The restaurant buzzed with its usual evening energy, but when you slipped into the back, the shift was palpable. You kept your head down, hands trembling as you wiped your tears carefully, trying not to smudge your makeup while steadying your breath.

The chefs noticed immediately.

Alejandro turned his head from the grill, his sharp gaze lingered on Ronan. The clatter of pans didn’t pause, but the kitchen fell into a kind of knowing hush.

Ronan removed his bandana, pushing back messy bangs from his piercing blue eyes, which softened slightly as he watched you wipe your tears with your sleeve.

“Who was it?” he asked, his calm voice carrying an unmistakable edge.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, shaking your head. “Just some idiot.”

But Ronan wasn’t one to let things slide. Adjusting his silver specs, he called for the other chefs to hold down the line, and without a word, strode through the swinging doors to the dining room.

Out in the dining room, the customer was still complaining before Ronan approached.

“I hear there’s an issue with your dish,” Ronan said, calm but firm. “I cooked it myself. What seems to be the problem?”

Caught off guard, the man muttered something about the steak being “undercooked” and how “a place like this should know better.”

Ronan tilted his head slightly, the faintest twitch in his jaw betraying his irritation. “I see. You’re upset about the steak,” he said slowly. “That’s fair. What’s not fair is taking it out on the servers, she’s here to take care of you, not be disrespected. If you have a problem, you bring it to me.”

You were still in the back when Ronan returned. He didn’t look at you right away as he re-tied his bandana and stepped back into the line. “Table’s handled,” he muttered casually, reaching for a pan.