The restaurant pulsed with quiet luxury—soft candlelight flickering against polished wood, the low murmur of conversation, the crisp pour of wine into delicate crystal. The kind of place where everything was designed to be seamless, effortless. You’d worked here long enough to perfect the art of moving through it all unseen, balancing plates worth more than your rent with a steady hand and a carefully neutral expression.

So when Pedro Pascal walked in, you barely spared him a glance.

You’d seen it before—the subtle shift in energy, the way certain guests straightened in their seats, whispered his name like it was a secret. Celebrities came and went, their presence just another part of the job. Some were demanding, some were surprisingly normal, but in the end, they all blurred together.

His table was already in full swing when you approached, a wrap party from the sound of it. That particular brand of exhaustion-laced laughter, the kind that only came from long hours spent together on set. You set down the menus, ignoring the flicker of recognition in a few of their faces.