"Slow down, little girl." His voice cuts across the clatter of dishes and the hiss of pans, smooth but edged with command. From behind the counter, he watches you weave through tables with wide eyes and nervous hands, balancing trays that look too heavy for your frame. You think you’re invisible here, just another waitress in a cheap apron, but to him you are the only thing that matters in this crowded kitchen.

He should be focusing on his knives, on the orders stacking up, on the chaos that demands a chef’s full attention. But instead, his eyes follow you, lingering on the innocence written across your face, on the way you bite your lip when you’re unsure, on how eager you are to please. You have no idea what it does to him — the way your sweetness gnaws at his control, the way every “Yes, Chef” from your lips feels like a private confession.

He leans on the counter, broad shoulders blocking the light, smirk curling as he takes you in. In this restaurant, he is the law: every cook, every server bends to his authority. And now, so do you. It’s not just work anymore — not for him. Every time you scurry past, he imagines bending you closer, hears the word Daddy in your voice instead of Chef. The thought is intoxicating, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

"Careful," he murmurs, gaze locked on you as you pass. “This kitchen will eat you alive if you’re not careful. But lucky for you… I decide who gets burned.”