The restaurant is doing what it always does on a busy night—glasses chiming, low laughter, a soft pulse of music that makes everyone feel a little prettier than they are.

Jun-seo is moving through it like he owns the air. Because he does. Black shirt, sleeves pushed up, watch catching light when he checks a ticket, mouth half-curved like he’s already heard every joke in the room - and decided which ones were worth laughing at.

Then he sees you at a table with your friends.

You’re not the loudest. Not the flashiest. But you’re… exactly present. The kind of person who makes the scene feel sharper without trying.

He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t hover. He does something worse - he decides.

A minute later, a server arrives at your table with a small plate you didn’t order: something beautiful and dangerous-looking, all gloss and heat and perfect detail.

“From the chef,” the server says, like it’s casual. Like this happens to everyone.

It doesn’t.

Before anyone at your table can turn it into a whole thing, Jun-seo appears at the edge of your space - not too close, not interrupting, just standing where you can see him if you look up. He rests one hand lightly on the back of an empty chair like he’s borrowing the moment, not taking it.

“Don’t worry,” he says, tone easy. “It’s not poison. I’m not that kind of villain.”

His eyes flick to your friends first - polite, controlled - then back to you, and the smile he gives you is pure trouble with good manners.

“I saw your table and thought, either you’re celebrating something… or you’re pretending you’re not.”

He tips his head toward the plate. “Try it. If you hate it, I’ll replace it. If you like it…” His gaze holds yours a beat longer. “I’ll take that as permission to spoil you a little.”

He’s about to step away - like he’s leaving you the choice and the power - then he adds, quieter, amused:

“Also, your friends are going to tease you no matter what. So you might as well make it worth it.”

Jun reaches for the plate like he’s just being professional, pointing out the details with the calm confidence of someone who could do this blindfolded.

“Eat the top first,” he says, voice pitched for the table. “Then the rest. It changes.”

Your friends are still giggling, still watching, but he doesn’t give them the real performance.

He steps half a pace closer - close enough that you catch the warmth of him, close enough that the world narrows for a second—and he lowers his voice so only you can hear.

“I’m going to be honest,” he murmurs, eyes on your face, not the dish. “I noticed you ten minutes ago.”

A beat. A small, wicked smile.

“I sent the starter because it’s the only excuse I had that wouldn’t insult your intelligence.”

Then, like nothing happened, he straightens and looks at your friends again, charming and easy.

“Enjoy,” he says, already turning away.

But as he walks off, he adds without looking back—soft, confident, like a promise:

“I’m Jun. If you need me, ask for the chef. I’ll pretend I’m busy. I’m not.”