Service had ended hours ago, but the heat still clung to the air. The stainless-steel counters of Hell's Kitchen gleamed under dimmed overhead lights, every surface scrubbed clean, every pan put away. Except for one.
28-year-old Evan stood over it, wiping the last smear of sauce from the rim, his jaw tight and shoulders squared. He could feel Gordon behind him without looking--the chef always had a gravity to him, like a storm brewing just over your shoulder. Even when he wasn't yelling.
Especially when he wasn't yelling.
"I said everyone should go to bed," Gordon barked from across the kitchen, voice echoing against tile and steel. The cameras were long gone, the other contestants in the dorms, and the rest of the staff off to their homes.
"I'm aware," Evan said without turning. His tone was level, controlled--enough to be respectful, but just shy of obedient.
Gordon crossed the space in a few strides, stopping just behind him. "Then why the hell are you still here?"
Evan finally looked up, wiping his hands on a towel, deliberately slow. "Because I don't like leaving things unfinished."
That made Gordon pause.
Their eyes met in the reflection of the steel backsplash--Evan's narrowed with defiance, Gordon's burning with blue flame.
"You like being the last one out," Gordon said, not a question.
Evan's mouth twitched. "Maybe I like the quiet."
Or maybe I like when it's just us, he didn't say.
Something shifted in Gordon then. He moved closer, not touching, but so close that Evan could feel the heat of him. For a moment neither said a word--just two men vibrating with the tension they'd carefully ignored for days. Evan was tall, but Gordon still had a couple inches on him; Gordon leaned down so they were eye to eye. Evan held back a shiver from the heat that radiated off the other man.
"You've got a mouth on you," Gordon said, low. "Always ready to fucking talk back."
"Seems to be working." God, he loved that accent. Especially when it was the calm before the storm.
Gordon's hand slammed down on the counter beside him--not angry, not violent. Just final. Evan didn't flinch.
"Get in the car."
Evan turned, towel still hanging from his hand, eyebrow raised. "Excuse me?" Could he really be-- He didn't dare hope.
"You heard me," Gordon said, eyes hard. "You want to finish this? You're coming with me."
Evan studied him, then tossed the towel aside, stepping right into Gordon's space. "Lead the way, Chef." He couldn't wait for whatever was about to happen, whether Gordon demanded he cook him a perfect meal or serve something else on his knees.
***
Gordon Ramsay had survived Michelin stars, failed relationships, brutal critics, and a decade of barely-restrained fame. He knew pressure. He knew control. He thrived on both.
But Evan Price? Evan was different. Evan was dangerous.
From the moment Gordon met him on the show, he'd known. There was something reckless in Evan's eyes, something sharp-edged and defiant that made him a liability in any other kitchen--and a fucking revelation in his. He didn't just follow direction; he challenged it. He didn't crumble under Gordon's fury like the rest--he smiled, like he wanted more.
And worse--Gordon wanted him to.
He hated that.
Hated the way Evan moved through his space like he owned it. Hated that his hands--those delicate, fast, knife-callused hands--could make a plate sing and also clench Gordon's gut with a glance. Hated the way Evan's mouth curled at the edges whenever Gordon raised his voice, like he knew the sight turned him on.
Which it did.
Fuck.
In the car, Gordon could barely look at him. Evan sat there like sin incarnate, one knee bouncing lazily, eyes half-lidded, biting at a thumbnail. Casual. Relaxed. Like he hadn't just baited Gordon all night in the middle of service, like he hadn't stood over that last damn pan in the kitchen like a fucking invitation, like he didn't know Gordon was going to keep him to the very last minute, just so he could see that sexy body working hard in the kitchen.
Gordon gripped the wheel tighter.
He and Tana had an agreement about the penthouse. What happened in the penthouse stayed in the penthouse, although most of the time she knew from the bodyguards' talk. Bloody gossips, chattering like old ladies at a sewing circle. He glanced up at the SUV following them. The men would stay in the car, but the security cameras inside would show every angle of what he and Evan were about to do. Most of the time Tana didn't care, but even she might be surprised by Gordon's newest obsession: his first man, at least since they'd been married.
And the Hell's Kitchen rules were even less of a concern to him. What were they going to do, fire him? He was bloody Hell's Kitchen.
Gordon was caught off-guard by his depth of want, something he hadn't experienced for another male since his teenage years. But he was flooded with need at the thought of breaking this one. Of putting Evan on his knees and making him beg for exactly what he wanted.
Evan wasn't beautiful in any traditional way. He was too angular, too wiry, too quick with a smirk and a snide comment. But there was something in the nerve of him. That raw, untrained fire. Gordon had seen a thousand perfect cooks with no spine and no soul--Evan had both, and he wore them like armor.
Gordon hated that he'd been watching him for days. The way Evan's eyes followed his movements, the way his lips parted just slightly when Gordon got close. He hated how much he noticed--how much he wanted.
By the time they reached the penthouse, Gordon's thoughts weren't even coherent anymore. They were just heat and noise, fragments of want clashing against control.
Shut him up. Put him on his knees. Show him who he's dealing with.
And yet, when they stepped into the loft, he didn't move right away. He watched Evan instead.
Watched how he looked around like he already belonged there.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing to him.
And that, more than anything, made Gordon want to drag him down and make him beg.
But not yet.
Not until Evan asked for it.
***
The door to Gordon's penthouse loft clicked open with a slow groan, followed by silence so thick it almost rang in Evan's ears. The tension from the night hadn't broken--it had only followed them home, coiled around them like smoke.
Gordon didn't say a word as he stepped inside, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him. His shoulders were still stiff from the dinner service, sleeves of his chef coat rolled up to his elbows, forearms dusted with flour and raw impatience. He was a man made of fire and control, barely holding either in check.
Evan followed him in, slower, his own body taut with something that wasn't quite fear and wasn't quite adrenaline. He'd spent the whole night catching Gordon's eyes across the line--during plating, during screaming matches, during those sharp, cutting insults that made the rest of the contestants wither.
Evan didn't wither.
He smirked.
Now, standing in Gordon's fortress of glass and steel, he crossed his arms and let the silence stretch. "So, are you always this charming after service, or is tonight special?"
Gordon turned. Slowly. His eyes raked down Evan's body, sharp and calculating. "Don't start with me."
