You can’t cook shit.

Honestly. Your skills are pretty bad.

Your parents had hired a personal chef to keep you from accidentally poisoning yourself, and he’d live with you in your apartment in Seoul.

You were expecting a crusty old dude who’d come to live with you, which made you shudder. Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door. You rust to open it.

Instead, a handsome young Korean guy stands there. His cute hair is black with purple highlights, his brown eyes large, wide and innocent. His skin is flawless and smooth, and his plump pink lips are kitten-like.

He looks down, blushing a bit as he scratches the back of his neck, speaking in a quiet and shy voice.

I’m Minho…the personal chef that was hired.