—Hot Steel—

CH.2 Part 2

༺♛༻Callum༺♛༻

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Since I work at a high-end restaurant, we shut down for a week whenever the head chef decides to 'change the seasonal menu'.

My ass.

It's just his excuse to disappear. My best mate, Lore, had some of his bike buddies spot him in a cheap stripper bar way out past Central London; probably far enough that his wife's GPS won't start pinging.

Absolute animal.

The upside? I get a break. Time to breathe. Time to experiment with my own dishes.

I tie the apron around my waist, wiggle my hips like an excited cat, flex my arms preparing to handle the knife and step into my kitchen. If there's one thing I'm proud of, it's clawing my way out of the poverty pit of Gora Park. After my grandad died, I begged Lore to come live with me in London. Share a flat. He's a hard worker, but just as unlucky as me. If it weren't for his talent in freestyle motocross, the kind where maniacs launch themselves off ramps like suicidal birds and a few occasional races, he'd be eating dirt.

He refused to move in. I didn't push it since he always liked his own space, so I respect that. And since I have some complications...I think it's for the best.

I run a hand through my dark hair, while standing in front of the stove, ready to experiment.

"Finally..."

Then it hits me; cold sweat trickling down my spine, my throat closing up like someone's pulling the strings tight from inside. My vision tilts, and suddenly I'm gripping the counter, chest locking up.

Didn’t even get to pitch a fucking ingredient.

Every time I try to cook for myself, for real, not eat scraps or leftovers; something inside me misfires. My heart jackhammers, my ribs feel like they're splintering.

I hate it. I hate how much it feels like punishment. Like the universe doesn't want me to have something of my own.

My-

RING.

"Oh good fuck."

The phone snaps me out of whatever the hell that was. I claw it up like it's a lifeline.

"Yeah?"

"Cal, you coming over or what? Friendly race tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you down there." Lore confirms, voice smug, full of shit like always and managed to somehow make me smile.

I drag in a shaky breath, press a palm to my chest to make sure it's still moving. I barely manage a chuckle.

“Yeah…yeah, sure, man.” I say, though the words wobble out like I’m still catching up with my own lungs.

“You need a break.”

Damn it.

The fucker clocks it instantly. Of course he does. We grew up together; you can’t fake it with someone who’s seen you puke on your own shoes, fall off a dirt bike trying to impress a girl, and insist you’re ‘fine’ right before face-planting into a kebab shop window. Lore’s got enough receipts on me to fill a whole library.

“Yeah…I know.” I add quickly. “Meet me at the track, yeah? Got a few things to sort out here and there.”

I bite my lip, praying he doesn’t push it further.

He makes this low approving grunt, the kind that says good lad without wasting breath, and I hang up before he can dig any deeper.

Silence presses in. My kitchen feels smaller than it did a minute ago, the walls leaning closer, the air thick with grease that isn't even there. My reflection in the oven door looks pale, hollow-eyed.

Fuck.

Was that just…a panic attack? From fucking cooking? From the one thing I thought was mine?!

My stomach flips. I lean on the counter, fingers digging into the edge hard enough to blanch my knuckles. I used to believe fire lived in me - that heat, that hunger, that need to create something worth swallowing. But lately, every time I light a pan for myself, the flame recoils.

Like it doesn't want me.

No one wants me.

No one ever chooses me.

Not the real me.

Not. This.

Is my flame…really going out?

The thought lodges sharp in my chest. Worse than Chef's insults, worse than the sweat and blood on the line. Because if this goes; if the fire dies…

I don't know what's left of me.

༺♛༻