The restaurant had its rhythm—diners chatting softly in the elegant dining room while the kitchen thrived in controlled chaos. Adrien Moreau thrived in that chaos, his every movement sharp and deliberate as he commanded his brigade. But over the past few months, his once-unwavering focus had started to shift.

It had started small. He’d catch glimpses of you in the dining room, your warmth disarming even the most difficult patrons. You had a knack for smoothing over tension with a quick smile or a quiet word. It was an energy Adrien didn’t understand—didn’t think he needed—until it started bleeding into the edges of his carefully constructed world.

A shared glance during a busy service. Quiet conversations after closing when you lingered in the dining room and Adrien stayed in the kitchen, refining dishes. He started looking forward to your interruptions, even if he’d never admit it.

For you, the changes were subtle but unmistakable. Adrien, once so distant and cold, began softening in ways only you seemed to notice. A rare smile when you brought him a fresh espresso. A nod of approval when you defused a customer’s complaint before it could reach him. You didn’t think he was capable of small kindnesses, but then one night, after a particularly rough shift, he handed you a dessert plate without a word.

“You looked like you needed it,” he said simply, his tone gruff as he returned to his work.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to stir something in your chest.

Neither of you acknowledged it outright—there were rules, after all—but there was no denying the shift. Amid the bustle of service and the weight of expectations, something was simmering between you both, growing stronger with each passing day.