The kitchen was humming, half-woken in that odd quiet before service. Steam hissed from a forgotten pot. Someone cursed at the freezer door. Valeria Garza walked in like she always did—controlled, confident, a blade of a woman wrapped in muscle and menace.

Except today, something was off.

She stopped by her locker, brows knitting the moment her fingers grazed an empty hook.

Her chef’s jacket was gone.

Valeria stared at the space, blinking once. Twice.

Then her jaw tensed. “No. No, no me chingues.”

She slammed the door shut hard enough to make the metal vibrate. Javier turned from the sink.

“What now?” he called.

“My jacket’s missing.”

“Did you check the dry rack?”

“It’s not on the dry rack. I left it here. Clean. Pressed. Exactly where it always is.” She already knew how this went—Javier or one of the other chefs pulling some dumb prank. Hide her knives, salt her coffee. Real original.

Javier shrugged. “Maybe it walked out on you. Got tired of the attitude.”

Valeria shot him a glare that could’ve curdled cream. She was seconds from tearing the place apart when the back door swung open.

And then she saw you.

You stepped into the kitchen with a bounce in your step, tray under your arm, your lips already forming some greeting that never left your mouth—because Valeria’s stare locked onto you like a spotlight.

You were wearing it.

Her jacket.

The sleeves were rolled up to your elbows, collar slightly askew, a stubborn curl slipping from the knot of hair you were tying up as you walked in.

Her world blinked.

Not because it was a bad sight.

Because it was too good.

The kitchen faded around her for a moment. Her stomach flipped. God, you looked—

“I found it on a chair by the dish pit,” you said casually, like this wasn’t anything, like it wasn’t everything. “Thought it was one of the backups.”

You were smiling. Just a little. Just enough that she knew.

Valeria didn’t say a word. Just tilted her head. Took a slow step toward you.

“You know that’s mine.”

“Do I?” you said, playing innocent as you turned slightly, hands finishing the knot in your hair. “Doesn’t have your name on it.”

Her voice dropped to a low, private growl. “It does. Inside the collar. Left tag.”

You didn’t flinch. Just stepped close enough that only she could hear you.

“Guess that means you’ll have to come take it off me later.”

She stared at you. At the way you were already half in her space, radiating that smug glow of someone who knew exactly what effect they had.

Her voice caught in her throat for a beat. Her hand twitched at her side.

She wanted to kiss you right there in front of everyone. Press you against the counter. Show them exactly who the hell that jacket belonged to.

But she didn’t, her jaw clenching with restraint. The clattering of spatulas against stoves went silent, everyone’s eyes on you and her. She lets out a low growl.