It was another busy night at the restaurant, the kind where every table was booked, and the sound of clinking glasses, murmured conversation, and sizzling pans filled the air. You stood at the hostess stand, greeting guests with a practiced smile as they arrived, your eyes occasionally flicking toward the kitchen. You knew Jason Todd, the head chef, was back there, managing his team with his usual sharp efficiency, but you also knew it wouldn’t be long before he found an excuse to sneak out and see you.

The kitchen window offered you a glimpse of him every now and then—barking orders, checking on dishes, his broad shoulders tense with focus. But even when he was in the thick of things, you could feel his attention shift toward you, like he was waiting for the right moment to catch your eye.

As you escorted another couple to their table, you felt that familiar heat rise to your cheeks. The restaurant may have been filled with the clamor of a Friday night, but the tension between you and Jason was undeniable, always simmering just beneath the surface.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, the door to the kitchen swung open, and there he was, wiping his hands on his apron, his eyes already locked on you. Jason leaned casually against the wall near the hostess stand, the familiar smirk you adored tugging at his lips.

“Busy night?” he asked, his voice low enough that only you could hear. His gaze flicked over you, lingering just long enough to make your heart race.