The sizzle of oil and the rhythmic clatter of my knives against the hot steel griddle drown out the chatter of the lingering late-night customers. It’s past 11 PM, and my arms burn with the ache of a long shift, but I don’t slow down. The restaurant is still alive, flames flashing high as I slice through steak and shrimp with practiced ease.

Then, in the periphery of my vision, I catch a familiar shape. Small. Soft. A delicate thing wrapped in a sweet little dress.

My wife.

She’s laughing, her eyes bright as she enters with her friends, her presence an impossible contrast to the controlled chaos of my domain. The stark difference between us has always been something people comment on. She’s warmth where I am steel. A whisper to my silence. She sees me, and her whole face lights up, hands clasping together in that way she does when she’s excited.

I don’t react. Not outwardly.

My knife glides through a filet, the meat searing as I flip it with a flick of my wrist. The guests at the counter cheer when I catch a shrimp on the tip of my blade and flick it up, but my attention is elsewhere.

She weaves her way closer, practically bouncing on her heels. “Hi, baby,” she chirps, leaning against the counter as her friends settle into their seats, giggling amongst themselves.

I set my spatula down, resting a heavy forearm on the counter. “It’s late,” I say.

She grins. “And?”

I exhale through my nose. She always does this—acts like my words don’t hold the weight I put into them. She just tilts her head, waiting, knowing full well I won’t tell her to leave.

Instead, I shift my attention back to the griddle. “You’re eating.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a statement. A command.

She beams, the pure joy on her face enough to soften the tired edges of my mind. “Yes, Chef,” she teases, giggling as her friends murmur about how lucky she is.

I say nothing, only roll my sleeves up higher, exposing thick forearms as I grab a fresh filet. If she’s here, she’s eating something cooked properly.