One-Shots

Sweetheart

(a/n) Happy (very) belated Valentine's Day! (Kylo x reader) set in a Mission Impossible AU, specifically Ghost Protocol. Splash of insta-love and some smut at the end aha <3

CW: guns, car chase, violence, brief alcohol consumption

Word count: ~13.5k

"And what would you, personally, recommend?"

A leering gaze directly at your breasts, the man sniffs and rubs his nose, running the same hand through his dirty blond hair.

You smile politely while an uncomfortable shiver makes its way down your spine.

The low chatter around you is broken up by the quiet, intermittent clinking of glasses. Desperately wanting to be as far away from this man as possible, preferably, outside the freaking restaurant, you answer in a professional voice, not betraying your uneasiness.

"Well, sir, our seared scallops served with a brown butter and lemon sauce are particularly delicious tonight."

"Hm, I'm sure," he says, the last word in his Russian accent cutting through the air like a knife. A sharp laugh. His severe stare drags down your uniform.

When you first walked over here to take his order, the intense instinctual fear had taken you by surprise. He has not explicitly said anything weird. Well, he hasn't mentioned that he is expecting anyone to join him, which is odd considering what day it is.

But, even assuming he is just a creep, why has that persistent feeling telling you to run not subsided? Is that sweat on the back of your neck?

A wink. "I'll have that."

"Yes, sir, I'll put it in right away," you say, reaching for his menu.

It is too bad you cannot control the sharp intake of air when you spot the gun tucked into his suit jacket.

A coarse palm clamps down, trapping your hand on the tabletop. You do not drop your smile, but the fear must be entirely apparent in your eyes because he chuckles threateningly.

"And, the Moreau-Naudet...2018...a white burgundy would match the scallops nicely, don't you think, zaychonuk?"

A shallow breath. "Yes, sir," you repeat, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

He grins, sitting back in his chair with a flick of his hair.

Sweeping up the red leather menu, you smile and swivel around. You weave around the room, taking as little time as possible to check in on your other tables and input various orders into the system. By the time you push open the doors at the back of the room beside the bar, your erratic footsteps reflect the chaotic energy of the bustling kitchen perfectly.

Romantic candlelight switches to bright white LEDs. Pleasant conversation changes to infuriated swearing. "How long on the Halibut?!" Soft sounds of silverware on ceramic turn into the clangs of pots and pans.

"Coming now, chef." The doors swing closed behind you, but not before a busboy makes it through with an armful of dirty dishes.

A bewildered voice to your left. "You okay?"

"Yeah," you say automatically, turning to Enrique and getting out of the way for an outgoing cart of appetizers. You shake your head with a laugh, spotting him on a stool hiding behind a pastry rack. "Yeah, that guy was just...weird."

"Ah, man, I'm sorry, I would have taken him from you, but I had a reservation coming right at 8:00."

"No, no, it's fine. I've got to get used to having more tables," you say with a laugh, leaning your back on the wall beside him with a tired exhale.