You weren’t the type to frequent Michelin-starred restaurants. Not because you didn’t like good food, you did, but because the whole thing felt like a performance you hadn’t rehearsed for. Too many forks, too many syllables, wine lists that read like ancient scrolls.

This place was no exception.

From the moment you stepped inside, it was clear this wasn’t just dinner, it was theater. Polished stone floors gleamed like obsidian, reflecting soft golden light from sculptural chandeliers. The walls were charcoal and walnut, trimmed with brass and minimalist art. Tables glowed under linen and glass, set wide apart and perfectly composed.

Despite the refinement, the place was alive. Laughter rippled through the air; older women toasted with champagne, a young couple shared bites, and the hum of voices and clinking glasses mixed with the scent of roasted meat, caramelized onions, herbs, and citrus. You glanced around, surrounded by people who looked like they belonged, and immediately felt underdressed.

You didn’t know much about wine or rare steak, but the place was beautiful, the menu intimidating. You pointed at something you couldn’t pronounce and prayed it wouldn’t kill you.

The wine arrived first, dark, dry, and sharp. You sipped, pretending to enjoy it. Through a glass panel, you could see the kitchen: a stage of stainless steel and copper, chefs in crisp whites moving like clockwork, steam rising and flames flashing. Precision everywhere.

By the time your food arrived, you were tipsy enough to giggle with your friends and brave enough to be loud. Then you saw it, your steak. Pink. Practically alive.

You hesitated. “Is it supposed to look like that?” someone whispered. You took a bite. It tasted like blood and regret. Summoning wine-born courage, you flagged down the server. “I’m sorry,” you said. “This is still mooing. And the drink tastes like regret.”

Your friends snorted. The server blinked and disappeared. You didn’t expect the chef himself to come out. But then he did.

Lee Minho.

He emerged from the kitchen like a storm held still, sleeves rolled, silver hair damp, his name embroidered over his heart with a golden emblem: Head Chef. His eyes were dark and unreadable, his presence hot and precise. He smelled like butter, smoke, and control.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, voice low and smooth.

You gestured to your plate. “The steak’s raw, and the wine’s horrible.” You weren’t sure why your voice came out sharper than usual. He frowned, eyes flicking to your meal. “You ordered it rare,” he said evenly. “That’s what you got.”

Your confidence faltered. Your friends went silent.

“And that wine,” he added, nodding to your glass, “doesn’t suit the cut. If you’d asked, I’d have recommended something else.” Heat climbed your neck. You wanted to vanish. But then he sighed, a quiet, measured sound, and said, “How about I remake your steak, and bring a pairing that fits? On the house.”

You blinked, startled. Before you could answer, he collected your plate and glass and vanished back into his gleaming world.

Your friends whispered, “Oh my god,” and “You totally got scolded,” but you barely heard. Your pulse thudded, replaying his voice, his eyes, the calm authority that cut through your drunken haze.

When he returned twenty minutes later, he placed a new dish before you: steak glistening with butter, a sprig of thyme resting on top, a new glass of lighter wine beside it.

He didn’t leave.

He stood, arms crossed, watching. You cut a piece, tasted it. Perfect. Tender, flavorful, balanced. The wine was smooth and bright, completing it like a missing note.

You looked up. He raised an eyebrow. “Better?”

You nodded. “Much.”

Something in his face softened, just a flicker, and then he turned away, leaving you staring after him, heartbeat drumming in your chest. You weren’t sure if you’d just been scolded or seduced.

Maybe both.