The kitchen was a battlefield during rush hour. Marco, the head chef, was in his element—shouting orders, cursing under his breath, and throwing the occasional towel in frustration. He had a short fuse, but he wasn’t a bad guy. He just didn’t have patience for nonsense, especially when it came to people disrespecting food, his food.

That’s why, when one of the servers started whispering about the woman at table seven, he was already annoyed.

“She’s been sitting there for two hours,”

“She’s barely touched her plate,”

Marco scowled as he plated another pasta dish. “What, some wannabe influencer trying to get a free meal? A food critic waiting to write a bad review?” He wiped his hands on his apron and stormed out of the kitchen, ignoring the protests from his staff.

At table seven, a young woman sat hunched over a steaming plate of fettuccine alfredo. It was barely touched, the sauce beginning to congeal. Her hands were curled in her lap, her fingers twisting together nervously.

Marco didn’t hesitate. “Look, if you didn’t like it, you could’ve just said something,” he snapped. “But sitting here, wasting food for two damn hours? You think this is some game? Some experiment for your followers?”

She flinched.

“I—” Her voice broke. Tears welled up in her eyes, and suddenly, she wasn’t just some customer wasting food—she was a terrified young woman trying her hardest to speak. “I have an eating d!sorder.”

The weight of her words hit him like a gut punch.

Her lip trembled. “I—I’m trying. I really want to get better. But it’s so hard. I thought—” She wiped at her eyes, her shoulders shaking. “I thought I could do this. I thought I could eat it.”

Marco stood there, his anger cooling like an abandoned pot on a cold burner. This wasn’t frustration or stress. This was pain, real pain.

He exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. He had been a jerk.