she's soft for you, and I have yet to talk to her in person. Girl's gotta have a limit. She can't keep up the masquerade forever."

Souma gestured with the Gateau Breton. "You think that's true?"

"I know it's true. Try it out, and if she blocks you I'll just get you a new phone. But in the meantime, go sleep while I do finishing touches. As your official relationship counselor, I absolutely forbid you to look like a caffeine-dependent brick when the love of your life walks through those doors. AND! I said sleep, not cold storage! You've already checked on the fish sixty-four times today."

It was five minutes into the debut of Origin, and Takumi Aldini figured that Yukihira Souma had never been so nervously excited in his entire life, not even when the investors had agreed to support his first enterprise with Fountainhead. He was practically a goddamn newborn lamb; it didn't take much brainpower to guess why. Nakiri Erina had texted him earlier when they were getting the house ready for opening, letting him know that she was going to be there and threatening him with a multitude of god tongue-esque punishments should he disappoint her. That text had completely unwound Souma, and try as he might, temporary sous chef Takumi had been unfortunately incapable of getting his best friend's shit back together until the doors were actually open.

Souma literally went to the front doors to wait for them, to hell with all the inquisitive stares directed his way, but then Erina walked in and barely spared him half a glance before she breezed cooly past him. Takumi swore he saw something shatter inside Souma.

"I read it wrong?" Souma asked as he returned to the kitchen, sounding more annoyed than confused as a hostess seated her, Alice, Hisako, Ryo, and Akira at the best table in the house.

"Yukihira…"

"Love is hard, bro."

Takumi gave him a sympathetic shoulder pat and said, "Never said it was easy, bro."

"Then it wouldn't be worth it. You're right, man, let's do this."

When the night was over and the journalists had had their fill of his (forced) witty banter, Souma grinned his billion-watt smile and posed for final pictures with Takumi but the only thing on his mind was that lilac-eyed blonde lingering at the front doors. As if she had any right to do so. After ignoring him the entire night, Souma wouldn't have been surprised if she'd bolted from the place like a damn jet the second she'd finished her food.

"Night, Yukihira," Takumi said finally. "You sure you'll be okay talking to her?"

Souma nodded. "Yeah. Thanks for helping out. Night, Takumi."

The Italian took his leave with a final wave, and then it was just the two in the restaurant.

Souma took his time changing out of his whites, checking storage, running through ingredient orders for the next week, hoping that by the time he had nothing else to do, she would be long gone.

But alas, it seemed the universe loved screwing around with Yukihira Souma as much as his old man did. Erina approached him as he headed past the dining hall towards the front doors.

"Sup," he said tersely as he passed her.

"Yukihira," she began. "You're ignoring me?"

Souma scoffed, knowing how petty he was being but not really caring, because there was no way in hell he was letting her off so damn easily. "I'm ignoring you? You're one to talk." Then whatever half-assed mode of anger had been brewing in his stomach during dinner service dissipated and he gave a long sigh. "Sorry. I'm just tired. But you literally didn't even say hi."

"Look, I just wasn't sure where we stood. I'm sorry about my indiscretion."

"Yeah, I know," Souma replied. "It's fine. How was the food?"
Erina gave a Nakiri-esque roll of her lilac eyes. "I couldn't tell if I was eating food or your irritation."

"So it was good, then. The whole face of the chef type shit."

"Don't delude yourself." She squinted at him carefully. "Hey, are we cool, Yukihira?"

"Of course, Nakiri. Since when are we not?"

The god tongue released a repressed sigh of relief, but Souma wasn't done. He grabbed her by the wrist, closed the distance between them, and kissed her, a lot longer and harder than he should have (to be honest, it shouldn't have happened at all). Erina's lips parted for his almost immediately and she started kissing him back, running her fingers up his spine until her hand was at the nape of his neck, the other locked in place by his, but before long they realized what in fuck's name they were doing and jerked away from each other.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking anything but. "I just wanted to make sure I remember."

Erina replied, her cheeks flushed, "Remember what?"

"How to kiss you."

sorry this took so long yall but le chefs do seem to be getting their shit together now yay