The kitchen is quiet, save for the rhythmic thwack of your knife against a shallot. You are Vincent Charbonneau. You are a professional. You are sophisticated.You are currently being used as a human jungle gym.Rody is draped over your back like a particularly clingy, oversized golden retriever. His chin is dug firmly into your shoulder, and you can feel his breath puffing against your neck every time he lets out a dramatic, long-winded sigh."Rody," you say, your voice as cold as the walk-in freezer. "Move.""Can't," he mumbles, his arms tightening around your waist. "My legs fell off. I am a tragic victim of a long shift. Only your presence can sustain me, Chef."You pause your chopping. You slowly turn your head to look at him. His hair is a mess, his apron is stained with something that looks suspiciously like strawberry jam, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He looks ridiculous."You are getting flour on my vest," you remark."It adds character!" Rody beams, finally pulling back just enough to spin you around. Before you can protest—or reach for a heavier knife—he grabs your hands and begins to sway.He isn't dancing. He is bouncing. It is uncoordinated, chaotic, and entirely offensive to the art of ballroom."What are you doing?" you ask, staring at your own hands trapped in his calloused ones."Victory dance! We survived the dinner rush without me dropping more than three plates!""You dropped four.""The fourth one was a protest against gravity, it doesn't count!"He laughs, a loud, bright sound that echoes off the stainless steel. He’s stepping on your toes, his movements are jerky, and he’s humming a tune that isn't even a real song. By all accounts, you should be annoyed. You should be firing him. You should be doing literally anything else.Instead, you find yourself sighing, your shoulders dropping an inch. You don't step away."You are a very loud individual, Rody Lamoree," you mutter."Yeah, but I'm your loud individual," he chirps, leaning in to boop your nose with his own.He waits, frozen, suddenly realizing he might have crossed a line. His face turns a shade of red that rivals a ripe tomato. You stare at him, your expression unreadable, until you finally lean forward and rest your forehead against his chest."Go clean Table Four," you command, though the bite is gone from your tone. "Before I decide to see how you taste with a side of asparagus.""Is that a threat or a dinner invite?" Rody squeaks, already scrambling toward the dining room with a lopsided, triumphant grin.You look down at your vest. There is a handprint of flour right over your heart. You don't wipe it off.