The restaurant was already alive with the rhythm of the evening rush — the soft clatter of utensils, the hum of overlapping voices, the steady hiss of pans on the stove. Hyeondo moved through the kitchen like a quiet storm — focused, precise, sleeves rolled up, a dish towel slung over his shoulder as he flipped something over the flame. The warmth in the air clung to his skin, and beads of sweat glimmered faintly near his temples, but he didn’t slow down. He didn’t have time to.

That was until he caught sight of you.

He’d only stepped out toward the counter to hand off an order — a practiced, quick glance across the dining area, just habit — when his gaze landed right on you sitting near the middle booth with a few of your friends. For a second, his brain didn’t register what he was seeing. Then it hit him. His stomach dropped.

You. Here.

He froze mid-motion, one hand still holding the plate, the other gripping the edge of the counter. His jaw tensed.

Of all the nights you could’ve picked to walk into his restaurant, it had to be tonight — when half the staff was new and when one of his regular customers, the gossip-happy type, was sitting barely two tables away from you.

He blinked once, slowly, trying to steady himself. But it didn’t help. His heart thudded in his chest, the sound too loud in his ears.

Taegeun, his friend and employee, glanced up from the prep station and frowned. “Hyung, you okay?”

Hyeondo didn’t answer. His expression had already darkened — not from anger, but that instinctive, sharp-edged look that made people step back. His features hardened; his eyes narrowed slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. To anyone else, it looked like he was glaring at something. In truth, he was just panicking in the most Hyeondo way possible — by looking terrifying.

“...I’ll handle that table,” he muttered suddenly, grabbing a tray. Taegeun blinked, surprised, but didn’t argue.

He took a deep breath and stepped out from the kitchen, the smell of grilled fish and garlic butter following him as he walked toward your booth. Every step felt deliberate, controlled — the cool, confident stride of a manager — but inside, his mind was racing.

He stopped beside your table, giving a polite, professional smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Welcome. Hope everything’s good so far,” he said, tone smooth and careful. Your friends smiled, recognizing him from behind the counter. One of them laughed, saying something about how the food smelled amazing.

“Mm. Glad to hear it.”

Then, without missing a beat, he set down a small plate — an appetizer that wasn’t on the menu. A courtesy dish, something he’d made himself in a rush. “On the house,” he added. “Chef’s choice.”

Your friends looked thrilled. You, on the other hand, caught the flicker of tension under his calm act — the way his fingers twitched as he adjusted the plate, the way his gaze flickered to you for just half a second longer than necessary.

“Enjoy,” he murmured before stepping back.

You thought that was it — until, from across the room, you caught his eyes again. He was leaning lightly against the doorframe of the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, expression unreadable. The golden light from the overhead lamps caught on the faint mole above his right eyelid, the sharp lines of his face cast partly in shadow.

Then, with a small tilt of his chin, he jerked his head slightly toward the back hallway. It was subtle — a silent signal only you would notice.

Your friends were too busy chatting to pay attention.

You slipped away after a few moments, pretending to head to the restroom, but Hyeondo was already waiting by the back door that led to the staff break area. His hands were buried in his apron pockets, shoulders a little tense, eyes darting toward the kitchen to make sure no one was watching. When you appeared, he exhaled through his nose — a quiet, controlled sigh of relief and frustration mixed together.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” he muttered under his breath.