Chapter 2 — Behind the Curtain

Ivy Laurent

The chill of the evening air nipped at Ivy’s skin as she slipped out into the narrow alley behind La Lumière. Her breath formed faint clouds, dissolving into the shadows as she leaned against the weathered brick wall. Her first full shift had ended, leaving her feet aching and her arms sore, but her mind buzzed too much to rest. The relentless pace of the bistro had been exhilarating and overwhelming in equal measure. Ethan’s curt reprimands still echoed in her head, as sharp and unyielding as the clatter of pans in the kitchen.

She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to untangle the emotions knotting inside her. The bistro had been chaos, but it wasn’t just noise—it was alive, crackling with energy that felt raw and real. That thought settled in her chest, part excitement, part unease. She couldn’t quite shake the lingering tension of the evening, and the idea of returning to her tiny apartment felt suffocating. The thought of its blank walls and stifling stillness made her hesitate.

A faint glow above caught her attention, a soft halo of warm light lining the rooftop against the indigo sky. She tilted her head, curious despite herself. A faint creak of metal accompanied by the rustle of something alive in the wind reached her ears. Her feet moved before her mind decided, drawn by the soft illumination and the promise of quiet. Rounding the corner, she spotted a small, rickety staircase winding its way up the side of the building. The paint flaked off in uneven patches, like the remnants of an old, forgotten mural. It didn’t inspire confidence, but the faint scent of herbs—earthy, clean, soothing—beckoned her upward.

The rooftop garden stretched before her, an unexpected refuge above the bustle of the city. Mismatched planters and wooden boxes formed a patchwork of greenery, with rosemary, thyme, lavender, and edible flowers spilling over their edges. Twinkling string lights crisscrossed overhead, casting a warm, golden glow that softened the sharp edges of the night. Ivy stopped, her breath catching as she took in the sight. It was like stepping into a painting—soft, luminous, and full of quiet life. She reached out, brushing her fingers over the cool, rough edge of a planter, feeling the pulse of something alive here.

And there, crouched over a wooden planter, was Ethan.

For a moment, she hesitated, her hand pausing mid-air. She could turn back, leave him to his solitude. But something about the way he moved—precise yet unguarded, his hands gently coaxing the soil—made her stay. This wasn’t the man she’d seen storming through the kitchen. This was someone else, someone she wanted to know. Her shoes scuffed lightly against the rooftop floor as she stepped forward.

Ethan’s head snapped up, sharp gray eyes locking onto hers. For an instant, something crossed his face—surprise, discomfort perhaps—but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded intensity.

“What are you doing up here?” His voice, though clipped, lacked the sharpness she’d braced for.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Ivy countered, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her nerves. “It’s... beautiful up here.”

Ethan straightened, brushing dirt from his hands as he rose to his full height. “It’s practical,” he said briskly. “Fresh ingredients for the bistro.”

Practical. Of course. But there was a faint glimmer in his eyes as his gaze lingered on the plants, a flicker of something more that he wasn’t saying.

Ivy stepped closer, her fingers brushing against the edges of a planter filled with fragrant thyme. “You didn’t strike me as the gardening type."

He raised an eyebrow, and for the briefest moment, a glint of wry amusement flickered across his face. “Late nights seem to suit you,” he said, sidestepping her comment.

She crossed her arms, letting the jab roll off her. "So, is this your secret hideaway? A place to escape the chaos downstairs?”

Ethan’s gaze shifted, his fingers idly adjusting the edge of a planter. “Sometimes,” he admitted after a pause. “It’s... quieter up here. Easier to think.”

Something about the quiet honesty of his answer surprised her. This was not the Ethan she’d seen in the kitchen, barking orders and bristling with tension. This Ethan—this man standing amidst the greenery with dirt on his hands—seemed like a secret no one else knew.

“I get it,” Ivy said softly, her voice threading through the still night. “I mean, my apartment’s no garden, but when I need to clear my head, I sketch. Or paint. Something about creating... it just makes the noise go away.”

Ethan turned to her, his expression unreadable. “And yet you chose to work in one of the noisiest places in the city.”

“Touché,” Ivy said with a quiet laugh. “But La Lumière isn’t just noise. It’s alive. There’s something... raw about it. Real.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, his guarded expression softened. “It wasn’t always like this,” he said, almost to himself. “The bistro used to feel... different. Lighter.”

“What changed?” she asked gently.

Ethan’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping back to the soil. “Everything.”

The weight of that single word wrapped around them like a shadow, and Ivy hesitated, unsure whether to push or let it be. Instead, her gaze wandered, searching for something to bridge the silence.

“These flowers,” she said, kneeling beside a cluster of violet blooms. “Are they edible?”

“Borage,” Ethan replied, his voice steadier again. “Used sparingly, they add a subtle sweetness to salads or garnish.”

Ivy plucked one delicately, holding it up to the light. “It’s like a tiny piece of art.”

He scoffed lightly, though it lacked malice. “It’s a garnish.”

“Garnishes can be art,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “Presentation matters, doesn’t it?”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on her as if weighing her words. “Only if the substance delivers. Style without substance is meaningless.”

Ivy tilted her head, studying him. “Spoken like a man who’s learned the hard way.”

Ethan’s eyes darkened, his expression sharp as a blade. “Why do you think this place is struggling?” he asked, his voice low. “Why do you think I’m up here at midnight, trying to coax life out of these plants? Every decision I make, every dish I create—it’s all about keeping this place alive. There’s no room for... art for art’s sake.”

His frustration hit like a gust of cold wind, but Ivy held her ground. “Maybe that’s your problem,” she said, her voice steady. “You’re so afraid of failing that you’ve forgotten why you started in the first place. Cooking isn’t just about precision or survival. It’s about connection. Isn’t that why you fell in love with it?”

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something crack in his armor, but then Ethan turned away, his shoulders stiffening. “You should go home,” he said quietly, though there was a trace of hesitation in his tone.

The dismissal stung, but Ivy didn’t move right away. Instead, she rose, brushing dirt from her knees. “You know,” she said lightly, “this garden of yours—it’s not just practical. It’s... beautiful. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.”

She turned and made her way to the staircase, but before descending, she glanced back. Ethan stood amidst the greenery, his hands in his pockets, his gaze distant. The soft rooftop lights softened his sharp edges, painting him in gold and shadow. In that moment, he looked less like the guarded chef she’d seen in the kitchen and more like the man she suspected he was beneath it all.

As Ivy descended into the alley and began the walk to her apartment, she couldn’t shake the image of Ethan in the garden. There was something about him—something fragile and real, like the bistro itself. And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she found herself wanting to uncover it. She glanced back over her shoulder, murmuring softly, “There’s more to you, isn’t there?”

The city hummed around her, but her thoughts stayed elsewhere. On La Lumière. On Ethan. And on the strange, fragile potential she had glimpsed beneath the surface of it all.