Chapter Text
Chapter One —
A Stranger in the Kitchen
The kitchen was alive with heat and noise.
Knives clattered against cutting boards, pans hissed as oil spat, and the heavy scent of garlic, butter, and meat clung to the air. Orders were shouted over the roar of the stoves, and every station was in chaos—exactly the way Lee Minho preferred it.
He stood at the center of it all, sharp-eyed and unyielding. The head chef. The owner. The perfectionist. Nothing escaped his notice, and nothing less than excellence was allowed to leave his kitchen.
“Seungmin, that sauce is split—redo it. Hyunjin, if you keep cutting onions like that, I’ll have you serve them raw to the customers and explain yourself.”
Minho’s voice cracked through the noise like a whip. His team groaned but obeyed.
It was a system that worked, most of the time. But lately, the sheer volume of work—between in-house dining, deliveries, and their new catering branch—was stretching everyone thin. Tempers flared, patience ran out, and even Minho could feel the cracks forming in his meticulously crafted order.
Felix was the first to say it aloud.
“We can’t keep this up, hyung. We need help.”
Minho didn’t even glance away from the plate he was correcting. “What we need is focus. No strangers in my kitchen.”
Felix set down his piping bag with a dramatic sigh. “Not a stranger—just someone to do the easy stuff. Chopping vegetables, running plates, washing fruit. A boy for everything. That’s all.”
“I said no.”
“You’re impossible.” Felix huffed, looking to the others for backup. Changbin immediately chimed in from the grill station.
“If I have to keep peeling potatoes on top of marinating meat, I’ll lose my mind.”
“Same here,” Hyunjin added, waving his knife dangerously close to Jeongin’s elbow. “I’m gonna stab someone soon, and it won’t be intentional.”
“Not helping!” Jeongin yelped, swatting him away.
Even Seungmin, usually calm, muttered, “We could use an extra pair of hands, chef.”
Minho pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated when they ganged up on him. The kitchen was his temple, his sanctuary. He didn’t want an outsider disrupting its rhythm. But before he could snap back, Felix spoke again—this time with something more specific.
“What about Chan’s friend?”
That made Minho pause.
Felix pressed on, eyes bright. “He just moved back from Malaysia. He’s looking for a job. And honestly, hyung, he’s perfect for this. He’ll do the small things, he’s reliable, and Chan swears by him.”
“Felix—”
“No, listen!” Felix cut him off, unusually firm. “He’s nice. Really nice. I think you’ll like him.”
And almost like fate, Chan himself pushed through the swinging kitchen door, clipboard in hand. “Who will like who?”
Felix beamed. “We were just talking about Jisung. Hyung, tell him.”
Chan blinked, then laughed, catching on. “Oh, Jisung? Yeah, he’s great. Adorable, hardworking—Minho, you’ll get along with him. Trust me.”
Minho’s jaw tightened.
“Fine,” Minho muttered at last. “He can come in for a trial. But one slip, and he’s out.”
Felix grinned triumphantly. “Deal.”
—
The kitchen was running at full throttle.
Orders piled up, pans sizzled, and voices overlapped in a chorus of urgency. Minho moved like a conductor through it all, sharp and commanding, his presence keeping the chaos from collapsing completely.
“Jeongin, stop,” Minho said firmly, catching the youngest mid-motion. He stepped in close, eyeing the pan Jeongin was handling. “You’re crowding the meat. When you pile too much in at once, it steams instead of sears. Start again—half the portion, high heat. You want color, not gray.”
Jeongin flushed, muttering a quick “Yes, chef,” as Minho demonstrated the proper technique with swift, efficient movements. Stern, exacting, but not unkind.
“Good. Now try it,” Minho instructed, stepping back but watching closely, his sharp gaze tracking every flick of Jeongin’s wrist.
He was just about to correct another detail when Chan’s voice cut through the noise.
“Minho, a second?”
With his attention still half on Jeongin, Minho turned—and froze.
Chan wasn’t alone.
Standing beside him was someone new, someone Minho hadn’t prepared for. A boy with wide, shining eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His lips looked soft, almost pouty, and his oversized work clothes—probably borrowed from Chan—hung awkwardly off his smaller frame, swallowing him whole. It should have looked sloppy, but somehow, it made him even cuter.
Minho stared. Stared and couldn’t stop staring. The words on his tongue dissolved, leaving him strangely mute.
Chan shifted awkwardly, breaking the spell. “Uh—Minho, this is Han Jisung. My childhood friend. We grew up together.” He gave Jisung a fond look before continuing, “He’s hardworking, trustworthy, and… I think you two will get along just fine. Don’t let him scare you,” Chan added to Jisung, smirking. “Minho’s bark is worse than his bite. Most of the time.”
Jisung gave a shy nod, offering his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Minho managed to shake it, though his brain was still short-circuiting. His palm was warm, too warm, and the only thought pounding in his head was how unfairly beautiful Jisung looked standing there in clothes that didn’t fit him.
Before Minho could string a coherent sentence together, a shriek echoed from the pastry station.
“Sungie?!”
Felix came barreling across the kitchen, nearly knocking over a tray of tarts in his rush. He threw his arms around Jisung, hugging him so tightly that Jisung stumbled a little.
“Felix!” Jisung laughed, squeezing him back.
“I missed you so much!” Felix beamed, clinging to him. “Come on, I’ll show you around.” Without giving either of them time to react, he dragged Jisung off toward the pastry corner, already chattering a mile a minute.
And just like that, Minho was left standing there—speechless, bewildered, and still watching the way Jisung’s smile lit up the room.
—
Minho didn’t move for a moment. The kitchen buzzed around him as if nothing had happened—orders being called, pans clattering—but his focus was elsewhere, still fixed on the image of Jisung’s smile.
He shouldn’t have been staring. He knew that. He was the head chef, the anchor of this chaos, the one who demanded precision from everyone else. And yet, the second his eyes landed on Han Jisung, all that discipline cracked.
The details replayed in his head, unbidden: the way the oversized uniform hung loose on Jisung’s frame, sleeves nearly swallowing his hands; the sparkle in those wide brown eyes; lips soft and pouty like they’d been made to ruin his focus. Cute. Pretty. Too pretty. Dangerously pretty.
Minho exhaled sharply through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
He was supposed to be training Jeongin, double-checking sauce consistency, watching for mistakes. Instead, his brain was stuck on the new boy who had just walked in and turned him into an idiot.
“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, forcing himself to turn back to Jeongin’s station.
But even as he corrected the youngest’s sear again, Minho’s gaze flickered—just once, just for a second—toward the pastry corner where Felix was excitedly showing Jisung around.
And there it was. That laugh. Bright, easy, and already filling his kitchen like it had always belonged there. His hair fell over his forehead in soft waves, his cheeks round and pink from the heat of the kitchen. He was—Minho’s chest tightened—pretty.
Minho clenched his jaw. He had no time for this. Not tonight, not ever.
So why did it feel like he was already in trouble?
—-
The rest of Minho’s day went smoother than it had in weeks.
The kitchen, normally tense and brittle by this hour, felt inexplicably lighter. The others had taken to the newcomer at once—Hyunjin teasing him between knife strokes, Seungmin showing him how to check sauce temperatures, Jeongin passing him cucumbers to peel just so he could complain less about it. Even Changbin, usually gruff when overworked, was caught laughing at something Jisung said.
Jisung didn’t shy away from any of it. He smiled through Felix’s relentless chatter, listened earnestly when Seungmin gave instructions, and somehow managed to make even the simplest task—lining eclairs, arranging fruit slices—look like he belonged here. His laughter rang out now and then, soft and warm, curling into the corners of the kitchen like a ribbon.
Minho caught himself staring more than once. Staring when Jisung leaned over the counter to watch Hyunjin plate a dish, when he smiled shyly at Changbin’s jokes, when his hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it back with the back of his wrist, smudging flour onto his cheek. It was infuriating how easily the boy had settled into his space. His kitchen.
“You seem more open to strangers in your kitchen today.”
Minho blinked, dragged back to the present. Changbin had sidled up beside him at the grill, smirk tugging at his lips.
“He’s Chan’s friend,” Minho said evenly, straightening a pan. “He got a good recommendation.”
“Bet he’ll get yours soon too.”
Changbin’s grin was obnoxious. Minho shot him a sharp glare, which only made him laugh.
The truth was, the kitchen was running smoother than usual. Orders went out on time. The stress was manageable. No one got barked at more than twice. And Minho himself—though he’d never admit it aloud—felt the unfamiliar edge of calm. Not because the work had changed, but because, against all reason, his eyes kept straying to the boy who had.
—
By the time service wound down and the last pans were scrubbed clean, the kitchen buzz had mellowed into the low hum of exhaustion. Most of the staff drifted out in groups, still laughing about small jokes shared during the rush. Minho stayed behind a few minutes longer, checking inventory like he always did, just to make sure nothing had slipped.
When he finally stepped into the locker room, he wasn’t expecting to run into anyone else.
But there he was.
Jisung was crouched in front of one of the benches, tugging at his sneakers, hair damp from where he’d splashed water over his face. He looked up the moment the door clicked shut behind Minho, and his smile was immediate, disarming.
“Hi.”
It was simple, but it knocked the air out of Minho all the same. He cleared his throat, grasping for composure. “You, uh… you did a good job. For your first day.”
Jisung’s smile widened into something bright enough to sting. “Thanks.”
Minho’s chest tightened, and before the silence could stretch, he latched onto the first distraction that came to mind. “Do you… know your measurements? For the uniform.”
Jisung blinked, surprised. “Oh—really? I get a uniform already?” He grinned, clearly pleased. “Sure! I’m usually a medium to be comfortable, but for pants I need an XS at the waist. Unless I can just use a belt?”
The words made Minho glance down before he could stop himself. Jisung wasn’t in the oversized borrowed clothes anymore—he’d changed into his own. Washed-out baggy jeans, wide at the legs but clinging at the waist, and a diesel gray shirt that stuck lightly to his frame. It only emphasized just how small his waist was.
Minho’s pulse stuttered. For one humiliating second, his brain conjured an image he had no business entertaining: his own hand at Jisung’s hip, standing in as that belt.
He blinked hard. Twice. Dragging himself back to reality, he forced his voice steady. “I’ll have your uniform ready by next week.”
Jisung beamed again, easy and unbothered. “Thanks, chef.”
They exchanged goodbyes, and Minho slipped out first, the sound of that smile still ringing in his ears.