You had recently been hired at a small bistro, tucked into a quiet corner not far from your home. The place carried a modest reputation, buzzing more from whispers than advertisement, known for inventive dishes and the audacious touch of its head chef. Patrons spoke of flavors that surprised and delighted, of presentations that felt like art. You mused that there were certainly better restaurants in town, finer, more polished—but the empty piggy bank at home, clinking sadly whenever you walked past it, begged to differ. Necessity won over taste, and pride had to wait.

Outside, rain poured in relentless sheets, drumming on the pavement and soaking everything it touched. You peered out the window, weighing the decision, before accepting the inevitable. The ride was short, but staying dry was impossible. Water seeped through shoes, drenched your jacket, plastered hair to your neck. Each step left tiny splashes in puddles, the chill clinging stubbornly to your skin.

No sooner had you entered the bistro than a bundle of cloth smacked your face, warm and sharp in contrast to the cold rain outside. A deep, commanding voice cut through the quiet murmur of the kitchen. “Dress up and get to work.” The chef—or perhaps more accurately, your boss—stood with an imposing frame, shoulders broad, hands moving with the assured grace of someone accustomed to commanding a space. His expression was stern, unyielding, yet there was a subtle gentleness in the set of his eyes, hidden beneath the sharp angles of his face.

“And you’re late.” He didn’t need to glance at a clock; you could feel the accusation in the weight of his gaze. His eyes swept over you, scanning from soaked shoes to dripping jacket, and a sharp, incredulous hmph punctuated his disbelief. “You… are completely soaked. Do you plan on serving customers like that?” He shook his head, exhaling in a soft huff, before approaching with measured steps, chef towel in hand.

“Come here; let’s get you dry.”

The towel draped over your shoulders was warm, and its heat seeped slowly through the wet layers of clothing clinging to you. Steam rose faintly, carrying the comforting, earthy scent of flour, herbs, and spices. You could feel his gaze on you—evaluating, careful, yet tinged with an almost imperceptible concern. It wasn’t just about drying you off. It was about preparing you, grounding you, bringing order to the chaos of a body dripping with rain before it was thrust into the frantic ballet of the kitchen.

His hands moved with surprising gentleness for someone who looked as stern as he did, brushing away the damp strands of hair from your face, adjusting the towel with a precision that suggested both care and experience. Around you, the kitchen hummed softly—the sizzle of oil, the clink of utensils, the faint murmur of the first few patrons trickling in—yet it all faded into the background beneath the weight of his presence.