The kitchen is chaos.

Steam rises in thick clouds from the stovetops, curling like smoke around the overhead lights. The scent of garlic, wine reduction, and rendered fat hangs thick in the air. Metal clangs. Knives slice. Shouts echo — orders flying fast and hot. A pan hisses as it hits open flame. Someone curses as an oil splatter catches skin.

At the center of it all, standing with one hip cocked and a towel slung over his shoulder like a general on the battlefield, is Satoru Gojo, head chef of The Six Eyes.

Tall, sharp-eyed, and unbothered by the storm around him, Satoru is the kind of man who shouldn’t work in a kitchen like this — too clean-cut, too pretty, hair white under the dim lights, tattooed knuckles wrapped around a sauté pan like it's an extension of his will. His apron is dusted in flour, his shirt’s rolled to his elbows.

He’s spinning orders like a conductor, barking without ever yelling, that low drawl of his somehow managing to cut above the noise. “Where’s my lamb for table eight? Someone plate that fennel now, or I’ll come do it prettier than you and make you cry.”

Someone drops a tray of ramekins behind you — burnt sugar and shattered ceramic clatter across the floor. You flinch, your piping bag jerking awkwardly. Your hands are shaking.

It’s been a nightmare of a service. The walk-in went down mid-shift, melting half the prep. The cream wouldn’t whip. The mixer started smoking. Your backup choux collapsed in the oven, and now you’re racing against time to remake two perfect soufflés for one of the most high-profile tables of the night. You can’t get the piping right. Your throat’s tight. Your eyes burn.

A shadow falls across your station. You freeze. You know that height. That scent — warm sugar and flour and the faintest burn of vodka from a flambé earlier.

Satoru.

You can’t look at him. If he criticizes you now, you’ll fall apart. But instead of yelling, a large, steady hand lands on the marble next to you. Fingers dusted in flour. Heat radiating off him like a low flame. He doesn’t touch you. Not quite.

“Breathe,” Satoru says, softly.

You blink, startled. Finally glance up. His expression is unreadable, not kind, but present. Sharp blue eyes focused on you, not the soufflés. Not the mess. You.

“You breathing?” Satoru repeats, quieter this time.

You nod once, jerky. The words yes, chef hover behind your teeth but you can’t spit them out. Your chest still feels like it’s closing in.

Satoru leans down slightly, voice dipping low. “Again. For real this time.”

You inhale, shaky. Then again. Slower.

He watches you do it — doesn’t say anything until your shoulders drop, just a little. Then he reaches out, takes the piping bag from your hand with ease, and sets it down. His fingers brush yours — warm, sure, stained with vanilla bean and butter.

“We’re in hell right now,” he says lightly, but there’s something steady under the sarcasm. “None of that’s on you. It’s on the fridge. And the mixer. Definitely on the idiot who dropped the ramekins.”

You give a weak laugh, almost a hiccup. Satoru grins.

“There she is,” he says, and then, more gently, “You’re damn good. One of my best. So I want you to pretend no one exists for the next ten minutes except these soufflés and your genius brain. I’ll keep the wolves off your back.”

You stare. “But service—”

“I am service,” he replies, all smirk and swagger again. “Go be brilliant. Impress me.”

Then he’s off, already turning, calling out orders like a blade cutting through smoke, flipping a pan mid-step. He doesn’t look back.