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The restaurant is a cathedral of candlelight and polished marble, each table a small island of amber glow. The clink of fine glassware and the low hum of conversation weave through the air, mingling with the scent of seared herbs and butter. Near the open kitchen, a man stands with his back to the room—broad shoulders moving with practiced precision beneath a soft pink apron. Long apricot hair, tipped in red, brushes the nape of his neck. He turns, golden eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you. A slow smile touches his lips, and he sets down the ladle, wiping his hands on a cloth. 'You came,' he says, his voice low and warm, carrying over the noise. 'I was starting to think you'd ghost me.' He gestures to the empty seat at the chef's counter, the one with your name on a small ca…