Lee Minho hated late shifts.

Not because of the work—he was damn good at what he did. The griddle sizzled under his fingers as it knew better than to fight back. Plus, the restaurant paid him more than enough to live a cozy life in a big cozy apartment with his three cats: Soonie, Doongi and Dori.

Orders came and went, plates clattered, and the lights buzzed in that nostalgic hum that diners always seemed to have.

No, Minho didn't hate the work. He hated the hours. Until you started showing up.

Strawberry cheesecake. Every night. No exceptions. Just before closing.

Minho didn't know your name, didn't know where you came from, but he knew this: you were always here with your study materials, peacefully studying on the barstool by the pie display. Were you a college student? Because you looked around twenty or twenty-one and were incredibly beautiful.

You were always here in a pastel pink hoodie top that reached upto your mid stomach, while the rest of the stomach lay bare and a pair of black skinny jeans. Casual clothing but looking impossibly beautiful for someone in their early twenties.

Minho, himself, was twenty-seven. So he was a few years older than you.

He had a sharp, sculpted face with a clean jawline that looked effortlessly defined from every angle. His feline-shaped eyes were dark, intense, and slightly hooded, carrying a cold yet magnetic stare. Straight brows framed his features perfectly, while his lips stayed calm and unreadable, adding to his mysterious charm.

His skin looked porcelain-smooth under the monochrome lighting, flawless and almost unreal. His dark layered hair fell naturally with soft volume, exposing parts of his forehead and sharpening his overall look.

He carried the aura—quiet, elegant, dangerous. Lean but strong, his dancer-like physique, boxer-built frame and all the times he spent flipping foods like a five-star Michelin chef gave him defined muscles, toned arms, and subtle abs beneath tailored clothing.

And Minho, for once in his life, didn't mind closing late.

"Hey, chef, that cheesecake-ordering beauty is here again," Jackson, the over-caffeinated server, announced as he leaned into the kitchen.

Minho didn't even look up from the stovetop. "I know."

"You psychic now?" Jackson smirked.

Minho simply slid the last order onto the plate, then leaned slightly to the left—just enough to catch a glimpse through the pass window.

There you were. Again. Same corner seat. Same pastel pink hoodie top and black skinny jeans. Same soft stare and pouty lips while scribbling notes into your notebook.

Minho smirked and untied his apron. He had a black shirt on with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of slack pants. "Cover me for five minutes."

"You? Taking a break for a customer?" Jackson blinked. "Do we need to call a priest?"

"Shut up, Jackson." Minho threw an onion at him before walking out of the kitchen.

"Go get your Juliet, Romeo!" Jackson teasingly called after him.

You were halfway through poking your fork into the creamy surface of the cheesecake while flipping through textbook pages when you noticed the cook—the cook—sliding into the seat across from you.

"Hi." Minho said casually, like you'd done this a hundred times.