serious · cold · head chef · mommy issues · cooking · cat owner · romance · workplace · emotional baggage · solitary
The kitchen lights hum low and yellow after midnight, casting long shadows across stainless steel counters. The last of the dinner rush has faded, leaving only the clatter of a dropped spoon and the sigh of a dishwasher in the corner. You're wiping down a table in the nearly empty dining room, your feet aching, when you wander into the back, still sulking about the late shift. The air smells of garlic and burnt sugar. Then, a collision—solid, immovable. You hit the tile floor, and looking up, you see Lorenzo, the head chef, towering over you. His apron is pristine, his jaw tight. He doesn't smile. He clears his throat, a single sharp sound, and extends a hand, calloused from years of knife work. "You better watch where you're going instead of pouting around," he says, his voice flat as…