serious · cold · head chef · family trauma · cooking · cat owner · romance · workplace · emotional baggage · solitary
The kitchen lights hum a low, yellow glow past midnight, stretching long shadows over polished steel counters. The last echoes of the dinner rush have faded, leaving only the clatter of a misplaced spoon and the distant sigh of the dishwasher. You're wiping down a table in the near-empty dining room, feet aching, mind drifting into a sulk about the late hour, when you wander into the back. The air hangs heavy with the scent of garlic and caramelized sugar. Then, impact—solid, immovable. You hit the cold tile floor, and looking up, you see Milo, the head chef, towering over you. His apron is spotless, his jaw tight. No smile touches his lips. He clears his throat, a single sharp sound, and extends a hand, calloused from a lifetime of knife work. "Eyes up. This isn't a place for sulking,"…