Chapter 23 Landon/Kira
LANDON/KIRA
Landon
The kitchen was too hot. Or maybe I was just sweating through my shirt.
I tugged at the collar of my chef’s coat, pacing the narrow space between the prep counter and the walk-in like a trapped animal. Outside the kitchen doors, I could hear the voices of our first customers trickling in.
This was it. The last day of the soft opening. Days one and two had gone okay, all technical issues considered, but today I was about ten seconds away from throwing up in the utility sink.
“Why isn’t the line set yet?” I barked, a little sharper than I meant, as I spun toward the prep station.
“It is,” said one of the line cooks, who looked at me with fear-lined eyes. “You already checked it. Twice.”
Right. I did.
I turned toward the window, watching my mom seat someone at a booth with a too-bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She was nervous too. Of course she was. But she was out there doing it anyway.
And I was in here, pacing and sweating and completely convinced that I was about to crash the ship I’d spent weeks helping build.
Kira slipped into the kitchen like she belonged there—which, at this point, she kind of did. She had on one of our branded diner T-shirts, tied at the waist, and she was holding a clipboard like it was an extension of her body.
“Hey,” she said, lightly tapping it against her leg. “The first table just ordered the chicken and waffles. You ready?”
I didn’t answer right away. I was too busy staring at the flat top like it might catch fire just to spite me.
“Landon,” she said, voice gentle now. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. I just—what if I mess it up? What if we crash today? What if people hate the food, or the orders get backed up, or I freeze, or everyone realizes this doesn’t live up to Dad’s diner?”
She stepped forward, slipping between me and the prep counter, forcing me to stop moving.
“You’re not going to mess up. You know what you’re doing, and so does everyone else in this diner. You’re ready for this.”
I shook my head. “I’m not my dad.”
“No. You’re you. And that’s exactly who this place needs. This was never supposed to be an exact replica of the next diner, just the next iteration of it.”
Thank God Kira was steady in all the ways I wasn’t. She was calm, clear-headed, and unshakable. Somehow, she always knew exactly where the center was, and more importantly, how to bring me back to it.
“You kept this place from falling apart before it even opened,” she continued. “You designed half the menu, trained the staff, and convinced your mom not to give up. You’re in this kitchen because you earned it, Landon. Not because you’re trying to be your dad, but because you’re ready to be you.”
The noise outside swelled—silverware clinking, someone calling for coffee, the low murmur of people who were here. For us. For this.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “What if I still mess it up?”
Kira smiled, slipping her hand into mine. “I highly doubt that. If you do, it’s just a mistake to learn from.”
I didn’t say anything. I just pulled her in and pressed my forehead to hers, closing my eyes for one solid second.
When I stepped back, I was breathing a little easier.
From the other side of the pass, one of the line cooks called out, “Tickets up!”
I turned to the line. “All right,” I said, rolling my shoulders back. “Let’s do this.”
Before I could say more, Mom popped her head into the kitchen, her hair in a frazzled bun and an apron dusted with flour tied around her waist.
“Table six is wobbly again,” she said, heading toward us like she was preparing for battle. Then she paused. “Everything okay back here?”
“I’ll go look at the table,” Kira offered.
Mom gave her a grateful smile. “I don’t know how we’d manage without you this weekend.”
Kira waved her off with a smile as she headed out the door. “I like it. It’s like riding a bike.”
Mom turned to me, brow raised.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, finally believing it. “We’ve got two dozen cinnamon rolls in the warmer, four pies prepped, but I need you to check that we have enough coins in the register.”
She nodded, impressed. “I can do that.” Halfway out the door, she smiled back at me. “You’re doing great, honey.”
One of the line cooks in the back snickered.
Not a great time to call a twenty-seven-year-old man honey.
The lunch rush hit faster than any of us were ready for.
By noon, quiet conversations had risen to a near-roar, and every booth was full. Orders flew in and out of the kitchen like clockwork, and I barely had time to refill the coffee before someone was waving me down for extra ketchup or asking about the pie flavors.
It felt like I was doing twenty jobs at once: baker, busser, cashier, man attempting to stay alive. Such was the nature of a soft opening, I guessed.
I passed through the dining room to drop off drinks at table two and caught sight of Kira at table four. Something in her posture told me everything I needed to know—too still, jaw a little too tight, eyes not meeting the customer’s.
My stomach dropped.
I edged closer just in time to hear the guy snap, “How freaking hard is it to make a BLT?”
My stomach clenched. I’d heard that tone a hundred times growing up in this diner, but it felt different now.
Kira’s voice stayed calm, but I caught the flicker of tension behind her eyes. “I’ll check on it and get it to you as soon as I can,” she said smoothly.
She turned and nearly collided with me. Up close, I could see the tightness around her mouth, the way her jaw flexed.
“Hey,” I said, stepping into her path. “That guy giving you trouble?”
She tilted her head toward the booth. “He’s just hungry and frustrated. Maybe you should talk to him.”
I blinked. “Me?”
She gave me a knowing look. “You practically grew up in the diner. You must have seen this play out a million times.”
I hesitated, heat creeping up my neck. “Yeah, well…my dad had this whole ‘people whisperer’ thing. I’m not exactly—”
“Landon.” She crossed her arms.
I huffed a laugh, despite myself. “Enough said. Give me a second.”
My palms grew damp as I approached the booth.
“Hey there,” I said, resting my hands on the edge of the table. “I heard we’ve kept you waiting.”
The guy looked up, his brows already furrowed. “Yeah. Nearly half an hour. For a sandwich.”
“That’s on us,” I said. “We’re still working out the kinks—it’s our last day of the soft opening. Doesn’t make the wait okay, but I appreciate you sticking with us.”
“You the manager?”
“Something like that.”
He crossed his arms but didn’t push back. “Maybe have your staff give customers a heads-up when you’re backed up.”
“Fair point. I’ll make sure we do. Your BLT’s next up—I’ll run it out myself. And for the trouble, let me bring you a slice of bourbon pecan pie. On the house.”
His mouth twitched, just barely. “If it’s as good as the sign outside claims, I might forgive you.”
I smiled. “It’s better.”
He gave a grunt that was probably meant to be a laugh and turned back to his phone. I took that as a win.
When I circled back, Kira was at the drink station, wiping down the counter. Her eyes met mine with a spark of curiosity.
“He should chill out,” I said with a shrug. “But I think we’re good. Pie heals most wounds.”
She smirked. “Told you.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re wise and clever and dangerously good at reading people.” I leaned in a little closer. “I may or may not have stashed a couple slices of pie for us later.”
Her grin widened. “Genius.” She leaned in just a little, brushing her shoulder against mine. “You’re doing great in here, Landon.”
Despite the chaos of tickets flying in and the buzz of customers out front, there was this steady calm enveloping me. Something that had started to settle in my stomach but hadn’t finished until now.
I’d always thought I needed to leave to become someone. But maybe this—back with friends and family after years apart, experimenting in the kitchen—was who I was meant to be all along.
Not lost. Not drifting.
Just here at home.
Kira
Back at Landon’s apartment, we decided to decompress for the rest of the evening. By that, Landon meant cueing up a rom-com marathon “in my honor” while we camped out on his couch with two forks and a half-eaten bourbon pecan pie between us.
The day had left me exhausted in the best way.
My feet ached, my hair smelled vaguely like fryer oil, and there was a mysterious smudge on my forearm, but I didn’t care.
The diner’s soft opening was officially over, and somehow, we’d pulled it off.
Sure, there had been hiccups—a tough customer or two, a last-minute missing order—but Landon handled it flawlessly.
I looked at him now, his arm draped casually along the back of the couch, his eyes half-watching the movie but fully relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen in weeks. This was the version of Landon I liked best—the one who let his guard down, who let me in.
The fork in my hand hovered over another bite of pie, but honestly, dessert was the last thing on my mind. As much as I loved flaky crusts and gooey filling, what I really wanted was to be close to him. As close as physically possible.
“Do you have any other movie options?” I asked casually, knowing Landon kept rows of old DVDs on the shelf in his bedroom, in addition to whatever streaming platforms he had.
“Sure.” Landon glanced down at me. “Did you have anything in mind?”
“Not really. Just not feeling this one in particular.”
“I’ll be right back,” Landon declared as he headed into his bedroom, leaving me alone in the living room.
I thought about the last time we were in this position and chuckled.
Thinking about that night brought a new awareness to my body.
Maybe I didn’t have to wait around for the right moment to arise to get close. Maybe I could create the moment now.
I tried not to think through my decision too much. Landon would be back any moment, so I went with my gut.