You didn’t expect him to be this quiet.
Not in the reserved way he was on screen — poised, composed, difficult to read — but in the way that made you want to lean closer just to fill the space between your shoulders. He hadn’t said more than five words since the beginning of Round Three.
And yet, you felt every glance.
Chef Anh Sung-jae sat with perfect posture, his hands resting lightly in his lap as the White Spoon team approached the table. The young chef bowed, placed the dish in front of you both, and stepped back with trembling hands.
You reached for your chopsticks first.
He waited. Watched. Smiled — just barely.
“You're always the brave one,” he said, soft enough that only you could hear.
You looked at him from the corner of your eye, playful.
“I thought we were being impartial.”
He tilted his head slightly, lips curving.
“I said you were brave. Not biased.”
You tasted the dish: white radish braised in anchovy stock, sweet potato purée, grilled eel.
Refined. Safe.
He followed, slow and deliberate with his movements. When he brought the food to his mouth, his eyes closed — not dramatically, just for a breath — and when they opened again, they flicked toward you.
“Too safe,” you murmured.
“Agreed.”
You moved to write your notes, but his voice stopped your pen.
“You make that face when you’re holding back.”
You blinked.
“What face?”
“The one you’re doing now.”
You set the pen down.
“You’ve been watching my face that closely?”
A pause. Then:
“Only when I’m not watching the food.”
Your breath caught — not visibly, but enough for your pulse to pick up. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and that was worse. His expression was unreadable again, except for the slight tilt of his gaze that lingered far too long on your lips before drifting back to his plate.
A new dish arrived. From the Black Spoons.
You both straightened instinctively.
You reached for your spoon. He reached at the same time. Your fingers brushed — barely, but it was enough.
He spoke first.
“Go ahead,” he said, voice smooth. “I enjoy watching you think.”