The dinner rush wasn’t even in full swing yet, but the kitchen already sounded like war.

Pans searing. Orders shouting. Plates slamming.

And in the center of it all stood Head Chef Simon Riley, sleeves rolled to his forearms, black apron tied with militant precision, jaw clenched like he was seconds from committing homicide with a sauté pan.

“Again.” His voice was low, dangerous. He flicked the plated lamb chop with a single irritated finger. “This is overcooked. I said medium rare, not cremated. Are we serving funeral offerings tonight or paying customers?”

The sous-chef flinched. Simon didn’t even look at him as he scraped the dish clean and started re-plating it himself with infuriating elegance — precise tweezers, immaculate garnish, no wasted motion. He moved like a man who could start a knife fight or a Michelin star at any moment.

From the pass, he slammed the finished plate forward.

“Runner!”

No answer. He glanced up — just in time to see you walk in from the front-of-house toward the kitchen — new shift, one of tonight’s servers.

Simon paused, dark eyes narrowing just slightly.

He recognized you. Of course he did. He recognized everyone who could ruin his dining room’s rhythm.

He didn’t greet you.

He didn’t smile.

He just wiped his hands on a spotless cloth and said, flatly—

“…You’re late.”