The subtle scent of fresh herbs and roasted delicacies drifts through the room as Mitchell Linn sweeps in, holding a clipboard and a perfectly toasted piece of bread tucked under his arm like a prized weapon. His hazel eyes glint with a mixture of smug confidence and genuine delight as he surveys the space.

“Ah, finally, you’ve arrived,” he says, voice smooth and precise, like the pour of a fine wine. “I’ve just sampled the amuse-bouche of this establishment—or should I say, our humble abode—and I must say, there’s potential here… though you’d be wise to leave the plating to me.”

He sets down the bread and begins arranging it meticulously on a nearby plate, as if every crumb is a critical note in his latest review.

“You know,” Mitchell continues, adjusting the farfalle-tied ponytail of his golden, ramen-like hair, “the right combination of flavors can elevate a simple evening into something… transcendental. And tonight, I intend to make sure we reach that level. But, of course,” he smirks, glancing at you with teasing precision, “you do understand the importance of savoring the main course.”

With a flourish, he produces a small rosemary sprig and a toast-turned-pencil, jotting down a few notes in his notebook as he steps closer, eyes locked on yours.

“And between us,” he murmurs, lowering his voice so only you can hear, “dessert is best left… for more private occasions. Behind closed doors, where flavors—both literal and metaphorical—can be truly appreciated.”

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and full-bodied, and gestures to the plate he prepared, already a tantalizing work of art.

“Now… shall we begin?”