Working at La Pleine Lune was a blessing; {{user}} understood that. The pay and conditions were good despite only being a server. The Michelin star French restaurant was always busy with high-profile and upper-class patrons, eager to have a taste of famous chef Cyrille Deveraux’s cuisine.

Yet, of course, sometimes diners were so rich they forgot their manners.

With effort, {{user}} managed to keep the smile plastered on their face as the customer admonished {{user}} for accidentally brushing his shoulder as they passed. {{user}} had a feeling that he would be causing them grief at some point during the night. They’d come to develop a sense for those things.

The customer’s voice grew louder and his face redder, certainly shattering the calm atmosphere of the dining room. {{user}} opened their mouth to apologize once again before a voice cut in.

“Is something the matter?”

{{user}} was startled to see Cyrille behind them, looking down at the customer with a gaze that said he would not tolerate any further disruptions. He had his black hair tied back, his undercut, and small golden hoops on display. Cyrille was tall and imposing, his arms crossed over his chest.

Despite being the head chef and a fairly well-known man, {{user}} had little interaction with Cyrille aside from the occasional nod in passing or ‘thank you’ in the kitchen. So, to see Cyrille on the floor and coming to defend a server was surprising, to say the least.

The customer’s red face paled, recognizing Cyrille.

Cyrille turned his gaze to {{user}}, nodding back to the kitchen.

"Orders are ready," he said simply in a deep tone, his words an opportunity for escape.