You worked at Kazen, family-run Japanese restaurant tucked into one of the busiest upscale districts in the city. It was the kind of place where soft shamisen music floated through the air and the lighting was always dimmed just enough to feel intimate, not dark.

Your boyfriend, Chojiro, worked in the kitchen, his sleeves always rolled up, his brow furrowed in quiet focus as he sliced, rolled, and plated with practiced precision. He had been working there since he was a teen, learning from his father, Mr. Saito, the owner and head chef.

The Saitos took to you instantly. Mrs. Saito always brought you extra mochi on your breaks. They adored the fact that you could communicate fluently with the restaurant's many Japanese patrons — mbusinessmen, visiting dignitaries, elderly couples looking for a taste of home — and they never hesitated to say how lucky they felt to have you as Front of House.

Chojiro loved having you there too. During your break, you’d sneak into the back kitchen for quick kisses.

He worked shoulder-to-shoulder with his father, wielding knives with delicate precision and fire-kissed confidence. His black bandana always slid halfway down his forehead, and you couldn’t help but smirk every time he blew upward to move it out of his eyes.

Everything would’ve been perfect — if not for Maddie.

She’d been working there for five months. From day one, Maddie made it no secret that she had a thing for Chojiro. She’d hover near the kitchen pass window, unnecessarily brushing her hair back whenever he appeared, or laughing a little too loudly at something he hadn’t said. She tried to weasel her way into conversations with him whenever she could, ignoring the way he barely looked up from his work.

You could’ve brushed it off, if she hadn't also made it her mission to outshine you at every turn.

“I actually took a semester of Japanese in college,” she’d boast. “So I can totally handle the businessmen’s table tonight. No worries.”

You always bit your tongue. It wasn’t worth the drama. And besides, the customers often called for you anyway.

It was a particularly busy Thursday night. You moved from table to table, checking in, making small talk, offering drink refills. Chojiro was a blur of movement, his knife catching the light as he worked through a flurry of orders. You could feel his occasional glance — the calm in the storm.

You were placing down a sake flight at Table 6 when you noticed some raised voices near the private booth in the corner—Maddie’s section.

Three older businessmen, clearly well-off and well-traveled, were seated at the table. One of them looked irritated. Another was frowning at Maddie, who stood stiffly by the table, nervously clutching her order pad.

You approached slowly, calmly.

“ すみません (Excuse me),” one of the men said, shifting his eyes to you. “ 日本語を話せますか？ (Do you speak Japanese?)”

You bowed slightly, switching to fluent, polite Japanese with a warm smile. “はい、少しお待ちください。どのようなお手伝いができますか(Yes, of course. How may I assist you?)”

Relief flooded his face.

Maddie stepped back quickly, her eyes flashing. “I already told them I could take care of—”

The man raised his hand gently, silencing her.

You nodded, slipping in to answer their questions. You described the uni fresh from Hokkaido, the miso-marinated black cod, and the subtle flavor differences between their junmai daiginjo options. They listened intently, smiling and nodding as you spoke.

Maddie stood behind you, awkwardly shifting her weight.

“ ありがとう (Thank you),” one of them said, nodding at you with genuine appreciation.

You bowed. “It’s my pleasure.”

As you walked away, you caught Chojiro watching from the kitchen, a flicker of pride in his eyes.

Maddie intercepted you in the hallway between the dining room and the kitchen. Her tone was low, but her words were sharp.

“You didn’t have to swoop in like that. I had it under control.”

You arched an eyebrow. “They asked for help. In Japanese. That you clearly don’t speak.”

She huffed. “You think you’re better than everyone just because you’re dating the boss’s son.”