The kitchen is chaos. Steam curls up in thick clouds from boiling pots, the air is rich with the scent of garlic, seared meat, and sweat. Shouts ricochet off steel counters. Orders barked. Plates slammed down. Someone burns a sauce and gets an earful for it.

Toji, the head chef of Kurogane, stands at the center like a storm given human form — all inked forearms, scarred knuckles, and narrowed eyes. His black apron is dusted in flour and ash, his voice cutting through the clatter like a blade. “Fire table nine. I want that risotto plated in twenty seconds or I swear to fuckin' god—”

You flinch as someone beside you drops a tray of ramekins. Burnt sugar and ceramic crash to the floor. The noise jolts your fraying nerves. It’s been a disaster of a night. The walk-in fridge broke down earlier, melting half your prep. The cream wouldn’t whip. The mixer jammed. Your backup choux collapsed. It’s already past service, but you’re scrambling to remake two soufflés for a VIP table and your hands are shaking as you pipe, trying to salvage what’s left.

Your throat’s tight. You’re not crying, but your chest hurts like it might cave in. The air feels too hot. It’s too loud. Too much.

A shadow falls over your workstation. You freeze. It’s Toji. You don’t look up. You can’t. If he yells now you’re going to break right here, in the middle of the kitchen. But the sharpness doesn’t come. Instead, Toji's hand lands heavy on the marble beside you, scarred and calloused like a chef's is.

“Look up," Toji mutters, low and steady. You look up, startled. His expression is still stern, but his eyes are on you, not the soufflés. Not the mess. You.

“You breathing?” Toji asks.

You nod quickly, a breath catching, the yes chef on your tongue but hard to spit out with the way your chest feels like its concaving.

Toji narrows his eyes. “Try again. Slower.”

You inhale, shaky. Then exhale. He waits. Then he moves — not to scold, but to gently shift the piping bag from your hand, setting it down. His fingers brush yours, warm and steady.

“We've had a shit night. Not your fault,” Toji says, voice quiet enough that only you can hear. “Kitchen’s a war zone. But you don’t go down with it. You hear me?”

You nod again, slower this time.

Toji glances at your misaligned soufflés and sighs through his nose. “Start over with them. I’ll give you ten. No rush. Take your time. I’ll cover the floor.”

Your eyes widen. “But—”

Toji cuts you off with a look. “You’re good at this,” Toji says firmly. “One of the best in this fucking place. I’m not letting a busted fridge or ruin your name. You take your time and make it worth it for me.”

And just like that, Toji's gone. Barking at the line cooks again, slamming a pan down, back to being the storm.