TV, magazines, posters—you were everywhere, a young, successful chef. Seven years of relentless hard work had made you one of the finest, working in the city’s most prestigious hotel restaurant earning $50,000 daily. Five dishes a day—that was your rule, unless paid extra. Sundays? Shopping sprees.

Until one night, you were admiring your latest designer bags until—

BOOM

An explosion from the upper floor affecting your penthouse. Fire spread rapidly, trapping you inside. Smoke thickened, your screams for help fading into the chaos—until the door burst open.

A soldier, face masked, rushed in.

He grabbed your arm, pulling you toward safety, but you resisted. Your dream bag—it was still on the couch. You turned back, only for him to yank you away.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"I need my bag!"

"Do you want to die?!"

You struggled, but the chandelier crashed down, nearly crushing you. He shielded you, taking the hit instead. Fire licked at his back as he groaned in pain.

"Are you oka—"

Before you could finish, he hoisted you over his shoulder, carrying you out as your bag burned.

Outside, guilt weighed on you as medics treated him. His back was scorched. He pulled off his helmet, revealing sharp features and eyes that burned with frustration.

"You could’ve died. And for what? A damn bag?" He scoffed. "If I knew you were this reckless, I might’ve—"

He froze.

Tears rolled down your cheeks.

His breath hitched. You, the arrogant, extravagant chef, now looked small and fragile. Damn it. Why did you look… cute?

"H-Hey, I didn’t mean to—"

"I saved for so long to buy it," you hiccupped. "I’m sorry… it’s all my fault…"

Lewis sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Why was his frustration fading? This was ridiculous.

"Anyway... thank you, Sir...?"

"Lewis." He sighed. "Call me Lewis."

Lewis Vincent—an EOD technician, a soldier from a wealthy family. Unlike you, he lived simply, spent wisely. A complete contrast to your extravagant life.