#ITS SUBTEXT. ITS STILL SUBTEXT HOW CAN THIS STILL BE SUBTEXT.

[yubinism]

there’s this quiet devastation running through the chapter, like something fragile pressed too hard between the lines. it’s not dramatic or loud—it’s subtle, simmering just under the surface, which somehow makes it hit even harder. the tension feels lived-in, like it’s been there long before we arrived, and we’re just catching a glimpse of it unraveling in real-time. it’s the kind of writing that makes you feel like an intruder, like you’re seeing something you’re not supposed to, but you can’t look away.

the way you handle the character dynamics is honestly insane. every interaction feels like it’s holding its breath, like there’s something too sharp to touch directly, so they just circle around it instead. and that restraint? it makes the emotional beats land with this quiet precision—no need for big, dramatic declarations when the smallest gestures are screaming. like, a glance, a pause, the way someone’s sentence trails off—that’s where all the weight is, and you nail that.

what’s wild is how the atmosphere feels like its own character. it’s not just the setting; it’s the mood stitched into every line, coloring everything with this soft ache. like even the spaces between the words are doing heavy lifting. and the pacing? deliberate without feeling slow. it gives the emotions room to breathe, which makes them linger long after the chapter ends.

honestly, your control over tone and subtext is unreal. it’s not just storytelling—it’s an experience. like i’m not just reading it; i’m in it, feeling everything your characters won’t admit out loud. it’s the kind of writing that lingers, like an echo you can still hear even after it’s gone. you’ve got a gift, seriously. i literally love you, thank you for feeding us so well 💛

TASTE.

CHAPTER V: TENDER.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (20,7k words)

Author's note: Congratulations for making it through the week. Pls enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think about it after ♡

Tender. /ˈten.dər/ (adj) 1. showing gentleness and concern or sympathy. 2. easy to cut.

There’s something about the way sweet things linger on your tongue—like the moments you’ve shared with Minho. Each one, fleeting and intoxicating, feels like a sugar rush. The stolen glances, the secret smiles, the warmth of his presence beside you—they all flood your senses, leaving you craving more.

But now, that sweetness has turned cloying. The secret you’ve been keeping together, delicate as spun sugar, is starting to crack. And like biting into something bittersweet after too much indulgence, the sharp edge of reality cuts through.

You’re walking toward the locker room, hands balled into fists on each side of you and you brace yourself for what's coming as you push the door open. It feels like the aftermath of a sugar addiction—the kind of crash that leaves you wondering why you allowed yourself to get so carried away in the first place.

The memory of Taesoo’s panicked face lingering in your mind, his words ringing in your ears: Everyone knows now.

Your heart sinks again, as if hearing it for the first time.

The taste of bitterness is unmistakable now, grounding you in the realization that this thing between you and Minho—this private, fragile thing—has been exposed to the light.

The locker room feels like a battlefield the moment you step inside. Seungwan charges toward you like he’s been lying in wait. His voice comes out in a rapid-fire assault.

“Minji saw everything!” he declares, practically vibrating with excitement. “She watched you and Chef Minho in the café! She even sent me a picture—proof!”

Your stomach drops, but you force yourself to stay calm. Before you can even respond, Hyunwoo appears at Seungwan’s side, his expression stern. “So? Is it true?”

Before you can answer, Felix suddenly slides into view, positioning himself at your side like a protective shield.

“Hey, it’s not true.” His wide, bright eyes lock onto yours as he asks for your confirmation, “That’s not true, right?”

The weight of their combined stares is suffocating, but you take a deep breath and let it out, bracing yourself. “It’s true.”

The room erupts. Seungwan gasps in victory, practically glowing as he boasts, “See? I told you I wasn’t lying!”

You quickly raise your hands, trying to regain control of the situation. “Wait, listen. It’s true we went to the café, but it’s not because we’re dating, we're close because we were friends back in Italy.”

The uproar falters, and Hyunwoo crosses his arms, skeptical. “Minji said she saw you give him chocolate.”

“I did,” you admit, “but not everyone who exchanges chocolates on Valentine’s Day is a couple by default.”

Seungwan isn’t buying it. “Minji said you looked like a couple.”

You meet his gaze head-on. “Does she have proof? Did she see us kissing? Did she see us sleeping together?”

That bold challenge silences him for a moment, but before you can feel any relief, Felix jumps in, clearly desperate to squash the rumor.

“Hey, it’s impossible!” he insists. “Chef isn’t the type to fall for some random woman in the kitchen. Even if you like him, no matter how hard you try, he won't budge.”

You don’t know if that comment stings more than it should, but you keep your face neutral. In the corner, you catch Taesoo trying to suppress a laugh. He quickly looks away when your eyes meet his.

The tension in the room gradually deflates as the others seem to accept the lack of solid evidence. Seungwan narrows his eyes at you, his voice low with warning. “If it turns out you are dating, I’m not going to sit back and allow it.”

You force a small, indifferent smile. “Fine.”

The others shuffle out of the locker room one by one, grumbling amongst themselves. As you listen to Felix and Hyunwoo bicker about whether or not you’re really dating Minho, you lean against the cold metal of the lockers and close your eyes.

Finally, blessedly, the room is empty, and the air feels breathable again. You sag against the lockers, exhaustion creeping in. The bitter taste of the confrontation lingers, but at least, for now, the storm has passed.

But even in the bitterness, there’s a part of you that clings to the sweetness. The way Minho looked at you, the way his voice softened when he said your name. Those moments are what keep you going, what make the risk feel almost worth it.

You glance down at the chef coat hanging in front of you, then yanking it off the hanger and taking your time as you put it on. Maybe you need the space to breathe, or maybe you’re just trying to drown out the ache in your chest.

Because no matter how much you tell yourself to stop, to quit this dangerous craving, your heart keeps whispering the same thing: One more taste.

-

The echo of his footsteps feels heavier today as Minho walks through the hall and up the stairs to his office. Everyone knows. That single thought loops in his head, clinging like a bad smell he can’t shake off.

He’s prepared himself for the inevitable questions, even rehearsed his answers, but when he steps into his office, the tension he expected isn’t there.

Sara is at her desk, her pen gliding smoothly over her notebook. She looks up briefly when he enters, her brow furrowing slightly as if she senses his unease. But she says nothing.

Minho pauses, unsure. Her lack of reaction is almost more unsettling than if she’d pounced on him with questions. They share a quiet glance, her expression a mixture of curiosity and confusion. When he doesn’t speak, she simply returns to her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the silence.

Minho crosses the room and drops into his chair, swiveling it slightly to the side to put himself out of Sara’s line of sight. His fingers reach into his coat pocket, pulling out the card you gave him.

He stares at the envelope for a moment, running his thumb along the edge before carefully pulling the card out. The words you wrote are simple, yet they hit him with an unexpected force.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

A small, lopsided smile tugs at his lips as his eyes fall to the tiny heart you’ve sketched in the corner, next to your initials. It’s so you, and it’s perfect.

Minho lets himself sink into the warmth of your words, feeling them settle in his chest. For a brief moment, the weight of the morning—the rumors, the tension, the stares—fades away. All that matters is this little card and the emotions it carries.

He leans back in his chair, holding the card in one hand as he gazes at it. The dread that had been clawing at him since Taesoo’s outburst dissipates. It doesn’t matter anymore.

Instead, he thinks of you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about food, the shy smile you tried to hide when you slid the box of chocolates across the café table, how you thought of him when you wrote these words.

Minho’s grip on the card tightens slightly, a spark of determination igniting within him.

-

The kitchen hums with the usual chaos—clanging pans, sizzling oils, and sharp orders cutting through the air—but today, there’s a peculiar tension simmering beneath it all. It’s intangible, like an invisible thread tightening around everyone, pulling them taut.

Minho feels it, the weight of too many eyes fixed on him. He’s used to being the center of attention in the kitchen, but this is different. Suspicion hangs in the air like the smell of burning garlic.

He notices Taesoo, his eyes darting nervously between stations. First at you, then at Minho, then at everyone else, as if trying to track invisible lines of connection. Minho doesn’t miss the way Sara leans toward you, whispering something. You shake your head, feigning obliviousness, but your stiff shoulders betray your discomfort.

Minho keeps his face neutral, but inside, he’s amused. He knows exactly what’s happening.

Walking the perimeter of the kitchen, he checks on everyone’s progress, pausing here and there to critique, encourage, or chastise. When he reaches your station, he pauses longer than necessary. Without warning, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to shake the frying pan properly.

“Faster, but steady,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. His hand remains over yours a moment longer than needed, and he can feel the heat of your skin through the fabric of his gloves.

It’s deliberate, of course. A tiny act of rebellion against the scrutiny, a way to poke at the invisible tension until it snaps.

You pull your hand away quickly, your cheeks flushing as you mutter, “I’ll do better.” Your eyes dart nervously around the kitchen, and Minho knows you’re aware of the stares.

He smirks faintly. “Good.”

Then, louder, for everyone to hear, he says, “Come with me.”

The room freezes for a moment, and Minho doesn’t miss the way Taesoo’s face pales. Minho walks toward the freezer without looking back, trusting that you’ll follow. Sure enough, he hears your footsteps trailing behind him, hesitant but obedient.

The freezer door closes with a soft thud, and the chill immediately bites at his skin. You cross your arms, glaring at him.

“Chef, we shouldn’t be doing this,” you grumble, your voice low but firm.

Minho raises a brow, feigning innocence. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Everyone is watching,” you hiss.

He steps closer, tilting his head slightly. “I called you in here to scold you. Don’t get any ideas. Do I have to tell you so many—”

Before he can elaborate, the door bursts open, and Taesoo rushes in, his face a mask of panic.

“Chef,” he stammers, his voice a frantic whisper. “Everyone’s watching you two. You can’t—”

Minho cuts him off with a sharp look, his patience thinning. “It seems you the two of you are getting too comfortable with me. It’s time to fix that.”

Both of you blink at him in confusion.

“Kneel,” Minho orders, his voice cold and authoritative.

“What? Why?” you ask, incredulous.

“Kneel on the floor and raise your arms. Now.”

There’s a moment of hesitation before you and Taesoo comply, kneeling on the icy floor and raising your arms awkwardly.

Minho crosses his arms, pacing in front of you. “Respect in the kitchen isn’t optional. Do you think I'm a friend? You will both stay like this for ten minutes as punishment.”

He walks over to a nearby bucket of clams, gesturing toward it. “And apologize to the clams. You didn’t clean them properly, and they still smell like mud.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then, to his surprise, you burst into laughter, your giggles echoing in the cold space.

Minho glares at you. “Do you think this is funny?”

Through your laughter, you manage to say, “I’m just… glad I’m being punished.”

Taesoo, unable to hold it in, starts chuckling beside you. The sound is contagious, and for a brief second, Minho’s composure cracks, a small smile threatening to escape. He quickly regains control, his expression hardening.

Minho straightens, his authoritative mask slipping back into place. “Now, stop grinning like an idiot and keep your arms up. Ten minutes isn’t over yet.”

As he turns to leave the freezer, a small, satisfied smirk plays on his lips. Whatever happens next—whatever fallout this may bring—he’s ready. For you, he’ll face it all and if anything, he feels braver now.

-

Minho’s office feels smaller than usual, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Felix hesitates, glancing between you and Minho before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Minho’s voice calls, steady and commanding.

You step inside, Felix right behind you, both still clad in your chef coats. Minho and Sara are already waiting, their expressions unreadable as they stand side by side.

Minho doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hyunwoo is moving to the pasta line and Seungwan will take over the grill which leaves the antipasto line open.” His sharp gaze moves between you and Felix. “Which of you wants to take it?”

Sara chimes in, her tone softer but no less serious. “We’re leaving the decision to you two.”

You exchange a brief glance with Felix. The silence stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Felix clears his throat. “I… I don’t think it’s a good idea to break the current dynamic. But—” He hesitates, his voice growing quieter. “I’ve had some issues with the entrée line. I’d rather not work directly with them.”

All eyes shift to you. The unspoken expectation presses down like a weight. You’re the senior, the one with more experience in antipasto, and everyone knows it.

Minho’s eyes lock onto yours, and with one look, he makes the decision for you. “You’ll take it.”

Sara immediately protests. “We need to hear her opinion first.”

“It’s final,” Minho replies without missing a beat, his gaze shifts back to you. “You’ll take Seungwan’s position starting tomorrow.”

Before you can argue, Minho dismisses Felix with a curt nod. Felix glances at you, his lips parting as if he wants to say something, but he thinks better of it and leaves.

“Can you give us a minute?” Minho asks as he turns to Sara, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sara pauses, her expression conflicted, but she nods. As she passes, her gaze lingers on you, offering a silent apology before she exits.

The door clicks shut, leaving you alone with Minho and the second you and him are alone in the room, you don't hold back.

“I don’t want to switch, Chef,” you blurt out, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

Minho leans against his desk, arms crossed. “This isn’t about what you want. A cook who stays in one section becomes stale. Hyunwoo didn’t get moved because he complained—I made that call.”

You narrow your eyes, doubt creeping in. “Is this because of the rumors?”

He straightens, his tone sharp. “No.”

But it’s too late. The thought takes root, and your voice softens. “If this is about protecting me because of our… relationship, I understand.”

Minho steps forward, his hands landing firmly on your shoulders. His touch is steady, grounding. “I told you this isn’t about that,” he insists, his gaze searching yours. “Look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually meet his eyes.

“Don’t you trust me?” he asks, his voice quiet but intense. “Don’t you trust your chef?”

You do. You trust him more than anyone else in this kitchen, but a small part of you doesn’t trust his judgment on this decision. Still, you keep that thought buried.

You don’t answer, and the silence stretches between you. Minho’s hands drop from your shoulders, and he steps back.

“Be ready for tomorrow,” he says, his tone unreadable.

You nod stiffly, turning to leave, but the tension lingers, heavy and unresolved, as you close the door behind you.

-

The morning light streams through the curtains as you wake with a heavy head, your body feels sluggish, and for a moment, you consider calling in sick. But no—you refuse to let anything, not even a budding illness, make you seem weak or incapable.

You drag yourself out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen, your eyes barely open. Sara is already at the dining table, her laptop open, fingers typing away. She glances up as you enter.

“Morning,” you mutter, your voice scratchy as you make your way to the coffee machine. The promise of caffeine is the only thing pulling you forward.

“Morning,” Sara replies, her tone light but curious. Her gaze lingers on you as you prepare your coffee.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee offers some comfort as you pour yourself a cup and take a slow sip. The warmth spreads through you, waking you up just a little.

Sara leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “You’re still upset about Minho’s decision, aren’t you?”

You glance at her but quickly look away, shaking your head. “It’s fine,” you say, forcing a faint smile.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “If you don’t want to leave the pasta line, you can tell me. You don’t have to go along with it if it’s not what you want.”

You take another sip of your coffee, letting the bitter warmth fill the silence. “It’s fine, really,” you repeat, this time with more finality.

Sara watches you for a moment longer, then smiles faintly, taking a sip of her own coffee. “If you say so.”

The sound of her typing resumes, filling the quiet space between you.

But then she pauses again, tilting her head slightly. “The kitchen was… weird yesterday,” she says casually, though her eyes are sharp. “Is there something going on I should know about?”

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your face neutral. “I have no idea what you mean,” you reply, your tone light and innocent.

Sara raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she nods slowly and returns her attention to her laptop.

You take another sip of your coffee, the bitterness grounding you as your thoughts swirl. Sara’s question hangs in the air, her suspicion like a quiet storm waiting to brew.

“It’s better this way,” you murmur under your breath, so softly that Sara doesn’t hear. Keeping things under wraps—keeping him under wraps—is the safest choice for now.

You glance over at Sara, who’s focused on her screen again, her typing steady and uninterrupted. If she, with her sharp intuition, catches on, it’s only a matter of time before everyone else does. And then what?

You set your cup down on the counter, the sound sharper than you intended, and Sara glances at you again. You force another faint smile her way, but your mind is already elsewhere.

Minho’s decision might sting, but he’s right about one thing: in a world like this, appearances matter. As much as it frustrates you, the secrecy shields you both—for now.

You press your palm against the counter, steadying yourself as a quiet resolve builds in your chest. Yes, this is the best thing for now. But for how long?

-

The locker room smells faintly of detergent and metal, the silence punctuated only by the quiet clink of locker doors and the shuffle of clothing. Minho steps inside, and his eyes immediately find you. You're standing at your locker, back partially turned to him, moving with a distracted air.

He pauses, taking in the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements lack their usual grace. He knows you're still upset about yesterday, about the decision he made for you without asking, but he also knows this isn't something you can discuss openly.

Taking a steadying breath, Minho calls your name softly.

You glance over your shoulder, your expression unreadable, before turning to face him fully.

Minho steps closer, his voice calm but firm. "In the kitchen," he starts, his gaze holding yours, "I'm just your head chef. Not the man you like."

The faintest smile graces your lips, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Yes, chef," you reply, your tone polite but distant.

That won’t do. Minho closes the distance, resting his hands lightly on your shoulders. The warmth of your body beneath his touch grounds him as much as it does you. "Listen," he says, softer now, his tone almost a whisper. "In the kitchen, there’s no Minho. Just the chef. Do you understand?"

This time, your smile is a little brighter, a touch more genuine, and it eases some of the tightness in his chest.

"Yes, chef," you reply again, and this time, there's a hint of lightness in your voice.

Minho hesitates for a moment, then lets his hand trail up to your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, warm and steady, before he leans in slightly, his voice low. "Be prepared."

Your smile deepens, and this time it’s convincing. "Yes, chef," you say again, and something about the way you say it fills Minho with an unfamiliar ache—a longing to stay like this, even though he knows he can't.

The sound of approaching footsteps snaps the moment in two. Instinctively, Minho drops his hand and takes a step back, turning to his locker and shutting it with practiced ease.

Before he leaves, he risks one last glance at you. You're standing there, watching him, your expression softer now. Minho doesn’t say another word, but he hopes that brief moment between you was enough to bridge the unspoken gap.

As he walks away, he also reminds himself it’s all about work. What he does to you at work is nothing personal. Not at all.

-

The kitchen bustles with the usual clamor of voices, clattering utensils, and the sharp hiss of flames.

Your new station feels foreign, the rhythm and layout unfamiliar compared to the pasta line you’d grown so comfortable with. Across the room, Felix gives you an encouraging grin, his eyes sparkling with reassurance. “Good luck!” he mouths.

You smile back, appreciating his gesture, but the nerves gnawing at your stomach refuse to settle. Your attention shifts to the front as Minho steps up to the chef’s table, commanding immediate silence with his presence.

His gaze sweeps across the kitchen, lingering for the briefest moment on you. Then, his voice cuts through the room, authoritative and unyielding. “There are changes in the kitchen,” he begins, his tone firm. “Just because you're in the new line, does not mean you can make mistakes. I won't accept excuses like 'I need time to adapt' or 'I'm not used to it'. Customers are blind to what's going on in the kitchen. Just because we have a change in personnel or because they're not used to doing it, there's no customer whose willing to put up with bad food. Understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, Chef” echoes in response, your voice among them.

The first orders start rolling in, and the kitchen launches into motion. You throw yourself into the work, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, but there’s no denying the subtle awkwardness of being in a new environment.

You present your first dish, a carefully grilled medley of vegetables, to Minho. He barely glances at it before his voice cuts through the din, sharp and precise. “What are you doing to these vegetables?” he snaps, holding up a forkful like it’s a crime scene. “Did you forget how to grill? Or is this because it’s not pasta?”

Heat rises to your cheeks, and you stammer out an apology as he continues. “The basic of grilling it is to let it sear lightly so that it's brown on the outside but still juicy inside. This? This is dry.”

“I'll do it again, Chef,” You admit your mistake quickly, grabbing the plate and retreating to your station. His words sting, but you force yourself to focus, determined to get it right on the second try.

As you work on the next dish, a bowl of potato soup, Minho’s voice startles you again. “When are you going to come to your senses?,” he slams his spatula onto the counter before pointing it at your garnish choice. “The soup is potato. When it comes to course meals, balance is everything. It's different from pasta, the garnish should be something refreshing like tomatoes. Do you think the customer only eat potatoes, huh?”

Swallowing your frustration, you apologize once more and excuse yourself to retrieve a container of tomatoes from the freezer. The cool air hits you like a slap as you step inside, and for a moment, you just stand there, clutching the empty container.

Your thoughts race as you try to steady your breathing. He’s just doing his job, you remind yourself, but the harshness of his tone lingers, cutting deeper than you want to admit. Was it really just about the food, or was there something personal behind his words?

The door creaks open, and you jump, turning quickly. Relief floods through you when you see Taesoo grinning at you.

“Jeez, you look like you saw a ghost,” he jokes, grabbing something off a nearby shelf. “Man, the way Chef yelled at you, no one’s gonna think you two are dating now!”

You force a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. “Yeah, I’m glad no one thinks so,” you reply, though your voice comes out strained.

Taesoo chuckles, oblivious to your inner turmoil. “Seriously, it looked like he was just trying to knock you down a peg. Guess that’s his way of making things... normal?”

His words blur into background noise as your thoughts drift. Was it really just about appearances? you wonder. Or was there something else behind the way Minho singled you out today?

You shake your head, pushing the thought aside as you grab the tomatoes and head for the door. Taesoo’s voice trails after you, but you don’t respond.

As you step back into the heat and chaos of the kitchen, your resolve hardens. If Minho wanted to prove something today, he succeeded—but the sting of his words still clings to you like a bitter taste that lingers on your tongue.

-

The dining hall is empty now, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound echoing through Farfalle. Minho knows exactly where to find you. He steps out to the back entrance and spots you sitting on the narrow steps that lead up to the dining hall, your arms wrapped around your knees.

You’re not crying, but there’s something vulnerable about the way you sit, staring ahead as though trying to push away the memory of today’s relentless scoldings. Minho pauses for a moment before joining you, settling onto the steps with a sigh.

Your expression is calm, but he catches the faint pout of your lips. It’s… cute, in a way that annoys him because it’s distracting.

“Today was tough,” he begins, his voice softer than usual, “but it’ll get better from now on.”

You hug your knees tighter, still avoiding his gaze. “Were you harsh on me because people are suspicious of us, Chef?”

The question catches him off guard, but he recovers quickly, his tone firm. “No. I scolded you because you didn’t get it right.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk as he adds, “And it’s honestly annoying how you’re worse than I expected.”

That earns him a glare. “The last time I handled antipasto was four years ago,” you retort defensively.

Minho leans back, his tone warning. “This is just the beginning.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Does that mean you’re going to scold me more?”

“Yes,” he replies simply, relishing your exaggerated groan as you bury your face in your hands.

After a beat of silence, you call him. “Chef?”

He hums in acknowledgment, and you wait until he meets your gaze before asking, “Are you the chef right now, or are you just Minho?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Which one would you prefer?”

You glance around, gesturing to the empty surroundings. “This isn’t the kitchen or anything.”

Minho raises a brow, his tone dry. “There are still people around who haven’t left work yet.”

You pout again, your lips jutting out in that same way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Then when do you stop being the chef and just become Minho?”

He smirks, leaning slightly closer. “What’s wrong with the chef? Don’t you like him?”

You sigh dramatically and mumble. “I hate the chef. He scolded me all day long.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “What about you? Is this my line cook, or just you?”

“Just me,” you mutter, though your eyes dart nervously around.

“If it’s just you then why are you sitting so far away from me?” He asks, one corner of his mouth raises higher than the other.

“But people could still see us like this,” you say as you crane your neck to spot any prying eyes.

Minho shrugs and calmly responds. “We’re in an open space. No one would suspect anything.”

You glance at him, then the empty surroundings, before scooting closer. You both exchange playful glances at each other until you break into a series of giggles, light and sweet, and for a moment, Minho feels the weight of the day lift. Your warmth draws him in, and he considers, just briefly, risking everything by kissing you.

But the moment shatters as Chris appears at the top of the steps, his expression far too cheerful. He squeezes himself between you and Minho, blatantly ignoring the latter’s glare as he takes your hand.

“You've finished your work today,” Chris begins, his tone warm. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let's go.”

Your gaze flickers to Minho, seeking his reaction, but Chris notices. “It’s past working hours, Chef,” Chris says pointedly to Minho. “Surely, she’s allowed to leave.”

Minho exhales sharply, locking eyes with you. “It’s up to you,” he says cryptically, his voice unreadable.

Confused by his cryptic response, you hesitate, but Chris barrels on. “I know it’s not allowed for kitchen staff to date each other,” he muses aloud, “but hall staff and kitchen staff? That’s a different story, right?”

Chris grins slyly, his words grating on Minho’s nerves. “I personally think the restaurant should be a happy place, don’t you think? Love, friendship—it’s all fine by me.”

Minho’s patience snaps. “What are your intentions with her?” he asks bluntly, his tone sharp.

Chris meets his gaze with an infuriating calmness. “Anything,” he replies smoothly.

The audacity makes Minho’s blood boil, but he reins himself in. “Go inside,” he orders you curtly.

You hesitate but obey, and Minho waits until he hears the sound of the door slamming shut behind you before talking again.

Minho turns back to Chris, his eyes blazing. “I know why you’re doing this. You like her, don't you?”

Chris doesn’t deny it, his calm stare unflinching. “That’s right. I like her.”

It's not a rocket science to figure it out, Chris' treatment toward you tells it all and Minho can tell the difference between favoritism at workplace and romantic feelings.

“How long were you planning to keep it a secret?” Minho boldly asks him.

Chris smirks and puts on a coy smile. “I'm not going to love cowardly like you do, Chef. It's difficult to just watch and support her now. Thanks to you.”

The words hit like a punch, and Minho scoffs, masking the sting.

Chris shrugs, his tone casual. “The secret ends now. I'm going to tell her.” He announces before walking off, leaving Minho stewing in his frustration.

You return a moment later, your expression hesitant as you sit beside him again. “What did you two talk about?”

Minho tilts his head, exhaling sharply before leaning toward you. “Good news,” he says with a wry smile.

You perk up slightly. “What is it?”

“There’s a guy who likes you,” he teases, watching your reaction carefully.

Your brows furrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“To give you confidence,” he replies smoothly. “Who knows? Maybe he’s a better person than me.”

You chuckle, leaning closer. “I have good news for you too.”

“Yeah?” Minho asks, playing along.

You lean in close to whisper it to him. “There’s a girl who likes you.”

Minho takes it with a coy smile. “Is she pretty?”

You nod with a grin. “Very.”

“Good to know,” he quips, smirking.

“What about the guy who likes me?” you ask, feigning curiosity. “Is he rich?”

“Very,” Minho deadpans.

Your delighted gasp turns into laughter, and Minho finds himself laughing too, though a bitter ache lingers beneath his amusement.

How is it fair? he wonders as the laughter fades. Chris will have the freedom to treat you well, to show his feelings openly. And Minho? He’s trapped, forced to keep scolding you in the kitchen while his own feelings remain locked away.

-

The kitchen is quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the refrigerators and the faint echo of your footsteps. Determined to make a better impression in antipasto today, you arrived earlier than usual. After slipping into your chef’s coat, you head straight to your station, mentally rehearsing the steps for today’s dishes.

As you’re about to inspect your prep list, the sound of footsteps echoes behind you. Turning, you see Chris walking in, his navy suit perfectly tailored, his silk tie catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. His dimpled grin greets you warmly, and you can’t help but smile back.

“You’re early,” he remarks, leaning casually against the counter.

“You’re always early,” you counter with a teasing smile.

Chris comes up at you and crosses his arms, pretending to pout as he says, “I’m hungry.”

You raise a brow. “What? No personal chef to whip up breakfast for you?”

Chris dramatically places a hand over his heart. “Ouch. That hurt.”

You chuckle. “Alright, alright. Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

Chris waves a hand dismissively. “But you’ll be cooking all day so let’s go out and grab something instead.”

You shake your head. “I insist. Besides, I miss cooking pasta.”

He relents with a small shrug and a grin. “Alright, then.”

You grab a gas lighter for the stove. “I'll be a moment. You should wait in the chef’s table.”

“I want to watch you cook,” Chris says with a teasing smile as he leans against the counter.

You take a wooden spatula and point it at him. “Don’t blame me if your fancy suit get splattered!”

Rolling your eyes, you grab a pan and start prepping. As you move around the kitchen, you occasionally glance at Chris, noticing how his eyes linger on you instead of the ingredients. His attention is flattering, but you try not to let it distract you.

Once the dish is ready, you bring the plate to the chef’s table, setting down a fork and napkin. You hop onto the counter, watching as he examines the dish with a look of admiration.

“It’s pretty,” he comments, his fork hovering above the plate.

With a sly smile, you tell him, “Instead of spaghetti, I used farfalle—for the owner of Farfalle.”

Chris grins at the pun but still hesitates. “It’s too pretty to eat.”

“Nothing tastes good when you eat alone,” you say, crossing your arms with a playful smirk. “And I’m not sitting here because of you. I’m sitting here because I want my pasta to taste good.”

Chris laughs at that, finally digging in. As he eats, you can’t help but lean forward. “So? Does it taste good?”

Chris nods earnestly. “It's the best.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced and sigh. “Your taste buds are a bit dull because Chef would've thrown a fit right now.”

“I mean it, it's good,” he insists, his tone softening as he meets your gaze. “Anything tastes good with you next to me.”

You quickly laugh, brushing off the flutter in your chest. “You’re just trying to flatter me now.”

He chuckles, taking another bite before you teasingly ask, “Still better than sex?”

Chris pauses, chewing thoughtfully. When he swallows, he shakes his head. “I’ve had sex now, so...”

You feign nonchalance and give him a playful side eyes, “Good for you,” you reply lightly.

Chris offers you a forkful of pasta. You lean in to accept, only for him to pull it back last second and shove it into his own mouth with a mischievous grin.

“Really?” you ask, putting on an annoyed expression.

He grins triumphantly. “Got you.”

Despite your mock irritation, you feel your mood lift. Chris always has this way of making everything lighter, brighter without him even realizing it and you’re grateful for it, even if you’d never admit it out loud.

-

You’re on your way to the kitchen, mentally going over the preparations needed for tonight’s dinner service. Your nerves are steady—though antipasto demands precision, you’ve prepared yourself for the challenge.

“Hey!” Hyunwoo’s cheerful voice stops you mid-step.

He’s standing beside Seungwan, his usual wide grin plastered across his face. “Ready for today?”

You nod simply. “Yes.”

Seungwan, ever the commentator, chimes in, “You know, antipasto requires meticulousness. A delicate hand. Mindfulness. You get it. Women are naturally better at these things.”

You feel the heat of irritation flare up but push it down, offering a curt nod instead of engaging. It’s not worth the energy.

Hyunwoo claps a hand on Seungwan’s shoulder, as if to diffuse the awkwardness. “Well, you’ve got experience, so I know you’ll do well. But if you need anything, I’m here.”

You muster a polite smile. “Thanks.”

Before you can move on, Seungwan interrupts, smirking. “You have nothing to worry about, though. We know Chef will take good care of you.”

Hyunwoo chuckles, catching the implication, and soon both of them are laughing, their voices carrying through the hallway.

You open your mouth to respond—to shut down their insinuations about Minho—when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“What are you three doing standing around?”

Minho appears behind you, his sharp gaze flicking between the three of you. His tone is cold, commanding, and it instantly silences Hyunwoo and Seungwan’s laughter.

“Hurry up and get to the kitchen,” he orders, his eyes narrowing slightly in warning.

The two men mumble quick apologies and scurry off, leaving you alone with Minho. For a brief moment, his gaze lands on you, unreadable. Then, without a word, he strides past you, heading straight for the kitchen.

You can't tell if he heard everything or maybe he heard but he just doesn't care. You release a quiet breath and follow after him, steeling yourself for the long night ahead.

The kitchen is chaos. Orders are flying in, pans are clanging, and the sharp aroma of cooking fills the air. You stay at your station, hyper-focused, determined to do your best and avoid Minho’s wrath.

The ticket machine whirs, spitting out another order. Minho’s voice booms across the kitchen. “Table number six. One panchetta, one carbonara, one celeriac puree with grilled scallops.”

He looks around the kitchen and his eyes land on you. “You take the scallops. Make one extra for a taste test.”

“Yes, Chef!” you reply firmly, moving to grab a pan.

Taesoo rushes over with fresh scallops, and you thank him before carefully checking the temperature of your pan. You add the scallops, and the satisfying sizzle confirms the heat is just right. Every move is calculated—no room for mistakes.

When the scallops are done, you plate the dish for service with meticulous attention to detail, making sure it looks perfect. On a smaller plate, you arrange the extra portion for Minho to taste. You carry both plates to the chef’s table, setting them down with a quiet but confident, “Chef.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He takes a bite of the extra plate.

The reaction is immediate. He spits the scallop into a napkin and, with a sharp movement, hurls the plate to the floor. The crash echoes, silencing part of the kitchen.

“Are you trying to break the customer’s jaw? Is this a gum or a rubber? What is this?” His voice is cutting, laced with venom.

Your heart sinks as you see the dish you made splattered across the kitchen floor and Taesoo quickly sweeps it away before anyone can step on it.

“Didn't you hear what I told you earlier? I said it has to be brown on the outside but tender on the inside. If you overcook a scallop like this, it’s tougher than the soles of your shoes!” His eyes are blazing, and for a moment, it feels like his anger isn’t just about the dish but aimed directly at you. It’s hard not to take it personally.

“What are you doing? Do it again!” The tone of his voice rains down on you like a bucket of cold water.

“Yes, Chef,” you manage, your voice tight as a lump forms in your throat.

Before you can move back to your station, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the kitchen again. “Seungwan, you take the scallops.”

The humiliation burns as Seungwan takes over, muttering under his breath, loud enough for you to hear, “But I still have a lot to do...”

As you return to your station, Seungwan glances at you, his tone dripping with mockery. “You still like Chef after he tore you apart like that?”

You don’t answer. Your lips press into a thin line, and your chest feels heavy. The truth is, you’re not sure anymore. It’s harder and harder not to let his words cut deep, harder to pretend his disdain doesn’t feel personal.

You focus on the task in front of you, trying to push the doubt and hurt away. But no matter how much you tell yourself it’s just work, his anger lingers like a bruise.

-

Dinner service is brutal, even by Minho’s standards. The tension in the kitchen is suffocating, and he sees the weight of his harsh words pressing down on you. He hates it—every second of it.

Minho prides himself on keeping things professional, but with you, the lines blur dangerously every day. Tonight is no exception, and he can’t wait to leave the kitchen behind and find a way to make things right.

The locker room is dim and quiet when he walks in. His eyes immediately find you standing in front of your locker, your back to him. You’re tying your hair into a messy ponytail, your movements deliberate and tense. You look exhausted, but more than that, you look angry.

Minho hesitates, unsure how to approach you. He moves to his locker, giving you space and hoping you’ll warm up to him. As he opens the metal door, his eyes catch the corner of something tucked into the back of the shelf. He pulls it out—the Valentine’s card you gave him, still pristine despite its creased edges.

"I'm happy that you're always around me, Chef. You make me feel like I’m cooking the best pasta in the world."

He reads it again, the words a bittersweet reminder of how much you mean to him and how much he’s risking with his behavior. Slipping the card back into the locker, he turns to face you and softly calls your name.

“Yes, chef?” you reply, your voice distant and clipped.

“Are the other cooks still bothering you? Like earlier?” he asks, watching you carefully.

You wave him off, your tone sharp. “It’s nothing. It’s not their fault anyway—it’s ours. We’re the ones lying to them.”

The bitterness in your voice stings, and Minho realizes this isn’t like the other times you’ve been upset. This is deeper, rawer. You grab your bag from your locker, slamming it shut with more force than necessary before turning to leave.

Minho steps in your way, blocking the door. “Tell me what you want me to do,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Just... tell me and I’ll do it.”

Your eyes lock with his, hard and unyielding. “Then tomorrow. During lunch service. Tell everyone that you like me and that we’re dating. And you want everyone to treat me nicely and to be patient with me.”

He knows you don’t mean it—not really. It’s not a serious demand but a product of your anger and frustration. Still, he stays quiet, letting you speak because he knows you need to.

“I didn’t know it was going to be this difficult,” you continue, your voice softening but no less sharp. “If I had, I wouldn’t have started it.”

Your words strike him like a blow, but he stays rooted, listening as your eyes turn glassy.

“I know you’re scolding me as a cook for making mistakes,” you say, your voice trembling, “but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being yelled at by someone I like. A lot.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you wipe it away hastily, as if embarrassed by the show of emotion. Your eyes meet his again, red and glistening.

“I can't separate those two feelings like a fool,” you say wistfully, fighting the tears pooling in your eyes. “But you seem to be good at it so why can’t I? Tell me how.”

Minho opens his mouth to speak, to tell you how hard it’s been for him too, how every harsh word in the kitchen feels like a knife twisting in his own chest. But the words won’t come. He can’t explain without risking you misunderstanding everything.

When his silence stretches too long, you bite your lip, swallowing down more tears. “Forget it,” you mutter, pushing past him.

He lets you go, standing there alone in the quiet locker room. The anger that swirls inside him isn’t directed at you—it’s at himself. At the way things have spiraled between you. At how his own fear of jeopardizing your career and his has made everything worse.

And most of all, at the way he’s made you sad.

Leaning against the wall, Minho clenches his fists, vowing to himself that he’ll find a way to make things right. He has to—because losing you isn’t an option.

-

Minho sits at his desk, his head bowed over his well-worn recipe book. The pages are filled with scribbles, corrections, and crossed-out ideas—remnants of every failure that taught him something valuable. He flips through them slowly, the memories tied to each one tugging at him.

He’s come so far, but the thought of how easily it could all crumble gnaws at him. His shoulders feel heavy with the weight of his choices, both in the kitchen and outside of it.

The creak of the office door pulls him from his thoughts. He glances up to see Sara stepping in, her expression hesitant but determined. The sight surprises him—he thought everyone had already left the restaurant.

Sara doesn’t say anything at first, but her eyes are locked on him, her presence carrying an air of purpose. Minho leans back in his chair, waiting for her to speak.

“Chef,” she starts, her voice carefully measured. “Can I ask you something?”

He doesn’t reply verbally, just nods slightly, signaling her to go on.

“It’s about... what people are saying in the kitchen,” she says, her voice faltering.

Minho smirks, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smile. Of course, the gossip finally reached her. He expected as much—it was only a matter of time.

“Is it true?” Sara asks, her tone laced with hesitation.

Without hesitation, Minho answers, “It’s true.”

The confirmation hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable.

Sara presses on, her voice trembling slightly. “How do you feel about it?”

Maybe this is his chance to stop running, to stop pretending he can keep everything under wraps. He exhales deeply, letting the tension leave his body, and answers her with full conviction.

“I like her more than she likes me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering.

Sara’s lips tremble, and Minho can’t tell if she’s holding back tears or fighting the urge to speak further. But he doesn’t feel guilt. He’s told her before, countless times, that he only sees her as a chef—a colleague. Nothing more.

Standing, Minho grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, looking at Sara one last time, before stepping toward the door.

“I hope this clears things up for you,” he says quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

As he leaves the office, Minho feels a small weight lift off his chest. He’s not hiding the truth anymore—not from Sara, at least. And while the path ahead still feels uncertain, he’s relieved to have taken this first step.

-

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there at the bus stop, letting bus after bus pass without getting on. Your head is a whirlwind of thoughts, yet somehow, it also feels completely blank. You sigh, hugging yourself tightly against the biting cold of the night air.

The sound of footsteps draws your attention, and you glance sideways. Minho is walking toward you. Without a word, he sits down on the bench and slides closer until he’s right next to you. You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet his eyes. You can feel his presence, the warmth of him radiating against the chill, but you say nothing. If you open your mouth now, everything you’re feeling will come spilling out, and you’re not ready for him to see how deeply he’s affected you.

In a calm, steady tone, Minho breaks the silence. “You can go back to the pasta line.”

You bite your lip, still not looking at him. That’s not what this is about—not why you exploded at him earlier. When you don’t respond, he leans in a little closer, his voice soft but firm. “I said I'm letting you go back to the pasta line.”

Your frustration boils over. “I don’t want to,” you snap, finally turning to glare at him.

Minho looks genuinely confused. “Weren’t you just complaining about it a while ago?”

You meet his gaze, your voice unwavering. “I don’t want to go back because of you. I’m going back to the pasta line on my own merits—not because of whatever this is.”

The intensity of your words seems to take him by surprise. He stares at you for a moment, stunned into silence. Then, slowly, his lips curl into a sly smile.

“You’re quite something, do you know that?” he says, his tone laced with admiration.

You roll your eyes, dismissing his attempt at flattery. You dismiss it, thinking he’s just trying to sweet-talk you.

Minho sighs, his expression softening as he leans in even closer. “What should I do? I’m in big trouble now,” he says quietly.

Your brows furrow. “Why?”

He tilts his head, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. “Because I like you even more now.”

The words catch you off guard, and despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corners of your lips. You quickly suppress it, trying to keep your composure.

Minho notices, of course, and his own smile deepens. “I’ve never met a woman like you,” he says earnestly.

You jab back, trying to deflect. “Just how many women have you known?”

He doesn’t rise to the bait, surprising you. Instead, he gestures toward the sky. “Look at the moon.”

You scoff, skeptical. “Why?”

“Just look at it,” he insists, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a huff, you tilt your head up, your eyes landing on the full moon glowing brightly against the dark sky. The sight is breathtaking, but before you can comment, you feel the soft press of Minho’s lips against your cheek.

Startled, you whip your head around to face him. He meets your gaze, his eyes steady and sincere. “Your cooking is missing something. You need to improve,” he says quietly. “That’s why I scolded you—not because of rumors, not because of us, but because I know you’re better than that.”

His words sink in, and you nod slowly. “Yes, Chef,” you reply sincerely.

Minho smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s what I love to hear the most. When you say, 'Yes, chef!'” he says with a teasing lilt.

Despite yourself, you giggle softly, repeating, “Yes, Chef.”

This time, Minho doesn’t hold back. He cups your jaw gently, leaning in to press his lips to yours. The kiss is soft, tender—completely different from the sharp, demanding presence he exudes in the kitchen. It’s as if he’s trying to show you the difference between Minho the Chef and Minho the man.

When he pulls back, his hand remains on your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. “What do you think, mmh?” he murmurs. “Should we let all hell break loose tomorrow?”

You blink at him, startled. “You’re serious?”

Minho chuckles, nodding. “Let’s stop hiding. It’s better than getting caught and fired.”

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he really means it. His lips quirk into a grin, and he adds, “I feel like I’m about to explode from frustration if we keep this up.”

Finally, you find your voice. “So... you want us to just say to hell with it?”

“Exactly,” he says, cupping your face with both hands now. His gaze is intense, but there’s a warmth there that steadies you. “Let’s just tell everyone. To hell with it.”

Before you can respond, he leans in again, his lips capturing yours in a long, lingering kiss that erases any doubts you might have had.

As he pulls away, leaving you breathless, you find yourself staring at him, your heart hammering against your ribcage. The truth is, you’ve felt it growing stronger every day—the way he’s slowly become impossible to ignore. It’s more than just admiration, more than just the thrill of secrecy. It’s something real, something that scares you just as much as it excites you.

You don’t say any of that aloud, but the way you lean back into his touch, the way your lips curve into a small, shy smile, tells Minho everything he needs to know. For once, you feel like you’re both on the same page.

-

The space between you feels heavy, charged, but neither of you says a word. His gaze locks on yours, dark and intent, and it makes your heart race. Slowly, Minho steps closer, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the warmth of his bedroom room. His fingers graze your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he’s memorizing the moment.

Your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing against yours with a gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. You respond in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Minho deepens the kiss, his lips moving with a tenderness that leaves you dizzy. His hands slide down your arms, warm and steady, before resting on your waist. He pulls you closer, your bodies barely a breath apart.

As the kiss grows more fervent, his fingers find the hem of your shirt, toying with the fabric. He pauses for a moment, his eyes meeting yours as if asking for permission. You nod, your own hands slipping to the buttons of his shirt. Slowly, carefully, you undo them one by one, your fingers brushing against his skin with each movement.

Minho mirrors your actions, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in one fluid motion. The cool air kisses your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by the warmth of his touch. His fingers trace along your collarbone, his lips following suit, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your knees weak.

You push his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your hands explore the smooth planes of his chest, the taut muscle beneath your fingertips. He exhales sharply, his breath hot against your neck as he presses closer, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear.

Your hands move to his belt, fumbling slightly, but Minho stops you with a soft chuckle. “Hey, what's the rush?” he whispers, his lips curving into a small smile against your skin.

The rest of your clothes fall away piece by piece, each moment lingering, each touch filled with an unspoken reverence. Minho’s hands are steady as they glide along your body, his touch igniting a warmth that spreads through you like wildfire.

When there’s nothing left between you, he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that makes your cheeks flush. “You’re perfect,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You reach up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumb brushing along his jawline. “You’re perfect,” you mutter back, your voice soft but certain.

Minho leans in once more, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s equal parts passion and tenderness. As you fall back onto the bed together, the world outside fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in each other’s warmth, every touch and kiss a silent declaration of the feelings neither of you can deny any longer.

-

Minho hovers over you, his weight braced on one arm as his free hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. He looks down at you, his eyes filled with a mix of mischief and adoration that sends a thrill through your entire body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours.

His lips capture yours again, the kiss deep and unhurried, as if he wants to taste every sound you make. His hand trails down, fingertips ghosting over your skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as his touch ventures lower, slow and deliberate.

When his fingers finally slide between your thighs, a soft gasp escapes your lips, but Minho swallows it with another kiss, his smirk pressing against your mouth. He pauses for a moment, teasing, his touch feather-light on your bundle of nerves, just enough to drive you wild.

“Eager, are we?” he asks, his tone playful, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth.

You nod slightly, breathless, and he rewards you with a low chuckle that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers move with precision, exploring and learning what makes you react, what makes you tremble beneath him.

The tension builds as he curls his fingers inside you, finding the perfect rhythm that leaves you gasping and clinging to him. He watches you intently, his eyes flicking over your face, taking in every reaction. The smirk on his lips deepens as he notices the way your body arches toward him, completely at his mercy.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispers, his voice filled with both awe and amusement. He leans down to capture your lips again, muffling the soft moans spilling from your mouth. His kiss is as skillful as his touch, his tongue teasing yours as if he’s trying to coax every bit of sound out of you.

Your hands grip his shoulders, desperate for some anchor as the pleasure intensifies. Minho’s lips leave yours for a moment, moving to press kisses along your jawline, then down to the hollow of your throat. His voice is a low murmur against your skin. “I could watch you like this forever.”

Each movement of his fingers feels like a symphony, building you higher and higher. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, your body trembling beneath him, and Minho seems to revel in every second of it.

When your moans grow louder, your head tilting back against the pillow, Minho leans down to kiss you again, catching the sound in his mouth. His lips curve into a smile against yours, and the vibration of his low chuckle only heightens your pleasure.

“Let go for me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and coaxing. “I’ve got you.”

His words, his touch, the way he’s watching you with so much intent—it’s overwhelming in the best way. You fall over the edge, your body trembling as waves of pleasure wash over you. Minho doesn’t stop, guiding you through it, his lips never straying far from yours, his fingers slowing only once he’s sure you’re coming down gently.

When you finally open your eyes, Minho’s gaze is still fixed on you, his smirk replaced by a softer, more affectionate smile. He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, as if to ground you.

As you come down from the high he’s led you to, Minho’s hand slides up, his fingers brushing over your flushed skin with care. He watches you intently, his lips curving into that signature smirk of his, as though he’s proud of the effect he has on you.

Without breaking eye contact, he brings his hand up, his slick fingers hovering near your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, yet laced with dominance.

Your breath catches, but you obey, parting your lips for him. He slides his fingers into your mouth slowly, his touch deliberate, and you close your lips around them, tasting the remnants of yourself on him.

Minho’s eyes darken as he watches you, his thumb tracing along your jaw as you lick his fingers clean. The way you meet his gaze, unflinching and bold, sends a shiver through him, his smirk deepening with every deliberate movement of your tongue.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with heat. “Such a good girl for me.”

Your cheeks flush at his praise, but it only makes him lean in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You have no idea how perfect you are,” he whispers, his tone dripping with seduction.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth, his hand now cradling your jaw, tilting your face toward him. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, as though he can’t get enough of you. “You make it so easy to lose control,” he adds, his gaze intense.

Minho leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both possessive and tender, as if to seal his words. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and the corners of his lips lift into a soft smile.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says with a chuckle, his voice light but filled with genuine affection.

You can’t help but smile back at him, your heart pounding as his thumb strokes your cheek. Whatever walls he’s kept up before, they seem to have crumbled completely in this moment, leaving nothing but raw honesty between the two of you.

-

“Please,” You whimper as Minho is burying his head in between your soft mounds. His mouth immediately latches onto your hardening bud while the other is being teased by his fingers, both assaults make your eyes fluttering shut.

A moment after hearing your plead, Minho lets go of his mouth, leaving your nipple wet and swollen. “Please what?” he asks, landing a kitten lick on your other nipple.

“Fill me,” you breathlessly beg.

Minho sucks on your flesh before answering to your request. “Fill you with my cock or...?”

Your hand reaches down to his hardening member, you pinch the end of the condom he's already putting on and pulling at it until it snaps away. “Both,” you simply answer and opening your legs wider for him.

The thought of being filled by his cock is enough to send you into overdrive but you want more, you want to feel every inch of him, to be filled with his cum, to feel it filling you and leaking out of you and ultimately, you want to be soaked in both of your releases.

Minho is more than eager to comply to your request, he gives his cock a few strokes before aligning it with your entrace. Once the tip has entered you, he uses his hips to push the rest of his length.

The two of you collectively moan at the feeling of being inside each other, raw, without a layer of protection. While you delightfully sigh, Minho groans into the crook of your neck as he's fully sheathed inside you. The slightest of movement and you can feel him, the length, the heat, the hardness... oh, he fills you perfectly.

The way Minho moves against you is slow yet deliberate, every motion pulling soft gasps from your lips. His hands grip your waist like he’s afraid to let you go, his forehead pressed against yours as he lets out low groans, completely lost in the sensation of you.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice shaky and raw. His head tilts down, lips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder as if trying to ground himself, but you can feel him faltering, overwhelmed by the intensity between you.

You’re caught between the pleasure coursing through you and the sight of him unraveling—his lips parted, his brows furrowed, his breaths heavy. It’s mesmerizing, yet you know he’s losing himself too much in the moment.

Reaching up, you grab his chin gently but firmly, tilting his face so he’s looking directly at you. His eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with desire, and you feel his breath catch as you lock your gaze with his.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the heat pooling in your core. “Look at me.”

Minho’s lips part as if he’s going to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he nods slightly, his hands tightening on your hips as he adjusts his rhythm, his movements more controlled now, more intentional.

You hold his gaze, your eyes searching his as your fingers caress his jaw. “That’s it,” you murmur, your voice soft but commanding. “Stay with me.”

His breaths grow heavier, his lips brushing yours briefly as he finds his rhythm again, pouring everything into every movement. He seems transfixed by you, his eyes never leaving yours, even as his body trembles with the effort to keep it together.

“You feel so, so good,” he whispers, his voice filled with awe and something deeper, something that makes your chest tighten in the best way. His gaze softens as he takes you in, his movements slower but no less intense, like he’s savoring every second with you.

Your hand moves from his jaw to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands as you pull him closer. “Minho,” you breathe, the sound of his name on your lips pulling a low groan from his throat.

He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s searing, his focus entirely on you now, every motion, every touch, every sound meant for you alone. The intimacy of it all makes your heart race, the connection between you deepening with every moment.

And as he continues, his body pressed firmly against yours, you see it in his eyes—the way he’s completely and utterly yours in this moment, and how much it terrifies and excites him all at once.

-

Minho leans back against the headboard, his chest bare and warm against your back as you sit between his legs. His arm wraps securely around you, holding you close in the quiet intimacy of afterglow. In one hand, you're holding a wine glass steady as Minho carefully pours, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment.

You take the first sip, savoring the sweetness on your tongue before passing the glass to him. The silence that follows is comfortable, but you know it can’t last.

“You know your plan to say ‘hell with it’ tomorrow isn’t going to work, right?” you say, breaking the quiet.

Minho pauses mid-sip, raising an eyebrow at you. “Why not?”

You shift slightly to look up at him, your head leaning back against his shoulder. “Because I want to stay in the kitchen with you for a long time,” you admit, your voice soft but firm. “You still have so much to teach me, and that can’t happen if we get fired.”

Minho takes another slow sip of wine before handing the glass back to you. He exhales, his lips curving into a slight smile. “I can’t work in that kitchen without you in it anyway.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten in the best way, and you can’t help but giggle, the wine glass hovering close to your lips. Resting your head comfortably on his shoulder, you turn your face slightly to meet his gaze. “I want to learn to be as good as you someday,” you confess, your tone playful but tinged with genuine admiration.

Minho scoffs, his usual cockiness coming through. “As good as me? You’re being greedy. I’m the best, you know.”

His arrogance annoys you, but it’s so quintessentially Minho that you can’t even be mad. Rolling your eyes, you counter, “Exactly. That’s why you’re the best teacher I could ever have.”

Minho’s hand slides to the nape of your neck, his touch gentle but firm as he tilts your face toward his. “So, what you’re saying is... you want to be my student?”

You smile sweetly, meeting his gaze. “Yes, chef,” you reply with a soft laugh.

He shakes his head slightly, his lips curving into a sly grin. “That’s not good enough. You have to be my favorite student.”

The playfulness in his tone makes your heart flutter, and when he leans in to kiss you, it’s like he’s trying to capture your smile with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender, leaving you breathless when he finally pulls away.

Lightly holding his chin, you gaze into his eyes, the words spilling from your lips before you can stop them. “I wonder if there’ll ever be a day when I can be as good as you. Maybe even better.”

Minho snorts, clearly amused by your boldness. He wraps his arm tighter around you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “I don’t want you to be better than me,” he says, his tone half-joking, half-serious. “Being as good as me is enough—and even that’s highly unlikely.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him smirk. He tugs gently at the hair at the back of your head, making you turn to face him fully.

“Why? You think I’m arrogant?” he asks, his tone daring you to challenge him.

Without missing a beat, you reply, “Yes, chef.”

His smirk deepens as he pulls you closer, your head resting in the crook of his neck. “Even if I am, just grin and bear it,” he says, his voice low and teasing.

You chuckle softly, nuzzling into him as you reply, “Yes, chef.”

Minho shifts slightly, his fingers trailing along your jawline as he tilts your face up to meet his gaze again. His eyes darken with something unspoken as he murmurs, “Say it one more time.”

Your heart skips, but you don’t hesitate. “Yes, chef,” you whisper, putting every ounce of feeling into the words.

He nods in satisfaction, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that’s hard, deep, and utterly consuming. The taste of wine lingers on his tongue resembles this shared moment between the two of you: sweet with just a hint of bitterness and highly intoxicating.

-

The key to a perfect crispy hashbrown lies in the details, and Minho thrives in them. He presses the shredded potatoes between layers of paper towels, extracting every last drop of moisture with precise, firm motions. The sizzle of oil heating in the pan is his cue to move, his fingers instinctively testing the temperature by letting a few stray potato shreds dance in the heat. When the oil crackles just right, he spreads the potatoes into an even, golden canvas, pressing them lightly with his spatula to ensure uniformity.

The smell of starch meeting hot oil fills the kitchen as the edges of the hashbrown crisp and curl slightly, the underside transforming into a golden-brown crust. With a deft flick of his wrist, he flips it, revealing the perfection he aimed for—deep, golden brown, with a promise of crunch.

He’s just plating the first hashbrown when you appear, stepping out of the bedroom in his oversized sweater, the hem brushing your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of bedhead, and your sleepy smile feels like sunlight breaking through the quiet morning.

“Good morning,” you mumble, leaning against the counter, your chin resting in your hand as you watch him work.

Minho allows himself a brief glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk, before returning his focus to the pan. “Why are you just standing there? Make yourself useful. Coffee,” he says, his tone a mix of teasing and instruction.

You chuckle softly, the sound still drowsy, but you comply, moving to the coffee machine with a sense of purpose that warms him more than the steam rising from the pan.

Together, the two of you work in quiet harmony. By the time breakfast is ready, the table is set with golden hashbrowns, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two steaming mugs of coffee. Minho takes a seat across from you, picking up his fork as you do the same.

He notices it immediately: the way you keep stealing glances at him between bites, your eyes lingering like you’re savoring more than just the food. The third time he catches you, Minho sets his fork down and narrows his eyes at you.

“Stop staring,” he says flatly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him with a slight twitch.

You pout, your lips curving into a playful frown. “It’s the first time I’m staying over for breakfast,” you point out, your voice soft but teasing.

Minho scoffs, his hand pausing mid-reach for his coffee. “That’s because you always sneak out before I even wake up,” he counters, giving you a look that’s equal parts reprimand and amusement.

You giggle, tucking your knees up onto the chair and cradling your mug close to your chest. Instead of looking away, you stare openly, the mischief in your eyes making his chest tighten in ways he’s not ready to admit.

Rolling his eyes, Minho leans back in his chair, reaching for his backpack slung over the sofa. He pulls out his notebook, flipping it open briefly before sliding it across the table to you.

You blink in surprise. “What’s this?”

“The notes I took in Italy,” Minho explains, crossing his arms as he leans back. “From when I was wrestling over pasta. If you look carefully, you'll see all my failed attempts.”

You pick it up hesitantly, flipping through the pages. Your brows furrow as you scan the scribbled notes, some smudged with flour, oil, and sweat from long nights in the kitchen. “Not the ones you've succeeded?”

Minho nods, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Deliberately noted every single one of them.” He taps his temple. “If you only write down what you got right, you’ll keep going back to it and stop thinking it over. But if you document your mistakes, you’ll challenge yourself to do better every time.”

Your eyes widen as you flip through more pages. “You made this many mistakes?” you ask in disbelief.

Minho is slightly offended, his expression darkening playfully. In one swift motion, he flicks your forehead, the sound sharp but the gesture light enough to make you laugh.

“Don’t focus on replicating someone else’s great recipe,” he warns, his tone firm but not unkind. “Find your own dish through your mistakes. That’s how you get better.”

You clutch the notebook to your chest, nodding solemnly before breaking into a smile so warm it feels like the morning sunlight flooding the kitchen. “Yes, chef,” you say softly, the sincerity in your voice settling into him like a perfectly balanced dish.

Minho watches you for a moment, his arms crossed as his sharp eyes scan your face. There’s something about the way you’re holding his notebook—as if it’s the most valuable thing in the world—that stirs something deep within him.

Before he can stop himself, he reaches across the table and gently pats your head, his fingers ruffling your messy bedhead with deliberate care. His lips curve into a faint smirk, but there’s a softness in his eyes that he doesn’t try to hide.

“I gave you that because you're my favorite student,” he murmurs, his voice low but undeniably affectionate.

Your cheeks flush at the unexpected praise, and you duck your head slightly, pretending to focus on flipping through the pages again. But Minho sees the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and it makes his chest feel inexplicably full.

Yeah, you’re his favorite, and for reasons that go far beyond the kitchen.

-

The clinking of utensils and hum of conversation from the staff having lunch downstairs fades as Minho walks toward the second floor of the dining hall. His footsteps slow when he spots Felix and Taesoo sitting at one of the tables, heads bent close in conversation. Their voices are low, but not low enough to escape his ears.

Minho lingers just out of sight, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, listening in with mild curiosity.

“So, what do you think’s going on between chef and her?” Taesoo asks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Felix hums thoughtfully. “Honestly? I’d prefer it if they did fall in love.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s not the answer he was expecting, and judging by Taesoo’s laugh, neither was he.

“Why?” Taesoo presses, his tone disbelieving.

Felix shrugs. “I mean, if it’s between her and Sara, I’d rather see chef with her, you know? It’d be… nicer.”

Minho’s lips twitch, both annoyed and amused. His jaw clenches when Felix adds after a moment, “But, even if they did, it’d be risky. If they got caught dating while working in the kitchen… It’d be dangerous.”

That’s enough. With a sharp inhale, Minho steps forward and delivers a firm slap to the back of both their heads, startling them.

Felix yelps, clutching his head as Taesoo hisses in pain, whipping around to see their chef towering behind them.

“Yes, I’m having an affair in the kitchen. So what?” Minho deadpans, his gaze locking onto Felix with a daring intensity.

Felix stiffens, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “I—I’m sorry, chef!” he stammers, bowing his head.

Minho walks around to the front of the table and leans against it, crossing his arms. His sharp eyes stay trained on Felix, who fidgets nervously under the weight of his stare.

“What you said is right,” Minho says, his tone deceptively calm, almost challenging.

Felix blinks in confusion. “I didn’t mean with what I said, Chef. I'm sorry.”

Minho smirks as he calmly asks Felix’s opinion. “What do you think? Don't we look good together?”

Felix gapes at him, dazed and unsure if this is a trap. “I—I don’t know! Are you asking for real or just messing with me?”

Minho tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Well, since there are already rumors, maybe I should make them true.”

Taesoo lets out a snort of laughter, but Felix pales. “Chef! You’d get fired!”

“I know,” Minho replies nonchalantly, his voice laced with mischief.

Felix groans, slumping back in his chair. “There are so many beautiful women out there. Why her?!”

Without missing a beat, Minho leans forward and flicks the back of Felix’s head again. “Do you want to die? What's wrong with her?”

Felix winces, rubbing his head. “Are you lonely, chef?” he mutters weakly.

“Yes,” Minho replies immediately, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Felix groans louder, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Chef, you need to control yourself! You can’t date her!”

Minho smirks, reaching out to grab Felix’s ponytail and giving it a playful tug. “Never,” he says with a sly grin, watching as Felix frantically fixes his hair, a look of disbelief etched across his face.

Taesoo snickers behind his hand, and Minho straightens up, looking utterly satisfied with himself. Taesoo makes another zipping his mouth gesture to him to avoid Minho’s wrath.

As Minho walks away, he feels a small but undeniable sense of relief. Now that more people knew about you and him—albeit through gossip—it felt a little less like he was hiding something. And while he’d never admit it out loud, he liked the idea of others knowing that you were his.

For once, the thought didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a win.

-

The hum of the coffee machine fills the air as you sit at the counter, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and Minho’s notebook in the other. You flip through the pages, tracing his meticulous notes with your finger, trying to absorb every word. His handwriting is sharp and precise, almost as if it mirrors his personality—strict, methodical, yet undeniably passionate.

The faint sound of footsteps makes you glance up, and you catch Chris approaching. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls up the stool next to you, sitting with his arms stacked on the counter. His presence is calm but unwavering, his gaze fixed on you as you study the notebook.

You try to ignore him, focusing back on the notebook, but his silent watching becomes too distracting. After a few moments, you sigh, closing the notebook and turning to him with a questioning look.

Chris flashes his trademark dimpled smile, the kind that always seems to disarm everyone around him. But this time, there’s a hint of something else behind it—something pensive. He lets out a low sigh.

“It’s unfair,” he says softly.

Your eyebrows shoot up in confusion. “What’s unfair?”

Propping his chin on his hand, Chris starts listing, his tone lighthearted but deliberate. “Well, for starters, I think I’m a good person. I’ve got a decent amount of money. I’m considerate. And—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “I’m very reasonable.”

You nod at each point he makes, humoring him. “I acknowledge all of that,” you reply with a small smile.

Chris leans back slightly, grinning as he clasps his hands together. “And I also think you’re the best chef in the world.”

You chuckle at his exaggerated sincerity. “Fully noted and acknowledged.”

Chris’s grin widens, but his tone softens. “All things considered, I think I’m a pretty decent catch. So why don’t you even consider me in the running?”

You pout at his question, feigning offense. “Who told you I didn’t?”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he leans closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you really mean that?”

You shrug, maintaining your playful tone. “I love wealthy men. And I do love that you have lots of money.”

Chris nods in mock seriousness, playing along. “So… no dislikes?”

“Of course not,” you reply easily, taking a sip of your coffee.

There’s a brief moment of silence before Chris leans in closer, his tone dropping just enough to make the conversation feel private. His eyes lock onto yours, and the teasing air between you shifts.

“You know I like you,” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

You chuckle, brushing it off with a lighthearted smile. “And you know I like you too.”

But the smile on Chris’s face fades, replaced by an earnest, almost vulnerable expression. “No,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering. “I said I like you.”

It takes you a moment to process his words fully. The weight of his confession settles in, and your playful demeanor falters. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

Chris doesn’t press you for an answer. He simply smiles—soft and understanding—and stands from his stool. As he walks away, his words hang heavily in the air, leaving you sitting at the counter, staring after him with a knot of conflicted feelings in your chest.

-

The echo of your footsteps bounces off the corridor walls as you head toward the locker room, your mind swirling with thoughts. Chris’s confession keeps replaying in your head, leaving you feeling like your chest is tied in knots. You want to vent, to unload the mess of emotions building inside you, but there’s no one in here you can comfortably and openly share this with.

With a frustrated sigh, you dig your phone out of your pocket, scrolling through your contacts until you land on a name that feels safe. You press the call button.

The line rings three times before your dad picks up. “Hello?”

“Dad,” you say, your voice wistful and soft.

There’s a pause before he asks, “What’s wrong with your voice? Did you get into trouble again?”

You grumble, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why do you always assume I’m in trouble?”

“Because you call me like this, all dramatic,” he replies. “What is it, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. Then you take a deep breath and let it out in one go. “A guy told me he likes me.”

Your dad gasps, audibly enough that you can’t help but pull the phone away from your ear. “A guy?”

“Why are you so surprised?” you ask, annoyed.

“Which guy?” he presses, his tone suspicious and borderline protective.

“I’m not telling you that,” you reply firmly. “But now I’m confused.”

Your dad doesn’t let it go. “Does this guy have a job?”

You blink at the unexpected question. “Yes. He’s got loads of money.”

“Is he bad-tempered?”

You sigh. “No, he’s actually very considerate and reasonable.”

“Does he mind that you’re a chef?”

You pause before answering, “He always says whatever I make is delicious.”

Your dad sighs deeply, his voice softening. “Then what’s the problem?”

You hesitate again, your heart caught in your throat. Finally, you admit, “I… I like someone else.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then your dad asks, “What’s better about the other guy?”

You instinctively clam up. The thought of describing Minho to your dad feels impossible. He’s the exact opposite of Chris in every way. “I… I can’t talk about him,” you say vaguely, your voice barely above a whisper.

Your dad’s tone sharpens. “Does the other guy have more money?”

“Probably not.”

“Is he nicer?”

You snort, the answer bubbling up before you can stop it. “No way. He yells a lot, is stubborn, and gets into fights with people all the time.”

“Does he like your cooking?”

You groan, already knowing what’s coming. “No, he nitpicks my cooking. All. The. Time.”

Your dad lets out another heavy sigh. “And you like this guy more?”

You lower your voice, almost ashamed. “It just… happened.”

There’s a long pause before your dad speaks again, this time with firm finality. “Go with the first one. No matter what.”

“What?!” you shriek, your frustration boiling over. “Why?”

“Because I’m your dad,” he replies without hesitation, as if that explains everything.

You gasp, completely exasperated. “You can’t just pick for me!”

“I just did.”

Groaning in disbelief, you snap, “I shouldn’t have told you anything!” Without waiting for a response, you hang up, shoving your phone aggressively back into your pocket.

“God! Why did I even bother?” You mumble to yourself.

Standing in the quiet locker room, you lean against the cold metal doors, groaning under your breath. Calling your dad was supposed to help clear your head, but now you feel more conflicted than ever.

-

The heat in the kitchen feels heavier today, the air thick with tension as the orders flood in relentlessly. Minho scans the ticket machine as it spits out another slip. His eyes flicker to table eight’s order, extra cautious as he calculates what needs to be done. His gaze darts to your station.

“Have you started on table eight?” he asks sharply.

“Yes, Chef,” you reply immediately, already halfway into prepping the vongole.

“Then hurry up,” Minho snaps, turning back to the endless stream of orders.

Before he can move on, a service staff member steps into the kitchen, looking hesitant. “Chef, table eight wants to change their order—they’re asking for the Chef’s special.”

Minho clenches his jaw, spinning back toward you. You glance up at him, your hands frozen mid-motion. “Chef, I already put the clams in. Should I stop cooking the vongole?”

For a moment, Minho hesitates, the decision flickering in his mind. Table eight wants a Chef’s special, but you’re already halfway through the vongole. Quickly, he makes the call.

“Keep going with the vongole,” he instructs, then pivots to the entrée line. “Seungwan, swap the tuna salad for grilled vegetable salad. You’ve got five minutes to prep it.”

Seungwan looks up from his station, irritation flickering in his eyes. “I don't think that’s possible, Chef. If you only give me five minutes, we should go with the special we already prepared.”

Minho turns toward him slowly, his stare icy. Before he can respond, you interrupt with another question. “Should I keep going with the vongole, or—”

“Finish it,” Minho barks, his patience thinning, then swivels back to Seungwan. “Are you trying to teach me a lesson here? Did you guys set the specials?”

Seungwan stiffens, but Minho doesn’t give him a chance to retort. He steps closer, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “Let me remind you, I created this menu. If I decide to make changes, it’s because I know what works. Since the pasta is changing, the grilled vegetable salad will enhance the flavors of the clams better than tuna. Do you get that?”

Hyunwoo chimes in from the side, his tone laced with skepticism. “Why change the pasta in the first place? If you’d just stuck with the seafood linguine, none of this would be necessary.”

Seungwan adds, his tone sharper, “Or is it because she made the vongole?” He throws a glare your way.

You hiss back at them, your voice tight with frustration. “Hey, this has nothing to do with me!”

Minho draws in a deep breath, trying to contain the mounting irritation. He strides toward the entrée line, his sharp tone commanding the room. “A customer requested the Chef’s recommendation. Are you saying I can’t make that recommendation?” He raises his voice, his authority cutting through the tension. “Whether I tell you to make pasta, lasagna, or even a bowl of ramyeon, if I say it, you make it. Got it?”

Turning on his heel, he stalks back to the chef’s table, his voice dropping to a cold calm. “If anyone here has a problem with how I run this kitchen, feel free to find another chef and another kitchen. I don’t need anyone here who won’t listen to orders.”

The room goes silent, save for the faint sizzle of pans. Then Seojun, the sous-chef, speaks up, his tone measured but firm. “Chef, how can you say that so easily?”

Before Minho can respond, Hyunwoo mutters under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “Unlike some people, we don’t have chefs who’ll cover for us if we leave.” His eyes flick briefly toward you and Felix.

Minho hears you hiss under your breath as you tend to the vongole about to get overcooked from staying on the pan for too long. “Chef, what should I—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Minho snaps, “I told you to make it! Are you rebelling against me too?” His voice rises as he glares at you. “I gave you an order then you should make it. Where did you pick up a habit of questioning me over and over again? Is that how these guys taught you to do? Just finish the dish!”

The tension is palpable, the air crackling as Sara steps in, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” she barks, her tone sharp as a blade. She glares at the entrée line. “Are you going to keep these up? Can't you see the orders are piling up?”

Minho grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckle turns white, he turns to Taesoo who's been watching the fiery exchange from the corner of the kitchen. “Hey, Taesoo! What are you doing? You still don't know what you should bring out for a chef’s recommended course? Hurry and bring them out. Right now!”

Now that Minho knows they won't obey him, he only needs to work with the people who wants to work with him. He turns to Felix and says, “Felix, you and I are going to make the chef’s recommended course. Switch places! Now!”

“Yes, chef!” Felix eagerly respond, throwing a sharp glance at Hyunwoo as he walks past his station.

Felix walks to the other side of the kitchen, taking Seungwan’s station from him while Minho takes Souschef Seojun’s station, pushing Seojun and Seungwan to the back of the kitchen.

Sara temporarily takes the chef table and scold both Seojun and Seungwan who refuse to obey Minho. “If you're all just going to stand there and do nothing, get out. You're just interfering.” Her voice is firm yet authoritative as she remarks, “Whoever doesn't want to cook in this kitchen, I want you to get out.”

Seungwan and Seojun exchange glances, resentment burning in their eyes. Seojun steps forward, his voice tight with anger. “Chef Sara, why are you doing this? At least one of us should find out why this is happening—why the kitchen’s a mess!”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his fiery stare. “Anyone who doesn't obey the orders of the chef isn't needed in the kitchen. You should've at least followed the basic rules of the kitchen before you protested,” she retorts coldly.

Meanwhile, the ticket machine continues to spew out orders. Minho knows the kitchen won’t survive with half the staff refusing to work. His pride grates against his decision, but he knows what he has to do.

He turns to Seojun, his voice softer but no less commanding. “Hey, Souschef! Grab a frying pan. Please!”

Seojun’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists. For a moment, it looks like he might refuse, but then he sighs heavily and steps toward the pasta line. Slowly, the others follow, the kitchen sputtering back into chaotic motion as the orders pile up.

Minho exhales deeply, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The fight isn’t over, but for now, the kitchen runs.

-

Minho descends the staircase slowly, his steps measured, the sounds of distant chatter from the dining hall growing clearer with each step. As he enters the hall, he spots Taesoo sprawled on his back atop one of the tables, groaning dramatically as he vents to you. You sit beside him, listening patiently, though Minho can tell from the way you rest your head on stacked hands, you're too exhausted to listening to it.

“I can’t do it,” Taesoo whines, stretching his arms above his head. “If there’s another day like today, I swear my heart will either burst or shrivel up into nothing.”

Minho, unimpressed by Taesoo's theatrics, crosses the room in quick strides and delivers a swift slap to the back of Taesoo’s head. The loud smack startles him, making him yelp and sit upright, rubbing the spot with a pout.

“Cut the drama, Taesoo,” Minho says curtly as he pulls out the chair next to yours and sits down. “It’s embarrassing.”

Taesoo grumbles but doesn’t argue further. Meanwhile, you turn to Minho, offering a polite smile. “Thank you for your hard work today, Chef,” you say, your tone professional, if not a little tired.

Minho’s gaze softens as he places a hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

Your smile doesn’t falter, though it seems rehearsed. “I’m alright, Chef,” you reply simply.

The interaction doesn’t escape Taesoo, who sits upright, his eyes darting between the two of you with exaggerated suspicion. “Do you know how many people are talking about the two of you?” he blurts, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Or how many can’t wait to catch you two together? They're sharpening their knives as we speak!”

Minho shoots him a smirk, entirely unbothered. “Should I care?”

Taesoo doesn’t back down, lowering his voice as he leans closer. “I’m more anxious about it than either of you, and I’m not even involved!” He clasps his hands together in mock pleading. “Please, for all our sakes, rein in your temper a little, Chef. You’re making it worse.”

Instead of acknowledging Taesoo’s concerns, Minho flicks his forehead, eliciting a sharp hiss from you as you watch the scene unfold. Taesoo’s expression twists in exaggerated pain and frustration.

“Chef! How long do you think we can keep going like this?” Taesoo asks, panic lacing his voice.

Minho considers it for a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Not more than a month,” he answers nonchalantly. Then, with a small sigh, he corrects himself, “Probably a week. Three days if we’re lucky.”

Taesoo lets out a defeated groan, slumping back against the chair as if Minho’s prediction seals his fate.

Their conversation seems to summon trouble as Seungwan, Hyunwoo, and sous chef Seojun appear near the entrance. Their gazes immediately zero in on you and Minho, and Seungwan wastes no time making his disdain clear.

“If I catch the two of you dating, I’m not going to stand for it. Keep that in mind!” Seungwan says, his tone sharp and accusatory. His glare lingers on you, but Minho stands up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“Are you threatening me right now?” Minho asks, his voice dangerously calm. His sharp gaze locks onto Seungwan’s, daring him to escalate the situation further.

Seungwan hesitates, faltering under the weight of Minho’s icy stare, but whatever response he might make is interrupted by the sudden arrival of Chris.

Chris smiles warmly as his eyes land on you, his soft voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Hey, aren't you going home?” he says, directing his attention to you. “I’ll give you a ride home. Let’s go.”

You glance between Chris and Minho, sensing that leaving now is the smartest move. With a quick nod, you grab your bag and rise to your feet, walking toward Chris. Minho’s gaze follows you, sharp and unreadable, as you reach for Chris’s arm in a small gesture of familiarity. Minho feels something pinged his chest, jealousy.

Chris turns back to the room before leaving with you, his smile unshaken. “Good job today, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow,” he says cheerfully.

The room falls silent in their absence until Felix appears a moment later, his presence lighter but no less significant. He approaches Minho, hands casually tucked into his pockets. “It’s been a long day. How about we grab some drinks, Chef?” he offers simply, his tone a mix of suggestion and insistence.

Minho exhales, running a hand through his hair. Drinking feels like the only way to end the day, and he figures he can deal with the mess brewing around him tomorrow. Without a word, he gives Felix a nod, and the two leave the dining hall together with Taesoo insists on joining as he trails behind them like a puppy.

-

It’s been a hard day, and drinking feels like the perfect solution. Minho sits at a small table in a dimly lit bar, with Felix to his right and Taesoo to his left. The three of them have already drained two bottles of soju, and as Taesoo refills their glasses, it looks like they’re well on their way to finishing a third.

The alcohol has softened the edges of Minho’s usual restraint, his words slightly slurred as he leans back in his chair. He glances between Felix and Taesoo, raising his glass. “If either of you has any complaints about me, just say them now,” he says, his tone both a challenge and an invitation. “Everything. I want to hear it today.”

Felix perks up instantly, his face lighting with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Oh, I’ve got a ton of complaints,” he says, setting his glass down with a grin.

Minho arches a brow and turns to him, feigning seriousness. “Go on, then. Say it to my face.”

Felix stacks his hands together on the table, leaning forward as if preparing for a serious interrogation. “Alright, tell me the truth,” he begins dramatically.

“The truth about what?” Minho asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Do you like sharing the office with Chef Sara?” Felix asks, his voice laced with mock curiosity.

Minho doesn’t bother answering. Instead, he gently slaps the back of Felix’s head. Felix hisses in pain, rubbing the spot as he mumbles something under his breath about Minho being too rough.

Minho doesn’t linger on Felix, shifting his attention to Taesoo next. “What about you?” he asks. “Got anything to complain about?”

Taesoo shrugs, nonchalant. “Nope. No complaints.”

Without hesitation, Minho slaps the back of Taesoo’s head too, earning a startled yelp. “You’re too agreeable,” Minho mutters, shaking his head.

Felix chuckles, taking another sip of his soju before wincing at the sharp aftertaste. He exhales deeply and rests his chin on his hand. “You know,” he says, looking at Minho with a hint of earnestness. “The problem is that you have a funny way of showing affection. That’s why the other cooks don’t get your good intentions.”

Minho rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother denying it. Instead, he firmly hits Felix on the chest, causing Felix to wheeze dramatically.

“Let’s just drink tonight,” Minho orders, waving for another bottle of soju.

He doesn’t want to talk, not about anything that actually matters. Tonight, he just wants to drown his frustrations in alcohol and forget the tension that’s been weighing on him all day. Especially the part of the day where he got to watch you being whisked away by that annoying manager, Chris.

The waiter brings the fresh bottle, and Taesoo eagerly pops it open. He pours into all their glasses, careful not to spill a drop, and they raise their drinks together.

“To surviving another day,” Taesoo says with a grin.

Minho clinks his glass against theirs, the faint chime ringing in the air. “Cheers,” he mutters before downing his glass in one shot.

The warmth of the soju burns his throat, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his thoughts. He places the empty glass on the table and exhales, already reaching for a refill.

-

Chris drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the center console. The car glides smoothly along the road, his pace steady and unhurried. As the car slows to a stop at a red light, he glances over at you.

“So,” he says, his tone light but knowing, “did you come with me on purpose to avoid the other chefs?”

You chuckle softly, amused by how quickly he figures things out. “See? This is why I like you,” you reply with a grin. “You’ve got a great sense for things, Chris. And honestly, I’m glad it’s not awkward between us.”

His forehead wrinkles slightly in question. “What do you mean?”

You tilt your head, choosing your words carefully. “I mean, it’s just the two of us here, in the car, and it doesn’t feel weird or uncomfortable. Especially after what you told me earlier.”

At that, Chris’s lips curl into a wide grin, his dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. “I’ll take that as a good thing,” he says, his voice warm.

The light turns green, and Chris shifts his attention back to the road. After a moment, he speaks up again. “I need to stop at the grocery store. You wanna come along?”

You glance at him and smile. “Sure,” you say, feeling like it’s the least you can do after he swooped in to save you earlier.

When you get to the supermarket, Chris grabs a trolley and starts pushing it through the aisles while you wander toward the fruit section. Your attention is caught by a bag of grapes sitting in the chiller. You grab it and examine the label before turning to him.

“These are cotton candy grapes,” you announce.

Chris raises a brow, pushing the trolley closer. “What’s the difference?”

“They’re sweeter than regular grapes,” you explain. To prove it, you open the bag, pull out a grape, and without hesitation, shove it into his mouth.

Chris blinks at you, startled, but obediently chews. You pop one into your own mouth, savoring the burst of sweetness as you watch his reaction.

He chews thoughtfully, his expression neutral. “Tastes like regular grapes to me,” he finally says, shrugging.

You groan dramatically. “Your taste buds really are dull, Chris.” Then, with a teasing smile, you shove another grape into his mouth before he can protest.

Ignoring his glare, you toss the bag into the trolley. Chris immediately objects, his voice mock-stern. “Hey, you opened that! You should pay for it.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You ate more grapes than me so you’re paying for it.” And just to tease him further, you shove yet another grape into his mouth.

Chris pouts as he chews, his lips sticking out just slightly, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight. There’s something so easy about being around him. There are no games, no tricks, no sharp words to dodge or tension to navigate. It’s nice, comfortable, safe.

And yet…

As you watch him push the trolley forward, chatting easily about what else he needs to buy, your thoughts drift to someone else. Your heart, stubborn as it is, doesn’t want this safety or ease. It wants the man who flicks your forehead and scolds you, who keeps you guessing and makes your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

But for now, you follow Chris down the aisle, telling yourself it’s enough to enjoy this moment, even if your heart is elsewhere.

-

Minho’s head is buzzing, a dull throb behind his temples as he stumbles out of the elevator. His steps are heavy, his balance slightly off, but he manages to make it to your apartment without tripping. He pushes the doorbell, leaning against the wall for support as his impatience bubbles over.

“Hey!” he calls, his voice slurred. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

After what feels like forever, the door finally opens. But it’s not you.

Sara stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she takes in his disheveled state. Minho squints at her, as though he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. “Where’s she?” he asks, his voice thick with alcohol.

Sara hesitates, her hand still on the doorknob. “She’s not home yet,” she says simply.

Minho scratches his head, a frustrated groan escaping his lips. He needs to talk to you, to see you. His gaze flickers back to Sara. “Can I get some water?” he asks, his voice softening.

Sara nods after a moment, stepping aside to let him in. He makes his way to the living room, collapsing onto the single sofa with a tired sigh. The room is quiet except for the faint clinking of a glass from the kitchen. When Sara returns, she hands him the water without a word.

Minho takes a long gulp, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. He gasps for air after finishing half the glass, setting it down on the armrest as he leans back into the cushions. His gaze shifts to Sara, who’s taken a seat on the long sofa across from him, sipping what looks like tea.

“Thanks,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “For today. In the kitchen.”

“Don’t mention it,” Sara says with a small smile and then takes a careful sip of her tea before asking, “You've been drinking, huh?”

Minho nods bht his mind feels slightly clearer now, though still hazy enough to loosen his tongue. He glances down at the glass in his hand, his voice dropping to a steady, almost contemplative tone.

“You know,” he starts, “I thought about it once. Just once.” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “If you’d beaten me fair and square—if you’d used honest means and taken first place—would I have stayed in second just because I loved you? Would I have applauded you in the background?”

Sara’s brow furrows slightly, but she stays quiet, letting him continue.

“I think… even if you had been honest and won, I still would’ve left you,” he admits, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Because I would’ve gotten jealous. Envious. You’d have made me feel small.”

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “My pride as a man… it would’ve screamed that I had to be number one. And because of that, I would’ve left you anyway.”

He takes another sip of water, his words hanging heavy in the air. When he sets the empty glass down, he looks at Sara directly. “So maybe… maybe I didn’t leave because you backstabbed me. Maybe I would’ve left regardless.”

The room falls silent. Sara holds his gaze, her expression conflicted. Minho can see the appreciation in her eyes for his honesty, but also the uncertainty about how to respond.

That’s his cue to leave.

Minho pushes himself up from the sofa, his legs unsteady but determined. “Thanks for the water,” he mutters, heading toward the door.

Sara stays seated, watching as he leaves. As he steps out into the hallway, Minho lets out a breath, leaving her to grapple with the weight of his words and eventually makes peace with herself with it.

-

Chris pulls the car to a stop right in front of your apartment building, the streetlights casting a soft glow over the vehicle. You unbuckle your seatbelt, reaching back to grab your bag from the backseat. Your heart pounds as you sit there, debating whether now is the right time to say it.

Taking a deep breath, you turn to him with a smile, calling his name softly. His dimpled smile greets you instantly, warm and familiar. “Yeah?” he says, his voice gentle.

You don’t hesitate any longer. “I like Chef more.”

The words tumble out so quickly that you barely register the slight shift in his expression. For a second, he looks caught off guard, but then his lips curl into a soft smile. “Wow,” he says, feigning playfulness. “You’re quick to reject a guy, huh?”

You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head. “It’s not exactly a rejection,” you explain. “I like you, Chris. I do. But I just… like Chef more.”

Chris leans back in his seat, his hand resting on the steering wheel. He nods slowly, as if processing your words, before looking back at you with a knowing grin. “I kind of already knew.”

You gasp, your eyes widening. “Wait, you knew I’d reject you?”

He gives a small, coy nod.

Without thinking, you reach over and gently slap his chest, making him chuckle. “Then why confess in the first place?” you demand, half annoyed, half amused.

His chuckle deepens, his dimples flashing again. “Because I wanted to try anyway. Maybe I’ll just keep trying until you say yes.”

You groan, slumping back against the seat. “Don’t do that, Chris. Seriously.”

He laughs at your reaction, but there’s something in his tone that hints at a deeper feeling—one he’s clearly trying to mask. You glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt. “You don’t know how hard this is,” you mutter, glaring at him. “I’ve never had to do this before. Rejecting someone… especially a guy who’s wealthy, good-looking, and actually likes me?!”

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and disarming, but you can see the faint sadness in his eyes. You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “I really hate being the one to do this, you know. I’d rather be the one getting rejected.”

Your hand slides down to his, holding it briefly as you meet his gaze. “Just… promise me you won’t say this again. Don’t tell me you like me or anything like that ever again.”

Chris holds your gaze for a moment longer, a glimmer of mischief returning to his eyes. “I’ll do what I want,” he says, his voice teasing.

You groan in defeat, leaning your head back against the headrest. Your frustration only lasts a second before the two of you burst out laughing at the same time, the tension melting away.

Eventually, you know it’s time to go. You reach for your bag and unbuckle, but before you leave, you lean in and wrap your arms around him. “Good night, Chris,” you whisper softly, giving him a squeeze before letting go.

As you pull back, you give him a smile—one that you hope conveys how sorry you truly are for not being able to feel the same way. “Bye,” you say gently, opening the car door.

Chris watches you as you step out, his gaze lingering until you close the door. You wave briefly before heading toward the building, his car idling in place for just a moment longer before driving away.

-

Minho leans against the cool marble column of the lobby, his eyes fixed on the car parked outside. Through the windshield, he sees you and Chris talking, your expressions shifting between seriousness and familiarity. His stomach twists uncomfortably when he sees Chris’s smile soften and how you return it before leaning in to hug him—a hug that lingers just long enough to stir unease in Minho.

He doesn’t know what you’re saying to each other, but his gut tells him Chris must have confessed his feelings. It doesn’t scare him—Minho knows who he is, knows his worth—but it makes him nervous. He knows how sly that Australian guy, Chris, can be, how easily he could sway you if you let him.

When you step out of the car and head toward the building, you don’t notice Minho watching until you’re almost at the door. Your startled expression turns to one of exasperation as you catch his glare.

“You really are a professional two-timer,” Minho sneers, his words sharper than he intended.

You scoff, crossing your arms as you step closer. “And you’re drunk,” you point out, wrinkling your nose at the alcohol on his breath.

Minho grabs your hand firmly, cutting off any further argument. “Come with me,” he mutters, dragging you toward the elevator.

The ride up is silent, except for the faint hum of the elevator motor. Minho leans against the wall, his gaze locked on you. He wants to ask about Chris, wants to confirm if his suspicion is right, but his thoughts are muddled by the alcohol and his own insecurity. The ding of the elevator interrupts his thoughts, and he stumbles slightly as he steps out.

“I need your help to get inside,” he grumbles, draping an arm over your shoulder for support.

Once inside his apartment, Minho kicks his shoes off haphazardly, his bag and coat ending up in a careless pile on the floor. He pulls you along toward the bedroom, his grip on your hand tightening. “Take me to bed,” he demands, his voice heavy with fatigue and alcohol.

“Just a second,” you chide, slipping out of your shoes as fast as you can before he tugs you toward the bed.

Minho collapses onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You prop yourself up on one elbow, offering to get him some water, but he grabs your wrist and pulls you down beside him. “Stay,” he murmurs, his tone softening.

You obey, lying on your stomach and facing him. The room is quiet except for the faint sound of the city outside. After a while, Minho turns his head to look at you, his brow furrowed. “Chris told you he likes you, didn't he?” he finally asks.

You nod, confirming his suspicion.

“What did you say?” he presses, his voice low.

Instead of answering directly, you prop your hand under your chin and smirk. “My dad says Chris is a nicer man than you.”

Minho lifts his head slightly, narrowing his eyes at you. “Does that make me the bad guy?”

You grin, nodding without hesitation.

“You told your dad about me and Chris already?” Minho asks in disbelief, his brows shooting up.

You nod again, your grin widening.

He groans, reaching out to pull you closer. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself for the finger flick you’re certain is coming, but instead, Minho wraps his arm around your neck and tugs you close until your head rests against his shoulder.

“What did your dad say?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You let out a soft sigh. “He’s rooting for the nice man.”

Minho frowns, his lips pressing into a thin line. “What about you?”

Your sly smile returns as you rest your hand on his chest. “Well... I’ve always been the disobedient daughter who never listens to her dad.”

Minho smirks at that, nodding in approval. “Good,” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Don’t listen to your dad, okay?”

You chuckle softly. “Yes, Chef.”

He nods again, shifting to get more comfortable. “Let’s sleep.”

“Yes, Chef,” You snuggle closer to his side, his arm draped around you as he exhales deeply, finally relaxing.

Just as you’re about to drift off, Minho turns his head toward you. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head firmly. “No. You reek of alcohol.”

“Come on, just a peck,” he pleads, his voice almost whining.

With a sigh, you relent, leaning in to press a quick peck to his lips.

“That was too quick,” he protests immediately.

You groan, rolling your eyes again before leaning in for a longer, lingering kiss. Minho lets out a small gasp when you finally pull away, his cheeks flushed and his lips curling into a contented smile. “Perfect,” he murmurs, his voice soft and drowsy.

He cups your face gently, holding your gaze as he whispers, “Goodnight.”

You smile back at him, your heart warming at the tenderness in his voice. “Goodnight.”

As the room falls into peaceful silence, Minho pulls you closer, your warmth grounding him. For the first time in a while, the doubt and jealousy that had been weighing on him begin to lift. With you lying beside him, he feels at ease—secure in the knowledge that no matter who tries to sway your feelings, you aren’t going anywhere but his side. A soft smile lingers on his lips as sleep finally claims him.

-

Minho’s eyes scan the tickets clipped to the rail as Felix approaches with a dish in hand. Minho inspects the plating carefully, wiping a smudge from the edge of the plate with a practiced motion. “Go,” he instructs, handing it off to the waiting server. Felix nods and heads back to his station, and Minho’s focus shifts to the tickets again.

His brows furrow. Something’s off.

“Felix!” Minho barks, his voice cutting through the clatter of the kitchen. Felix looks up from the garnish he’s carefully arranging.

“Yes, Chef?”

Minho holds up the ticket. “Table three’s order hasn’t even gone out yet, but table eight’s is already served. Care to explain?”

Felix glances at the tickets, then smirks and jerks his head toward Hyunwoo, who’s furiously tossing pasta in a pan at the next station. “It’s not me, Chef. It’s Hyunwoo. He’s taking too long on the linguine.”

Hyunwoo stiffens, glaring at Felix. “Linguine takes longer to cook! Maybe if you timed your dishes better, this wouldn’t happen.”

Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Maybe if you didn’t act like you’re boiling pasta for a buffet line, this wouldn’t happen either.”

Their voices escalate, bickering like children, as Minho’s patience wears thin. Slamming his palm against the counter, he growls, “Both of you, shut up!”

The kitchen falls into tense silence, save for the sizzle of pans. Minho steps around the counter, moving to stand between Felix and Hyunwoo, his sharp gaze flicking between the two.

“I’ve told you both a hundred times,” Minho starts, his voice low but seething with authority. “Cooking for a course meal isn’t the same as cooking a single dish. Timing. Coordination. Communication. If you two can’t figure out how to work together, you’ll take this entire kitchen down with you.”

Felix nods quickly, contrite. “Yes, Chef.”

Minho looks at Hyunwoo, waiting. But Hyunwoo’s jaw is tight, resentment clear in his eyes as he hesitates.

Minho narrows his gaze at Hyunwoo. “Are you not going to answer me?”

The tension thickens as Hyunwoo glares back at Minho but says nothing. Before Minho can press further, the kitchen door bursts open.

“Where is he?!” Yura’s voice echoes like a thunderclap.

Chris rushes in behind her, his face flushed as he tries to hold her back. “Please, don’t. Let’s talk in my office—”

Yura yanks her arm away, storming past Chris with fire in her eyes. She marches straight toward Minho, her voice trembling with rage. “I know what you’ve been doing. With who. And when.”

Minho doesn’t flinch, his expression stony as he locks eyes with her, daring her to continue.

“I know your little secret,” Yura spits, her gaze sweeping the kitchen before landing back on Minho. “I saw it with my own eyes. You and her.” Her eyes flick to you, standing frozen by the corner of the kitchen.

Minho’s chest tightens, but his face remains impassive.

Yura takes a deep breath, as if savoring the moment. Then she announces, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I saw you two at the bus stop. Kissing.”

The kitchen plunges into suffocating silence. Every clatter of knives and pans halts. All eyes turn to Minho, then to you, then back to him.

Despite his calm exterior, Minho’s heart pounds in his chest. Yura presses on, her voice dripping with venom.

“You are a hypocrite. You fired my sister—innocent Minji—because you said you wouldn’t allow romantic relationships in the kitchen. But now you’re doing the exact same thing.” Her lips curl into a bitter smile. “How does it feel to be the one breaking your own rules? How does it feel to be the one causing this situation?”

Felix steps forward suddenly, his voice firm. “That’s a complete lie! Chef wouldn’t do something like that.”

Hyunwoo hisses in response, turning to Felix with a sneer. “How do you know? Minji saw them at the café, remember? And now this? Are you seriously defending him?”

Hyunwoo turns his glare on you. “And you—didn’t you say you were just close with Chef? What a joke.”

Seungwan steps in, his voice sharp. “So, it's true, Chef? That the two of you are dating?”

You cut in, your voice trembling but steady enough to say, “We— We’re close because we went to the same culinary school in Italy. That’s all.”

But Sous Chef Seojun isn’t satisfied. “Chef, just tell us the truth. Are you dating her or not?”

Minho’s gaze falls on you, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. Your eyes plead with him, a silent “don’t do it” written in every tearful glance. But Minho knows this has gone on long enough.

Minho straightens, resting his hands flat on the chef’s table as he looks out at his team.

“It’s true,” Minho says, his voice clear and unwavering. “We’re close.”

He pauses, looking back at you, silently apologizing for what he’s about to do.

“However, I’m in love with her.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

You close your eyes as if you can't stand seeing it happens and when you open them, tears pooling in your eyes as you stare at him in disbelief.

Minho keeps his gaze on you, knowing that as long as he looks at you, he can weather anything.

The silence is deafening, broken only by Yura stepping forward with a mocking laugh. “And what did you say would happen if someone was caught dating in this kitchen, Chef?” She grabs Minho by his chef’s tie, pulling him closer. “You’re fired!”

Minho calmly untangles her grip from his tie, fixing his coat with precision. He stands tall, facing everyone once more.

“I acknowledge that I’ve behaved in a way that could lose your trust in me as your chef,” he says, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “But I won’t apologize for loving her. And because of that, I have no right to continue leading this kitchen.”

Minho unties his chef’s necktie, pulling it off and holding it in his hand.

“With this, I'll leave this kitchen on my own cognizance.”

The room remains eerily quiet as Minho steps back, turning his attention to you one last time. A triumphant smile plays on his lips, even as tears stream down yours.

Despite the chaos he left behind, despite the stunned expressions and inevitable fallout, Minho feels an unexpected lightness—a sense of victory. For the first time, he didn’t hide. He didn’t lie. He stood before everyone and declared his love for you without hesitation, without shame.

He glances down at the crumpled chef’s tie in his hand, a symbol of all the rules and walls he’d built around himself. He knows he’s walking away from the life he built with his blood, sweat, and tears, but strangely, there’s no regret.

If loving you meant losing the kitchen, then so be it.

-

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[makeila04]

Russell Adler's Quotes in Zombies Mode - Call of Duty Black Ops 6: ENG

Adler in Zombies is still the same Adler, but taken to the extreme. Not only is he a man with a dominant and manipulative personality, but here he allows himself to be more provocative, sarcastic, and even seductive. He doesn’t have to worry about the CIA's "professionalism"; he’s in a chaotic world and can say whatever he wants without repercussions. This leads him to use language that oscillates between irony, dominance, and dark humor, with an air of shameless superiority.

Many of his lines have a highly performative, almost theatrical tone, as if he enjoys the attention or as if, despite the danger, he still wants to make it clear that he’s the smartest man in the room.

Adler has a communication style that mixes control, cynicism, and a pleasure in destruction. What’s interesting is how he uses violence and chaos as an opportunity to assert himself and demonstrate power, all while maintaining his composure.

"Rage will only take you so far, and I should know." → I like this line because it hints at his personal experience with anger, which fits his backstory and controlling personality. Adler acknowledges that anger can be useful, but only up to a point. This has implications for his story: he’s likely used rage as fuel before (Vietnam, the Cold War, etc.), but he’s learned that survival depends on more than just emotions. Analysis: A line packed with history. It implies that at some point, he himself has used rage as fuel but has also learned its limits. This fits perfectly with his background: a man hardened by his work, who has been through situations where anger wasn’t enough to survive. Subtext: He’s likely speaking from his experience in Vietnam or some mission where his rage didn’t change the outcome.

"And that, kids, is called firepower..." → He’s enjoying the moment, as if he’s giving a lesson with an air of superiority. Analysis: It has that "alpha male" tone he loves to project. He’s not just enjoying the power of the weapon but doing so with a flirtatiously mocking tone. Subtext: A bit of narcissism, pleasure in destruction, but with a certain charisma.

"I knew they’d be a hit with the crowd." → I love his mocking and boastful tone, as if even in a zombie massacre, he finds the opportunity to make a sarcastic joke.

"Hey idiot! You dropped your gray matter!" Adler angry is always interesting because it reveals his more direct and aggressive side. Though there’s humor here too (gray matter = brain), it’s a way to vent frustration without losing his sarcastic style. Analysis: An aggressive taunt, almost angry. Adler isn’t just sarcastic; he can also be cruel.

"Stacking them up like firewood!" → He shows no remorse; on the contrary, he sees destruction as an almost mechanical process. This line is brutal and reflects his ability to dehumanize enemies when necessary. He has no problem using graphic imagery to describe destruction, showing his experience and coldness in combat.

"The sweet, sweet aroma of capitalism..." → I’m fascinated by the almost sensual level of enjoyment with which he says this, as if upgrading a weapon were truly pleasurable for him. His tone of pleasure almost suggests that he equates material success and power with intense sensory gratification. He says it with an almost excited satisfaction. Adler doesn’t just believe in capitalism; he enjoys it with an almost sensual intensity. He associates power with pleasure, wealth, and supremacy. It’s as if upgrading his weapon gives him a rush of satisfaction similar to gaining something valuable on Wall Street. Analysis: This is pure Adler. His tone is one of genuine satisfaction, said with an almost sensual pleasure. Subtext: He’s not just a pro-capitalism patriot; he enjoys luxury, powerful weapons, and anything that represents status. He’s unapologetically materialistic. (I love that, honestly, haha).

"You might want to reconsider your strategy, folks." His condescending tone suggests he’s observing flaws in others (or the zombies) and making it clear he’d do better. It shows his quick observational and analytical skills in combat. He’s always assessing the terrain and looking for an advantage, which is consistent with his strategic personality. Analysis: He says it with a condescending but practical tone. It’s his way of saying, "They’re killing you because you’re idiots."

"You know, you’re not actually supposed to bite the bullet?" Analysis: A reference to the expression "bite the bullet," which means to endure pain or do something difficult. Adler, however, uses it literally with zombies, giving it an interesting double meaning. But since it’s in a zombie context, he says it literally. It’s sarcastic and dark at the same time.

"You shouldn’t stare directly at the sun; that shit will blind you." A seemingly simple line but loaded with metaphor if you analyze it. It could be interpreted as practical combat advice or a deeper warning about not facing something so dangerous head-on (perhaps an indirect reflection of his own life).

"Did I give you permission to look at me?" → So Adler... Dominant, condescending, as if even zombies are beneath him. A line of absolute dominance. Depending on the tone, it can sound authoritative, threatening, or even flirtatious in a power dynamic. Analysis: A line that denotes absolute dominance. In a zombie context, it’s funny. In another, it could be a flirtatious line with a power subtext. This line reinforces the idea that Adler sees others (including zombies) as inferior, establishing hierarchies even in chaos. Classic Adler: direct, challenging, and with a touch of arrogance. It’s a line that reinforces his authority and mystery, making it clear he doesn’t tolerate intrusions or lose control of a situation. It can also be interpreted as a provocation to maintain tension in the moment. He’s used rage to survive, but he also knows it’s not enough. It’s an admission that his own fury hasn’t always saved him, which gives a small hint of his more human side.

"It was you or me, and I’ve already decided." → He positions himself as judge, without hesitation. Cold, decisive. He has no remorse because his survival is always the priority. Analysis: A cold and decisive line. It represents his survivor mentality and lack of remorse. It’s simple but powerful. Subtext: There’s no room for sentimentality or doubt. He chooses to live, always.

"Right in the motherboard."

"If you’re going to keep getting tough, so will I..." Adler is a strategist: if the situation escalates, he escalates with it. It’s the mentality of someone who never backs down. Analysis: Reflects his adaptability. If the situation escalates, he doesn’t hesitate to escalate with it. Subtext: He’s not one to retreat or fall behind.

"I’m happy to support local businesses." Analysis: Another subtle jab, but also a reminder that he knows everything is a business. He’s not naive about war and money. Another cynical reference to capitalism. Adler knows everything is a business, but he has no problem with it.

"Another one bites the dust." → Minimizes the threat.

"Carnage is my middle name." → Reaffirms his lethality with pride.

"Enough of the metal section already."

"I could jump out of my own skin."

"Now that’s a good kick."

"You put in money, spit out firepower, and that’s the American way." → More than just a line, it’s a celebration of his capitalist philosophy, associated with power and violence.

"Consider it a mercy kill." → Here he positions himself as a judge of life and death, very much in line with his CIA history.

"Do you mind if I call you Tinker Bell?" A reference to Bell when temporarily allying with a zombie.

"You and I have work to do." A reference to Bell when temporarily allying with a zombie. Analysis: A reference to Bell. Though it’s a generic line, it has connotations of forced camaraderie, as if he’s talking to someone who has no choice in the situation.

"Is this going to cause problems? Then I love it."

"Hudson would’ve loved this shit." Analysis: A reference to Jason Hudson, another key CIA character in Black Ops. Implies that Hudson shared his mindset or would’ve enjoyed the carnage.

"I don’t care about the taste; I’m after the side effects."

"Don’t act tough; I saw you drinking daiquiris." A direct jab, typical of Adler when he wants to cut someone down who’s trying to act tough. Analysis: A classic Adler taunt. He enjoys cutting others down with sharp comments, especially when someone tries to act tougher than they are.

"I didn’t survive Fracture Jaw to die in this hole." A reference to his involvement in Vietnam, specifically Operation Fracture Jaw in Cold War. For him, surviving extreme events like that is part of his identity; he won’t accept being defeated in a "lesser" context. Analysis: A direct reference to the Cold War mission in Vietnam. This reinforces that, even in an extreme context like zombies, his identity as a soldier remains intact. Subtext: He’s survived worse than this, and he knows it. There’s a hint of pride but also disbelief.

"Dodge and strike, that simple." A practical and direct line, reinforcing his combat mentality.

"I think it even strengthened my hair." Analysis: Another line that sounds like overcompensation. As if he needs to reaffirm his virility in the most physical terms possible. Another oddly virility-focused line. As if he needs to remind himself that he’s still a strong, dominant man.

"Who wants to be my punching bag?"

"Do you know what happened to the last person who made me angry?" A provocative tone, almost as if he enjoys the idea of instilling fear. Implies he has a history of punishing those who challenge him, reinforcing his vengeful and dominant nature. Analysis: A threatening and provocative tone. Depending on the context, it could sound almost playful or like a real warning. Subtext: Adler doesn’t forget or let offenses slide easily.

Always confident, with a touch of arrogance and an attitude of having everything under control. It reminds me of how he always seems to be one step ahead of everyone else. His seductive and mocking tone could be a reflection of his need for validation, as if he has to remind everyone that he’s still "the man on top." Adler is a man who constantly has to prove his dominance. He’s strong, lethal, intelligent... but the fact that he makes so many references to strength, power, and size/powerfulness… gives the impression that he’s compensating for something.

It’s possible that Adler, deep down, feels he’s never been enough, which would explain why his masculinity manifests in such an exaggerated way in his speech. The way he enjoys his own "shine" suggests he has to remind himself that he’s still a dominant man.

Adler is a character who, despite having emotional complexity and facing dark moments, maintains a confident, challenging, and often sarcastic attitude.

His tone, even seductive, can be a way to maintain emotional control and distance from others. As an ENTJ, he’s strategic but also enjoys dominating situations with charisma and power.

Adler has a way of facing challenges with a mix of cynicism and confidence, which can make his approach more "seductive" because he seeks to take control, even through provocation.

On a subtext level, Adler’s "seduction" could be a reflection of his need for control. His mocking and confident attitude, even in extreme situations like facing zombie hordes, could be interpreted as a form of personal power, where he maintains his security and confidence at all times. Adler has lived through extreme situations in the CIA, with a background of psychological warfare, manipulation, and decision-making under pressure. This could have influenced his need to always show control, even in the face of the impossible, like zombies. His "seductive" attitude and flirtatious tone while killing zombies could be interpretations of his need to maintain a facade of power. This manifests in his way of staying superior and dominant, even in chaos. He enjoys messing with others. He’s a guy who mocks, provokes, but not just for fun—he does it to show he’s in control. His relationship with Hudson was always one of respect/rivalry, so that mention of him isn’t coincidental.

Moreover, the fact that Adler often feels more emotionally distant from others and is used to manipulating situations to his advantage allows him to adopt an almost playful approach to zombies. This could be related to his emotional detachment, where he uses humor, sarcasm, and control to avoid being consumed by fear or despair, unlike Woods and Weaver, who are more reactive in their responses. While Woods and Weaver (yes, I’ve also played with them in Black Ops 6 Zombies mode) act with a more pragmatic and sometimes brutal approach, Adler stands out for his leadership style, which is less about brute force and more about subtle manipulation. This is reflected in his lines, which not only aim to eliminate zombies but also suppress any kind of vulnerability through his attitude and words. He uses his language as a tool to assert himself and make others see him as almost untouchable, contrasting with the roughness of the other two characters. In summary, Adler’s seduction and provocative style can be seen as a manifestation of his desire for control, his ability to maintain a facade of security, and his more cerebral and strategic approach to chaos, while Woods and Weaver operate from a more visceral and reactive perspective. This approach sets Adler apart and gives him a unique layer of complexity compared to the other two characters.

General Conclusion Adler’s lines in Zombies mode reinforce his ENTJ personality to the max: ✔ Sarcastic and with sharp dark humor. ✔ Dominant and condescending. ✔ Enjoys power, both economically and militarily. ✔ Tends to use lines that imply control or veiled threats. ✔ His capitalist patriotism is shameless. ✔ There are a couple of suspiciously enthusiastic lines about power and virility. ✔ Dominant and pragmatic: He doesn’t waste time with sentimentality. Surviving and winning are all that matter. ✔ Sarcasm and mockery: He enjoys cutting others down with his sharp humor. ✔ Enjoyment of power and capitalism: He’s excited by the idea of absolute power, whether through weapons or money. ✔ Possible masculine overcompensation: Lines like "a big, powerful staff" suggest that, while he projects absolute confidence, there’s a level of fragile ego at play.

In other words, Russell Adler is a man who loves power, violence, money, and control. And he enjoys it so much that sometimes it slips out a bit too much.

Some lines have an overcompensation vibe ("it even strengthened my hair"), which makes you think that, while Adler projects absolute confidence, there’s also a level of fragile ego at play. Which isn’t uncommon for someone with a life based on control and constant competition.

Adler’s lines in Zombies are an amplification of his character, taking him to the point where his control, his pleasure in violence, and his sense of superiority become a spectacle. He speaks like someone who sees war as a stage to reaffirm his dominance, never missing the chance to throw in lines loaded with arrogance, mockery, and seduction.

His tone, sometimes blatantly sensual, suggests that power, destruction, and pleasure are intertwined in his mind. And when it becomes more obvious, like with the "big, powerful staff" line, it suggests that, yes, maybe he’s projecting something.

In the end, these lines show us an unfiltered Adler, without the need to manipulate from the shadows, simply enjoying the chaos with the certainty that he’s still the one in charge.

In conclusion: his Zombies lines are 100% Adler. True to his character, his dark humor, and his worldview, but with some interesting nuances that could be interpreted in amusingly Freudian ways.

[puppppppppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[seagull-scribbles]

I want you to tell ‘em that you love the way that they don’t stick out like sore middle fingers

[Continuation of this]

[aikoiya]

Huh! Maybe it's just an American version thing? Though, if so, booo! Not nice Nintendo!

Also, oh my gosh, THANK YOU!! YOU'RE A GODSEND!! I've been losing my ever-loving mind!

Like, the fruit still has some of the most creatively bankrupt names I've ever seen, but at least I have a frame of reference!

And thank you so much for the link!!

Also, yes. Psychonauts is very interesting & a little bit crazy. Though, it also has some really dark stuff, but it mostly only turns up if you explore & go out of your way to find everything & 100% the games (which, to me, is totally worth it). But what I love is that the subtext sort of gives you insight into how the trauma of the characters affected them as individuals. Though, you also get a bit of a similar environmental storytelling experience from games like Persona 4 (with Shadows) & 5 (with Palaces). Both feature this whole “getting a look at one's inner world” sort of thing & I eat that stuff up. Though, you're not always gonna get things told to you explicitly. It's more so something you have to look around the environment. Or, you can watch analyses on YouTube. Always fun to listen to someone else's interpretation of things. Like, it even goes so far as there being a power in the game that can let you literally see how other characters view Razputin & I just find it super cool because almost every single characters, plus numerous animals, each see him in a way that gives you a bit of a hint as to their relationship with him & I love that!

Also, don't listen to Sasha Nein. Those lamps are beautiful & it's just his childhood trauma getting the better of him.

But, I'm not going to go too deep into it because I fear spoilers.

Hmm… Sounds promising. Whatever helps with the worldbuilding.

To be fair, the Door of Time would likely only open the once in order to let Link out, then would shut & be unopenable without the other stones & the song. (I mean, why wouldn't it have an automatic lock mechanism without the keys to opening it present? Similarly, it has to open from the inside, otherwise that's just shit building code.) As such, so long as Ganondorf wasn't literally there at the exact moment that Link was sent back & left through the door, I don't really see too much issue. And, my guess is that the time was specifically chosen because Ganondorf wasn't looking then.

I will say that I do sort of view the Master Sword as being fairly important to how Link traveled in OoT, otherwise I don't think it'd be quite such a big deal of him utilizing the sword as a means of travel. This is part of why I hc the Master Sword's handle & the Ocarina of Time as both literally being made of the Timeshift Crystal from SS. Because then it gives a bit of “oh, I see!” To the whole thing. Otherwise, it wouldn't be so important for Link to pull the sword from the pedestal in order to go forward & for him to return it in order to go back. For all we know, it acts as a sort of anchor or even a lightning rod to bring his consciousness back to him.

So, yeah, I think you've figured out a cohesive means of explaining what went down in OoT that leaves as few wrinkles as I can see! 👍

Now, I can also sort of see the Triforce being somewhat unaffected by time too, but that's mostly because of its role as a representation of the literal creators of Hyrule's reality. So, to me, this means that it likely exists outside of time, at least to a degree.

Thank you! I really enjoy finding plausible explanations to things & I just really can't help but wonder who it was that built the qānat if that is, indeed, what allows that spring to flow?

Same! It would've been so neat to have a Farore centered game & I hope that, if they ever do remake the 2 Oracle games, that they take the chance to also make the third! Though, I think they should go with something like “Oracle of Mysteries” or “Oracle of Runes.” That way, there won't be any confusing it with Oracle of Seasons the way it would be with the commonly hc'd “Oracle of Secrets.”

Really? Hmm… I was thinking that it'd be the building itself, which would also include the restaurant inside of it, but I guess that the brasserie should have its own name, huh?

Let me give it a think… Maybe something with shells or pearls to represent being sort of the “jewel of Lanayru?” Maybe even have the food served in large, cleaned out clamshells? NO!! The shells of Shell Blades! With silver & nautilus shell wine glasses! Oh! I just found a picture of some that are near perfect!!

But I think that I'd need to give the stems some pretty designs to spruce them up a bit. Though, nothing too extravagant. Just something pretty, but stylish. Like… Maybe make it look like the shell is being balanced on a spray of water, like from a fountain? Simple, but elegant. Though, they also NEED to have shell wine baskets on a sort of polished coral branch base.

Also, a single chandalier made from sea glass, pearl, nacre, & shell.

Anyway, what about la Perle de la Lune Brasserie du Clos or la Perle de Conque Brasserie du Clos? I was looking for a good reason to use moon, but I couldn't find the right place to put clair de lune. But I think this is fine.

Either way, I really like it! Plus, it can also be a reference to the Moon Pearl of LttP.

Thank you! Much appreciated! Always grateful for the gentle linguistic guidance!

Also, I had zero idea, but I now completely refuse to change it from Marée-Chant, because I love that not only did I somehow manage to make a pun, but also one that's super fitting! So, yeah. It is now an intentional pun! :D

True, at the same time, you could possibly try to find ways of spinning the Zelda sightings in a less jocose way. Oooo! I do know of a comic that shows a great way to depict the sort of havoc that the Yiga taking on Zelda's guise probably had on Link! Especially involving their hideout on the Great Plateau!

She's Gone

Hmm… For the Hateno Village quests, maybe have Reede mentioning the increase in monster activity alongside the Gloom & the return of the Blood Moons & have him mention how he was keeping the election going in an attempt to try & help keep the citizen’s minds off of things. Possibly insert a bit of an undercurrent of unease that's most visible when no kids are nearby. But even the kids know that SOMETHING'S up, just not quite what, yet. Ya know? Possibly even have it so that Reede is sort of exaggerating his end of the Reede/Cece conflict for that reason. (Which, btw, I'd still keep the whole Cece Hat thing, but have it so Link absolutely roasts her regarding the hair & make-up choice. Like, shame her. Because, good grief Cece!)

Also, you may wanna consider having Reede set up a curfew, that way, you can maybe make the nighttime attack of the Stals on the Sun Pumpkins into a more serious issue. Like, it isn't just the pumpkin patches they're attacking, but the town itself. Possibly have some of the new militia set up at what's left of Fort Hateno to do what they can to curb the bulk of it? (Btw, why is there no Stalynel??? And, can you imagine actual elemental Lynels? And a Staltantula boss in the Depths? That'd not only be so flipping cool, but also complete nightmare fuel!!!)

But, regardless, if it was too peaceful for your tastes, try shifting the tone so that it's more of a strained, maybe even slightly delusional peace? Think about it this way, these people had been tormented by the Calamity for 100 years & only recently did that nightmare end.

It wouldn't be surprising if a lot of the civies tried to keep up a veneer of peace in a vain attempt to try & maintain hold on the fraying edges of that tranquility. (I think I've brought this up as a possibility already, just with Zelda...)

Now a dungeon in Necluda is an idea I can get behind! Love that idea!

Oh, heavens! Yes! Absolutely, same! Like, don't get me wrong. I don't mind strong women or tomboyish girls or maybe 1 or 2 strong women that aren't interested in relationships. But not the absolutely flipping wave of them that we've had lately! And, you know what? Yeah, I'm very similar. It's part of why I made my oc the way I did.

Actually, I'd like to bring up something that someone else mentioned a bit ago! Did you notice the hairstyles & designs of the Gerudo in TotK's past? If you notice, most of them weren't really very feminine. And, this suggests that they probably weren't dressing to “attract the male gaze.” But, (& this is me switching to canonical TotK game talk) if that's the case & the Gerudo had also been in a war with the other denizens of Hyrule before Rauru came like I theorize, then this makes you wonder how they were getting males.

Just something to think about. Like, I know what my theory is, but I'm not so sure how dark you wanna go with their portrayal. Because, trust me, I can go SUPER dark. 😈

I tend to think similar, personally. But, for me, I tend to look at examples where a singular old man defeats an entire professional women's soccer team IRL & think quietly to myself that, despite being much taller than most male Hylians, I actually think that a single well-trained Gerudo vai would only be around as strong as a single well-trained Hylian male. And, she'd likely need to utilize her greater height against him to win. But, once more, that's just me.

As for the Rito, I tend to think that the scales from Valoo was how the Zora were initially transformed & that this new design for them is just how they evolved afterwards. Not in that this is how they evolved after WW, as I know you're not going that route, but more so that maybe something similar happened that required some of the Zora to transform into Rito in your timeline. And then, after that initial transformation, generations pass with the Rito slowly gaining more & more bird-like features alongside the remaining Zora also further evolving.

And, I actually think it's a great opportunity to have the Ancient Sage of Wind, alongside the Ancient Rito being much closer in design to WW Rito, so as to showcase that there was a change. Same with the Ancient Sage of Water & the Ancient Zora being closer to either the OoT or TP designs. Or maybe even have Zelda discover that there were once 2 tribes of Zora with the Zora of the modern day being the descendants of both?

Remember that your gonna be sending the girl at least 10,000 years into the past. Also, something else to play with? The possibility of the Ancient Goron still learning Ancient Hylian, because they had only recently resurfaced from living in Gorondia. So, I’d like to think that they’d be learning the language.

Also, I totally see Zelda frantically creating a sort of underground study with a vault of specimens, including seeds, maybe even have a few smaller critters in containment cells? Ooo!!!

Oh, wait… I forget… You're not doing the Secret Stone thing, are you? If you were, I'd have suggested making it so the Stones just sort of enhance their powers & gives them a specific ability like the ones in the game, but that it doesn't prevent the owners from learning other abilities of a similar nature. So, I guess that what I'm saying is that Zelda could've learned how to use Stasis after lmastering Recall, ya know? Though, if you're having it so that the Sheikah Slate is still a thing, maybe you could make it so that she figures out a way to use the Stasis Rune to make those containment cells. That way, she can sort of… Oh, gosh! I think that I'm essentially creating an entire dungeon! One based on Noah’s Ark! But one that travels the sea of time! XD

What if that's the dungeon in Necluda?! What if it's this massive facility in the Necluda Depths that's essentially a massive museum, library, zoo, & botany vault! That's totally the sort of thing that Zelda would flippin' do!

Anyway, I get what you're getting at with not wanting to make the Gerudo outcasts, but eeeh… I dunno. I guess that I feel like they're outcasts anyway & that it's kinda because of their own choices. Like, just their culture as an all-female race that keeps their daughters seperated from their fathers is going to make them as such.

Though, for me, part of the reason for my depiction of them as being cursed is somewhat so I can have that curse broken eventually. Like, to me, it's really little more than an opportunity that I'm trying to use in order to highlight the fact that they once had even worse practices & that it resulted in karma coming to bite them. However, because of that & their humbling, there's supposed to be a slow progression of their depictions over the timelines being something like a case study in how all cultures, all societies, have black spots & things to be ashamed of. But that it doesn't have to be the end &, in fact, the Gerudo are much much improved. So, there's hope.

You know a sort of race wide redemption arc!

As such, my point in it is, I guess, using it as motivation for the Gerudo to improve as a people.

Also, & I know it was more of a joke on your part, but at the same time, if you do go with the idea that the Sand Goddess made Gerudo voe so that the vai only get something nice to look at every hundred years, then you should probably consider how that would affect the voe, as well as the overall perceptions of the vai towards males in-general because of it. Specifically, imagine it from the perspective of the voe. What if your creator made you to have no real purpose beyond looking nice? Imagine that your entire existence revolved around that alone.

Depressing.

And if this were how it was, then the default preconceptions of the vai would automatically be, "men only exist for the enjoyment/use of women." Like, not even for the sake of reproduction because, again, like you said, they didn't need men to reproduce. So, the voe wouldn't even really have that until after the Sand Goddess was killed. And then, well…

The concenssus would likely have become deeply rooted in their ideologies (case in point, that one OoT Gerudo who mentioned that she thought Ganondorf was the only man worth anything). Then, it might've eventually resulted in a culture of misandristic exploitation not unlike one particular depiction of the Amazons of Greek myth. Possibly even culminating in a few generations where the 1 voe sort of becomes what amounts to a slave king & the designated stud for that specific generation. Likely even acting as a kind of feminist reversal of the orientalist harem trope. (And yes, I am fully aware of how yeesh that sounds. Because it IS.)

Also, there's the question of if the Gerudo were made to never need men & the centennial voe was little more than eye candy, then why the legend saying that he was destined to be king? Why the worship in OoT? Literally, how did he get so bad in OoT, HW, & TotK???

Does the legend refer to a true king or more so a pretty figurehead in a pretty crown? Like, maybe he was instead meant to act as the Gerudo queen's handsome arm-candy? A trophy husband or a sort of proof of her legitimacy as queen? Maybe even it being said that a vehvi produced from 2 Gerudo was thought to be exceptional or usher in some sort of Golden Age for the Gerudo.

I'm not saying don't. Just... maybe be aware of the implications these sorts of choices have & prepare yourself accordingly?

And, this one is more out of personal curiosity than anything: What does this choice say about the Sand Goddess? What did the choice to create the Gerudo as nothing but women with only one male every century, where the vai, rather than mating with men, instead went to the Sand Goddess in order to reproduce: What does it say about her & her intentions?

Why did she decide this? Did she have bad experiences with males that led her to do this, possibly believing that she was sparing her creations from grief? Is she an example of a tragic biggot? In this case, a misandrist who legitimately hates males of any kind, believing that they were the source of all the ills in the world, & wanted to create a species where they were commodities & treated as lesser? (An example of Tragic Bigotry. A very interesting way to make the typical bigotry thing more complicated than just “bigots are just jerks, who cares why?”) Or did she do this so that the Gerudo would be forever reliant upon her?

While it may not seem important, you'd actually be very surprised how it can spawn new ideas to explore the underlying reasoning behind these sorts of decisions.

Heck, if you go the route of the second choice, that could easily end up being an underlying reason to why Ganondorf can almost never seem to escape from his role, because in this case (though she likely wouldn't have meant it as such), it could be due to the Sand Goddess' perception of men becoming the basis for Gerudo voes' nature. In such a situation, Gerudo voe would've been created to be subjugated. Otherwise, they risk becoming too ambitious & devolving into demons. Because it would literally be the subconscious belief of the Sand Goddess, which could’ve bled into her creations without her realizing it.

Now, again, I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but I think it's important to at least acknowledge the thought process.

And, one final thing. I don't know if you brought this up before, but I think it's something that you’ll likely need to keep in mind when characterizing your version of Ganondorf.

Namely, how much of the Calamity did he have control over?

And, I need to really bring this into perspective. This… it was absolutely horrific.

Judging by the population density map, the Calamity resulted in the deaths of upwards of thousands of people.

And that’s no small number. Castle Town was sundered. And 7 entire settlements were destroyed, leaving Central Hyrule completely unpopulated. And Deya was the largest of them, but according to what I’m seeing, literally no one survived Deya.

If that’s the case, then that doesn’t just mean soldiers. It means E.V.E.R.Y.O.N.E…

Like, just take a moment to meditate on exactly how utterly horrible that is.

That means men, women, the elderly, the infirm, children, infants, pregnant mothers. Yes, I know, it's horrible. But, it's also canon.

Like, & I'm really sorry for this, but I really do think that it very much encapsulates my thoughts on what happened in the Calamity. Guilty of Wrath

Warning, it's actually pretty graphic.

Like, for me, I just think that it's really important to really take in the full scope of what happened & to properly characterize the Ganondorf that caused all of it, to ask just how aware he was of it all.

Because, I'm seriously considering making this part of my official canon for Meeting One's Match. (Not the part where Link is dead, but most everything else? Yeah, though I'm thinking of letting Rauru take the place of Link in this. Let him be the petty one to deal the final blow to Ganondorf’s psyche. However, now that I'm thinking about it. I may make him backed up by Sonia & the other Sages, then just before they leave, the Sage of Lightning points behind Ganondorf & he snaps around… Only to be met with a veritable sea of spirits… And he's suddenly forced to acknowledge the sheer amount of death that he caused… Ooohoohoohoo! This reminds me of a REALLY amazing one-shot idea I had! But we can talk about that later!)

Like, in my interpretation of events, I'm sort of making it so that he doesn't really know. As in, he was sealed underground &, I guess, sort of allowed his Miasma to run wild with a mindset of “just break everything. Break all of their toys,” but he never really thought about the full concequences of that choice. Never thought of the implications of his own words in certain scenes or what their logical conclusion would be.

So, in my story, one of the final hurdles that he's going to need to face will, in a way, be himself.

As, I'm sort of going with the idea of how hatred is an insatiable beast that keeps demanding more & the more you feed it the bigger it gets until you suddenly realize that it's taken on a life of its own & you no longer have any control over it. And I guess that I feel like it's important to nail down whether your Ganondorf really knew what he was causing. Like, for me, if he knew & was aware of the full scope of his crimes & was… I dunno… unaffected by it, then I just don't think that having him care about the Gerudo will be realistic. Like, it takes a very specific level of psycho to knowingly commit that sort of just… Horror.

Like, the Calamity was outright a flipping genocide, man. The Guardians weren't stopping. They would've eradicated Hateno too, which would've, at the time, left only Shadow Hamlet, Lurelin, & Tabantha Village. And we don't even know if they would've stopped with Hateno. We don't know if they would've stopped until the only one left alive was Ganondorf himself.

So, I feel like it's kinda important to establish whether your Ganondorf was genocidal in a very literal way. If he was, then I just don't see much hope for him coming across as any degree of sympathetic.

@aikoiya The post was getting long again so here's a new one!

I knew you were going to answer that saying "this is unfair" isn't real life logic haha (and I agree that life hasn't been fair to Sky and Sun anyway). It's just that such an ending would probably leave me feeling unsatisfied and even a bit robbed, and I think it would require a lot of other changes to be made to the story in order for it to work properly. But anyway you're right, as things are now this would just be happening behind the scenes so what I'm saying doesn't really make sense. But just thinking about it changes my perception of SS in a way I don't really enjoy, so it's not a theory I favor.

Yes in that setting I'm pretty sure that the other Sun would not make herself known to Link and Zelda and would let them have their happy ending. But I think Zelda would likely suspect her existence and know that something is wrong. I guess even Link could notice that the Temple's doors are suddenly open and would ask Impa a few questions.

I had no idea Tingle called Farore the Goddess of Wind in WW, so I went on a little quest to see if I could find the same quote in the French version of the game. Apparently it's in Tingle's description of Outset Island and I never had the chance to play with the Tingle Tuner mode. I can't find the same quote in French anywhere and I don't even know if this was included in the HD remake (I guess I'll have to wait for a Switch version to find out… if they ever release one). This has me wondering if this quote isn't something exclusive to the English version, but I can't be sure and I'd like to know what the original Japanese text says. The French wikis mention that Farore is the Goddess of Wind in WW but don't provide any quote, it just looks like the pages were translated from English but that they couldn't find the same quote in French. It's really frustrating!!

Anyway that's a bit weird because WW already establishes Zephos as the God of Wind, and he seems to be a minor deity compared to Farore. The way I see it, wind is just the element that Farore tends to be associated with, and since a lot of myths might have been lost with Hyrule in WW this could just be a mistake on Tingle's part. I mean this is the game that gave us the Golden Triumph Forks haha.

I'm not limiting Nayru/the Golden Goddesses to a singular domain, quite the opposite ^^ To me Nayru being the Goddess of Wisdom includes different concepts such as order, law, science, magic, etc., and even time (since she's introduced as the creator of the world's fondamental laws), while calling her the Goddess of Time doesn't include all of that. That's why I wrote that I found it a bit restrictive. But sure she could have both titles, the same way Farore could be known most commonly as the Goddess of Courage and also called the Goddess of Wind in some situations.

Oh I didn't think of the blocks from OoT! I would say though that they don't really use any time powers, they're just random blocks that appear or disappear for some reason when Link plays the Song of Time (it's just as absurd as playing the Song of Storms to open holes in the ground haha). But yes they were blue and associated with time, and of course Nayru is too. The difference with Hylia in my theory is that Nayru created the rules of time (if that makes sense) among other fundamental laws, while Hylia's power specifically allows her to manipulate time and foresee the future. In a way I see Hylia as Nayru's spiritual daughter who inherited some of her powers over time (and that's why the color purple she's represented with is very close to blue).

The Master Sword has also been depicted as either blue or purple though, so that asks the question of the true color of all of these things! Nayru is definitely linked to time so it makes sense that the timeshift stones are in Lanayru (and Hylia also doesn't have a province named after her).

"From the edge of time" could definitely just be a poetic way to say that Hylia kind of recorded a message for Link before dying haha. But I find it interesting that she would phrase it like that, I like to see it as a clue.

Well if Zelda simply sent Link to a point further back in time, wouldn't there be two Links existing at the same time in the Child Timeline? But sure Zelda creating a brand new timeline also raises a few questions that kind of... make my head hurt. I'm not sure what happens exactly, I've always wondered! All we know is that Link finds himself in the Master Sword's chamber with the Door of Time already open, which hints at things happening in a different way this time (because he definitely doesn't have the three spiritual stones and the Ocarina of Time yet since this is before Ganon's coup, and the ending seems to imply that this timeline's Zelda doesn't know him yet). That's why I believe Zelda might have done something a bit more complex than sending him to a point further back in time, but there's no way to be sure. The Triforce of Courage is also visible on Link's hand during the ending, and we also know thanks to TP that the Triforce is still separated in the Child Timeline despite Link and Zelda preventing Ganon from entering the Sacred Realm this time. So maybe Zelda isn't able to change everything? It's complicated haha.

Anyway, whether OoT Zelda creates a new timeline or just sends Link further back in time, that's still huge time powers and that's not something Link is able to do by playing Zelda's Lullaby.

I also believe it is more likely that Talon inherited the ranch. True, Talon might not always have been so lazy, but maybe if that was the case the game could have hinted at hit. All we know is that he leaves his daughter alone with Ingo and only comes back after Link deals with the situation, which does not make him look so great. And he only promises to work harder after that.

I'm kind of bad with names so I'm impressed you're going through all of that trouble to rename the settlements!!

I haven't gotten to developping the technology that much yet, but I'm really interested in seeing what the different races could do with it! I love the idea of using the Sheikah to infiltrate the Yiga bases. I wish TotK had done something like that and shown the Sheikah helping Link that way.

Same, I was so excited when I heard about these pirates… and then so disappointed to find nothing more than a bunch of bokos with no backstory.

Vignoble is not related to noble (though I kind of make the association in my mind, especially since vignobles are sometimes called châteaux).

Yes I thought you could maybe use clos! Aquaticlos is funny, it can work! Though maybe you could use the same logic as for the raisins (I love this Raisins de Terre idea by the way, it makes sense!) and say that what the Zoras call a clos already refers to something that's underwater, since that's probably the case for most of what they cultivate.

I don't mind helping you with French, I'm glad to do so! You put so much effort and thought into this, it's really interesting.

[aroacettorney]

what got me so insanely angsty about the relationship between ludger and casey is that it's not even subtext. it's literally in the text that are their own words.

they canonically enjoy the other person's company.

they canonically believe the other person is one of a very few who could understand them.

they canonically understand each other, from personalities and capabilities to behaviors and thoughts.

ludger canonically regrets ruining their relationship.

casey canonically wishes to mend their relationship.

they canonically want(ed) this relationship.

[dirtydoctorwho]

not that im stalking ur blog or anything.... but crack ship River/Peggy? i am in morbid need of content

Enemies to lovers 100k haha jk .... unless?

[mbat]

okay i love the emotionally stupid gay men as much as the next guy (clearly) but man it was actually so refreshing to hear, explicitly in repeatable words!, that a character loves the other romantically and undeniably.

like, i get whats happening when characters dont say it in words, right? its been the way of doing things for years for reasons, but nowadays its mainly 'the character hasnt realized how they feel yet' or 'theyre in denial of how they feel' or 'they cant find it in them to say it out loud yet' and hey, those are all fine! theyre so super fun and add to the drama and story

but holy shit to actually hear stede be like 'the man i love is ed' (paraphrasing) like got damn and in the first season too??

just. what an absolute treat. didnt realize i wanted that until i got it. thank you.

[galindatopland]

frankly and i'll say it. s2 of arcane sadly made it feel a lot more like she-ra with better animation than adult animation the way s1 did feel

[br1ghtestlight]

I can't even be mad bcuz there's not that much ableism in bobs burgers.... everybody kinda loves tina without question. Same for all the kids

[deiscension]

Isn't it crazy how M.itski's Nobody is a deep dive on SQX's character development.... 'I just want somebody near me / Guess I'm a coward / I just want to feel alright'. 'And I know no one will save me.'

The heartache of realizing you never knew what it was like to be wanted, you didn't even know what it was like to be needed, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway because what you had wasn't yours and you still took it. You still took it and you couldn't give it back even when you tried because you weren't strong enough to say the right name when it mattered the most and you weren't brave or just enough to understand and condemn the one who poured blood all over your hands when he handed you a fate you were undeserving of. And really what does it say about you that you mourn what was despite the fact it never should have been? What does it say about you that even when you had it all there were pieces missing? Of course you'd never turn to resentment. That's not who you are, it never has been. It's not your right either. You'll find a way to die happy but that's not really the same as peace or contentment. Are you allowed to want after you've had? Hard to say.

[widevibratobitch]

need to reread dorian gray... basil hallward my beautiful faggot girlfriend i miss you so much

[dontmindme2600]

Bro all this discourse about the casting in the new Lilo and Stitch remake is. Something. Listen I know people all have different stages of media literacy and subtext doesn’t come easy to a lot of people, but I literally understood more about how Nani’s identity as a native Hawaiian impacts the plot as a 7 year old than some people do AS GROWN ASS ADULTS

[cutemeat]

@nightcrawlerzincorporated Exactly the point i was making with this post thank u 🥹💛

Season 6 // Season 16

[rustedpipe]

no because if you ever want to experience blind unspeakable rage watch all of lost and then go on the internet and see people talk about kate austen

[starry-bi-sky]

SURPRISE! I am still not done thinking about this.

-------

Danny has a problem.

No, actually he has two problems.

Three problems?

Four. All of them are related, and all of them are loosely connected to one another. Half of them are long-term, somewhat passive problems. Passive in the sense that he is not actively being bothered by it right this moment.

The other half are twins and are currently giving him active, in-the-moment 'oh shit' problems.

He ducks under Red Robin's bō, one hand secured tightly onto his backpack full of stolen tech -- tech being a loose term, he thinks. -- and, keeping half-a-mind on the weight imbalance, loosens a kick to birdie's face.

"You missed." He comments, his brain-to-mouth filter failing him as it normally does in fights, and watches as Red Robin manages to get out of the way in time before his heel can meet his jaw. Danny uses that pause and brief change in distance to righten his footing, and widen that distance between them both.

Well, as much as he can with the two of them on a rooftop. He needs to get off of here before reinforcements show up.

Red Robin twirls his staff, the action unsurprisingly graceful and just as threatening, and Danny politely ignores the thrill it rushes down his spine. "You too."

It's not often that Danny steals tech in Gotham, but he's pretty sure that in the handful of times he's been here, he's managed to firmly situate himself as a member of Red Robin's Rogues Gallery. Which; great, fantastic. It's not his fault that red-winged blackbird over there was always the one to catch up with him first.

How the hell did this happen when he doesn't frequent Gotham for his heists half as much as the other cities?

If it wasn't already obvious: Danny's current, active two problems are Red Robin. The first being that he was being pursued by him, the second, however?

Danny's pretty sure he's developing some kind of crush.

Red lunges at him, and on the downswing of his staff, Danny makes his backpack weightless and all but pirouettes out of the way. Reaching out to yank on Red Robin's cape hard enough that he loses his balance.

He usually has a strategy for these fights to avoid gathering more attention than he already has, and revealing the full extent of his powers!

That strategy is: Avoid getting socked, toss them around a little if need be, and then get the hell out of dodge the moment he can!

The uneducated may call it cowardly. Danny calls it a proportional response. Nobody kills a spider with a flamethrower.

As for that crush -- don't ask him how it happened. He doesn't know-- okay that's a lie. It's a complete and utter lie and Danny knows it. He knows why.

He'd like to say that it's because of his ghost half -- instincts, habits, new behavioral changes that result in his very physiology being altered. But that would ALSO be a lie. Danny just has weird fucking taste and he knows it.

There was a running theme, and he can deny it no longer!

He has a type for obsessive little freaks intent on ruining his day.

Valerie Gray: local ghost hunter who he (accidentally) ruined the life of, and who in turn swore vengeance against him and all ghosts. Obsessed with routinely kicking his ass whatever chance she gets.

Wes Weston (a crush he will take to his fucking GRAVE): Discovered his secret identity on accident, vowed to reveal it to the rest of school. Now obsessively stalks him any chance he gets. Danny has routinely stolen his camera to otherwise delete, destroy, or steal the photos he has on it.

(Danny's crush on Wes Weston completely blindsided him, and lasted him all the way up to the moment Danny was unceremoniously dumped into another dimension. Sam already gives him enough shit for dating Valerie, he can't imagine what she'd do if she found out he was crushing on the boy intent on revealing his secret identity.)

(His only excuse is that Wes' cringefail attitude, sheer dedication, and stalkerish tendencies charmed him. He never said it was a good excuse.)

And now Red Robin.

But there was another running theme, for Danny specifically, when it came to his crushes. Now a safe distance away again, Danny's mouth tilts into a cocky smile and his heart thuds loud in his ears. "You're off your A-game tonight, Red. Something got your feathers all clipped?"

That is: mercilessly teasing his crush. Danny genuinely can't explain it, but riling up the object of his affections created a thrill like no other. Something about seeing their faces turn cherry red and their pupils dilate. It's like a lion watching a limping gazelle across the savannah, the smell of blood urging it to pursue.

Birdie did not blush easy, but by the gods, Danny had fun trying.

Red Robin huffs, shooting back at him a sarcastic smile while he readjusts the grip on his bō. They circle around each other; "Just missed you, Luci. Heard you hit up one of Luthor's warehouses last month, I'm hurt, we've got perfectly good tech here."

Luci. Short for Illusa, which in turn is, apparently, a term for 'illusion'. Danny did not pick out the name, it -- like all his interactions with the media -- was assigned to him. He has to hand it to the guy who coined the name though; it's leagues above something like Inviso-Bill and Ghost Boy.

He huffs a low laugh, ignoring the flippity-flop of his heart as a croon rises in the back of his throat. "Don't be too mad at me, cat-food. Lexie had something I wanted." He adjusts his backpack so it fit more comfortably on his shoulders. Bits and bobbles he needed to build his portal gun. Wires, scrap metal, gadgets and gizmos he could take apart for their parts. Thats what he needs.

"And that is?" In the dim lighting, Danny watches the edges of Red Robin's mask raise like an eyebrow.

His smile turns sharp, baring. His mouth moves before his brain does; "Come over here for a kiss, pretty bird, and I might just tell you."

Danny Is An Alternate Version Of Ra's Al Ghul And Flash Already Called Dibs On Adopting Him

Danny In All His Sleep Deprived Slightly Scuffed Up From A Fight Glory Is On His Way To Clockworks Tower To Hopefully Get A Nap And Maybe Some Homework Done When A Natural Portal Opens Up In Front Of Him And Proceeds To Unceremoniously Drop Him In The DC Verse Just Outside Of Central City Before Promptly Closing Leaving A Tired Danny Behind In A Run Down Abandoned Parking Lot.

It's Times Like This When Danny Regrets Putting Off Learning How To Make His Own Portals, Cause Now He Is Very Much Stuck For The Foreseeable Future And He Has No Idea Where Or When He Is. Luckily For Him However Central City Isn't Too Far Away, Unlucky For Him However Is That Once In The City He Realizes This Isn't His Dimension. He's Pretty Sure He'd Remember Something Called The Justice League.

So What Do You Do When Supernatural Bullshit Fails You? You Fall Back On Your Mad Scientist Roots And You Make A Portal Gun. So That's Exactly What Danny Plans To Do.

Unfortunately Staying Alive And Building Questionably Safe Portal Technology Requires Money And Supplies, So He Ends Up Wandering From City To City Doing Odd Jobs/Fixing Up Busted Tech For Cash Or Unwanted Electronics For His "Operation: Get Home" Needs. This Obviously Ends In A Few Superhero Encounter Shenanigans.

Though He Always Ends Up Back Near Central City, Both On The Off Chance The Natural Portal Will Open Up Again And Because Out Of All The Superheroes That Apparently Exist In This Universe The Speedsters Are His Favorite (Red Robin Is Solidly His Second Favorite Ever Since The Gotham Vigilante Gave Him A Large Coffee Filled With Enough Caffeine To Kill A Man).

Unbeknownst To Danny However Is That Every Hero/Vigilante He Has Encountered Has Come To At Least One Of The Following Conclusions; 1. Run Away Meta Who Is In Desperate Need Of A Good Meal/Adoption Bait. 2. Possibly Red Robin/Tim Drake Clone 3. A Good Kid But Could Possibly Be A Future Rouge If Left Unsupervised. 4. Did Bats Get A New Kid And Why Is He Here?

All Flash Knows Is That He Saw The Kid First And Therefore Has Dibs. Suck It Bruce.

Fast-forward A Few Months And Danny Gets Hurt During A Rogue Attack While Trying To Help Some Civilians Get To Safety (Old Hero Habits Die Hard (Ha Die Hard) And All That Jazz) And He Nopes Out Once Everyone Is Safe And When The Paramedics Are Busy With Other People Unaware He Left A Blood Sample Behind.

One DNA Test Brought To You By Paranoid Bat Concerns Of A Possible Red Robin Clone Later And They Find Out That Dannys DNA Matches One Ra's Al Ghul.

They Now Think Danny Is An Escaped Ra's Al Ghul Clone.

Memes For The Vibes: