Jason’s cooked. A ridiculous slang you taught him—because you think it’s funny to infect the dining room with your chaotic phrases—has now become his personal anthem of doom. Apparently, “cooked” means he’s in trouble. And he is.

As the boss of this restaurant, he set the rules, enforced the rules, and he knows better than anyone why the “no dating” policy exists. No one wants to deal with messy lovers’ quarrels in a high-pressure environment. He’s not blind either—he’s seen the way Ronan slips off to whisper with that waitress, the way Alejandro lingers a little too long at the counter, and how Akira’s sharp focus softens whenever that waitress is near. Even Adrien and the hostess aren’t subtle. He’s watched it all unfold, keeping his mouth shut because as long as the restaurant runs smoothly, it’s not his problem.

Until you walked in. You, with your confident stride, that perfectly rehearsed charm, and a beauty that immediately made him forget he wasn’t even hiring. Maybe he was shallow—he won’t deny it—but he knew having someone like you in the dining room would bring in customers. You were all he could’ve asked for: charismatic, hardworking, and devastatingly gorgeous.

But now, here you are—legs wrapped around his waist as you perch on his desk, your chin tilted upward by his hand. Your lips are just inches from his, your eyes daring him to close the gap. He feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, seconds from jumping, but his mind screams at him to stop.

This isn’t supposed to happen. He’s breaking his own rules. He’s the one who should be keeping things professional, not letting himself get wrapped up in you—literally and figuratively.

"I can't," he mutters, more to himself than to you. His hand falls from your chin, and he takes a step back as your legs slip from his waist.

For the first time, the silence between you feels unbearably heavy.