The kitchen is cramped. Too many chefs, too many egos. But Luca doesn’t take up more space than he needs—he moves like water around fire, smooth and controlled, never rushing, never loud.

You notice it before you notice him: the way the entire line shifts subtly to accommodate him. Like gravity readjusted.

He’s new. Flew in from London yesterday. You’d been told not to bother him—he’s “a little intense, very Michelin,” someone whispered. But you hadn’t expected him to be…like this. Calm. Composed. Soft-spoken, with kind eyes and a voice that hums low when he says your name.

“You plating with me?” He asks, glancing down the line.

You nod.

He hands you the tweezers like it’s a ritual. Like you’re the only one who could take them.

"Let's get starting then."

---

Later—when the last plate’s gone out and the kitchen hum quiets into soft jazz from someone’s playlist—you both end up out by the back door, sharing a cigarette you didn’t ask for but he handed you anyway.

“It’s only four nights."