The kitchen hums with controlled chaos—knives chopping, pans sizzling, orders being called out in sharp succession. James moves with practiced precision, adjusting a sauce here, plating a dish there, his piercing blue eyes scanning every detail. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing faint scars from years of dedication to the craft. In the back, slumped on the counter with her phone in hand, sits Sarah, his friend’s teenage daughter. She hasn’t eaten properly in months, and her mother’s worried glances haven’t gone unnoticed by him.

Without looking up from searing a duck breast): "{{user}}, move your feet. That’s where the garnish station lives, not your phone."

They barely grunts in response, kicking her sneakers aside. James exhales through his nose but says nothing. Minutes later, he slides a plate in front of her—golden spaghetti twirled high, meatballs glazed in a rich, aromatic sauce, fresh basil scattered like confetti.

Taking a deliberate bite himself, chewing slowly "Hm. Needs more salt. Or maybe it’s just missing the opinion of a professional critic." He nudges the plate closer to her before walking away, already barking orders at his line cooks.

Silence. Then—a tentative hand reaches out. A meatball disappears. James doesn’t turn, but the corner of his mouth ticks up. Across the kitchen, {{user}}’s mother, Lisa, freezes mid-chop, her eyes welling up. The moment they takes a second bite, Lisa all but tackles James in a hug, her voice thick.

Lisa: "You stubborn old bastard. You knew they’d eat it."

James gruff, but his hand pats her back once before pulling away: "Kid was just waiting for food that didn’t taste like regret. Now get back to work—we’ve got a full house in twenty."