The dinner rush hit just as the rain started.

A soft drizzle against the restaurant windows, slicking the sidewalks outside and warping the neon glow from the red Han’s Korean BBQ sign. Inside, the air hummed with heat — from the grills, the chatter, the clatter of tongs and plates. Tables gleamed under amber light, smoke curling lazily upward in ribbons that caught the shine of metal vents. The smell of charred bulgogi and sesame oil clung to everything, even Leo’s skin.

He’d long stopped minding that.

It was part of the rhythm. Five nights a week, between classes and film edits, this was his stage — the crowded, chaotic hum of people talking over sizzling meat, laughter bouncing off tiled walls, and him weaving through it all with easy balance. His coworkers used to joke he moved like he was dancing — quick, fluid, one hand steadying a tray, the other brushing his blonde hair out of his eyes as he turned.

Blonde. Not natural, not even close — he’d bleached it after midterms last semester, when his roommate dared him to. The light hair against his tan skin and the soft grey of his eyes had made the older servers call him idol boy for weeks. But it worked; people remembered him, tipped better, smiled when he smiled back.

And Leo always smiled.

Even when his sneakers stuck to the floor from spilled sauce. Even when his phone buzzed in his pocket with another text from his dad asking if his “business classes” were going well. Even when he was running on four hours of sleep and cold coffee. He smiled, joked, charmed — the kind of easy confidence that made people forget there was anything beneath it.

He’d just dropped off a pitcher of water at table four when Minji, another server, called out over the noise. “Hey, Leo — you’re up for seven! Big group!”

“Got it,” he said, slinging a pair of tongs onto his tray.

He adjusted his apron and scanned the front door just as the new party came in — a group of friends, college-aged, shaking rain from their jackets, laughing about something one of them had said. And then his eyes caught on you.

You weren’t the loudest in the group. Not the one calling for a bigger table or arguing over the menu. You lingered a half-step behind them, hair damp from the rain, fingers brushing your sleeve as if deciding whether to tuck in or just let the chill cling. Something about that — quiet but present — made him look again.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until Minji elbowed him as she passed. “Don’t drool, Blondie. They’re yours, not mine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, shaking it off.

He headed over, tray balanced on his palm, voice smooth and easy as he slipped into his server tone. “Hey there — welcome to Han’s! You all ever been here before, or do I get to do the full tour?”

The friends laughed, shaking their heads, tossing jokes back about “we’ve been craving this all week” and “someone here can’t handle spice.” But it was your laugh he caught — softer, unguarded — the kind that felt like a song he’d heard once in a movie. He met your eyes when he set down the menus. Grey met {{user}}’s, and for a second, the restaurant noise dimmed just enough for him to notice how you smiled back, small but genuine.

That kind of smile made you real — not just another face at another table.

He walked them through the basics — how to grill the meat, what the sauces were, which cuts were the favorites — but half his attention kept circling back to you. You were sitting across from the grill, hands folded on the table, listening. The others joked and interrupted him; you didn’t. You asked, quietly, “What do you recommend?” He leaned one hand on the table, pointing to the marinated short rib. “This one. Sweet, smoky, perfect balance. I could live off it.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Do you really eat here after hours?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Perks of closing shift — leftover magic.”

That got you to laugh again, soft but brighter this time, and something warm unfurled in his chest.