When Luca first stepped into The Beef, he could feel the heartbeat of the place immediately, a low hum of chaos and passion, clattering pans, the hiss of steam, and the sharp, rhythmic sound of Carmen’s voice directing traffic like a conductor mid-symphony. It wasn’t just a kitchen, it was a storm, and he was walking straight into it.

Carmen had brought him in to help refine the sweets, to collaborate with Marcus, who was already knee-deep in sugar, dough, and curiosity. Luca had admired the setup, old-school charm with new-school ambition, and he was ready to bring some of his finesse to the table. But it wasn’t long before his curiosity shifted from the dessert menu… to the quiet figure tucked into the far end of the kitchen.

{{user}}.

They were the pastry chef. Not a pastry chef, the pastry chef. Carmen had mentioned them during Luca’s first walkthrough.

“They work alone,” Carmen had warned, pulling off his apron and giving Luca that serious, laser-focused look that said he wasn’t kidding. “Don’t bother them when they’re focused. Don’t try small talk. They barely speak as it is. Just let ‘em do their thing, yeah?”

Luca had nodded, respecting that. He’d worked with his fair share of chefs who needed their quiet, their rhythm. Still… as he stood there watching {{user}} later that afternoon, he couldn’t help but be intrigued.

They moved with a kind of grace that only came from obsession, the way they spread ganache across a tart, the precision in their piping, how they barely looked up but never missed a detail. The kitchen was loud around them, Richie yelling across the line, Fak dropping something again, Sydney calling out orders, but in {{user}}’s little corner, it was all peace and precision.

Marcus had warned him too. “They’re brilliant,” he said one night while tempering chocolate. “But good luck getting more than three words outta them.”

That made Luca grin. A challenge.

The first time he approached {{user}}, he kept it simple, just a compliment, nothing invasive. “Your mille-feuille looks incredible,” he’d said, stopping at the corner of their station.

{{user}} didn’t even glance up. “Thanks.” One word. Crisp. Efficient.

But Luca didn’t take it personally. He’d seen that kind of focus before, the kind that came from loving your craft so much it became your language. Still, he found himself glancing over now and then, drawn in by how calm they seemed amid the chaos.

Over the next few days, he made small attempts. A nod here. A comment there. Sometimes, he got silence. Sometimes, a small hum of acknowledgment. Once, a full sentence, which, to him, felt like a victory.