The Family Business
"She runs her father's restaurant in Shepherd's Bush while he's ill. He's the new manager she hired—Somali, capable, and way too attractive for the long hours they spend together. When the restaurant closes for the night, the real cooking begins."
My father built this restaurant from nothing.
Twenty years of 5 AM starts and midnight closes. Twenty years of perfecting suugo and sambusas and the lamb rice that brings people from across London.
Now he's in hospital, and I'm running it alone.
Until Idris.
I hired him out of desperation.
The line cook quit. The servers were overwhelmed. I needed someone who could do everything, and his CV said he could.
What his CV didn't mention was how he'd look at 2 AM, sweating over a stove, sleeves rolled up, forearms glistening.
"Order up," he calls, sliding plates across the pass.
I grab them, deliver them, and try not to think about those forearms.
We work together every day.
Twelve hours, sometimes more. The kind of time that strips away pretense and leaves only truth.
"Why do you work so hard?" he asks one night, after the restaurant closes.
"It's my father's dream."
"But is it yours?"
I scrub a pot, avoiding his eyes. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters." He takes the pot from me. Finishes scrubbing it himself. "You're killing yourself for someone else's dream. That's not sustainable."
"What would you know about it?"
"I know I came to London with nothing. I know I worked three jobs I hated before I found cooking. I know the difference between surviving and living." He sets down the pot. "You're surviving, Yasmin. When do you get to live?"
The question haunts me.
I lie awake thinking about it. About him. About hands that move so confidently in the kitchen and eyes that see too much.
"You're distracted," he says the next night.
"I'm tired."
"You're something." He corners me in the walk-in. "What's going on?"
"Nothing."
"Liar." He's close now. Too close. "You've been looking at me differently."
"I haven't—"
"You have." He reaches out, touches my face. "I've been looking at you too."
"Idris—"
"Tell me to stop and I'll stop."
I don't tell him to stop.
He kisses me in the cold room.
Surrounded by ingredients, the smell of lamb and spices, in the restaurant my father built. Everything about this is wrong.
Everything about this feels right.
"Yasmin—"
"Don't talk." I pull him closer. "We've talked enough."
"The restaurant—"
"Is closed. Everyone's gone." I reach for his shirt. "It's just us."
We move to the kitchen.
The prep counter where I've made a thousand dishes becomes something else. He lifts me onto it, stands between my legs, kisses me like we have all the time in the world.
"I've wanted this—" he murmurs against my neck.
"How long?"
"Since the first day. Since you hired me and I saw how strong you were."
"I'm not strong. I'm barely holding on."
"That's what strong looks like." He undresses me slowly. "Holding on when everything says let go."
He takes me on the prep counter.
Where I've chopped vegetables and rolled dough and done everything that makes this place run. Now I'm doing something else entirely.
"Idris—yes—"
"You're so beautiful—"
He moves inside me, steady and sure. The way he does everything—competent, patient, thorough. I grip the stainless steel and let myself feel something besides exhaustion.
"More—please—"
He gives me more.
Faster. Harder. Until I'm crying out, until the kitchen echoes with sounds it's never heard, until I shatter in his arms.
"I'm close—"
"With me—"
He comes inside me while I come around him, both of us finally doing something for ourselves instead of everyone else.
After, we sit on the kitchen floor.
Eating leftover rice and lamb, still half-dressed, laughing at ourselves.
"My father would kill us both," I say.
"Your father would understand." He takes my hand. "He built this place for family. For love. This isn't a betrayal of that—it's an extension."
"That's very philosophical for a cook."
"I'm more than a cook." He pulls me close. "And you're more than this restaurant. Let me help you remember that."
"How?"
"However you want." He kisses my forehead. "But maybe start by letting me take you on a real date. Somewhere you don't have to work."
"I don't know where that would be."
"Then we'll find somewhere new." He smiles. "Together."
We find somewhere.
A life outside the restaurant. A relationship that makes the long hours bearable. A partner who helps me carry the weight I've been carrying alone.
My father recovers. Comes back to work.
Sees us together immediately.
"How long?" he asks.
"Six months."
"Good." He nods slowly. "He's a good man. Works hard. Respects the food."
"You're not angry?"
"I'm relieved." He touches my face. "You've been alone too long, habibti. Running this place, taking care of me. It's time someone took care of you."
Idris does.
Takes care of me. Takes care of the restaurant. Takes care of everything I was too proud to ask for help with.
"Marry me," he says one night, in the kitchen where it started.
"Here?"
"Where else?" He kneels by the prep counter. "This is where we began. This is where I want to promise you forever."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm in love." He opens the ring box. "What do you say?"
I say yes.
What else could I say?
The best recipes are the ones you make together.
This one is ours.