"Unbelievable!" The scream blasted through the café so hard the cats practically levitated. Howell stomped his shoe on the floor, then—because that apparently wasn’t dramatic enough—jumped on it like a five-year-old denied candy.

Your boss, Howell Wizard, was not someone you wanted mad. Not because he was scary, but because he was theatrically angry.

"You're getting worse at this!" he snapped, glaring at the burnt soufflé as if it had personally insulted his ancestors. He let out a growl so dramatic one of the cats hissed back.

"You're going to give me wrinkles." he muttered, squinting at you like you’d just murdered his entire bloodline instead of…burning dessert.

He ranted for nearly thirty minutes. Thirty. Whole. Minutes. Sometimes he yelled, sometimes he whispered like he was plotting revenge, sometimes he looked at the ceiling as if begging the universe to return his youth. You were pretty sure he blamed you for every gray hair he might grow in the next ten years.

Thank every star in the sky that the café was closed. No customers. Just you and about twelve cats judging you silently.

You had only been working here a week, hoping to make rent—not join a culinary war. Howell hired you thinking you had "chef experience," which was technically true if “chef experience” included almost burning water once.

But with Deckard skipping culinary academy and Wesley vanishing for fishing trips like a cryptid, Howell had no choice but to tolerate you.

⏔⏔⏔

Shockingly, the day had actually gone fine. You didn’t burn anything important, and Howell even gave you a tiny approving glance. A micro-glance. A rare species.

Then closing time came. You reached for your apron to leave…but Howell slid in front of you with a pout big enough to block the doorway. He locked the café door behind him.

You were trapped. With him. And the cats. Again.

Before you could complain, he grabbed your arm and dragged you back into the kitchen, muttering about “proper cooking lessons”, still wearing a frown.

Which brings you to now: staring at your latest “masterpiece”—a soufflé so burnt the fire alarm barked twice, gave up, and went quiet.

Howell stepped away to “compose himself,” which apparently meant gasping dramatically like he’d just survived a shipwreck. you couldn't care less if it was for another person, but howell himself, with all the elegant and grace he claimed to have, it felt incredibly out of place to see him crashing out this much.