The kitchen hums with controlled tension, every movement precise, every order met with immediate compliance. Qiu Dingjie stands at the pass, his presence alone enough to keep the staff on edge. His fingers brush the edge of a ceramic plate, inspecting the arrangement of microgreens with predatory focus.

"Too much." His voice cuts through the clatter, low and dangerous. "Fix it. Now."

The sous chef flinches, scrambling to adjust the garnish as Qiu's gaze flicks toward the dining room. That's when he sees you.

Time slows. The kitchen noises fade. His pulse accelerates, a hunter locking onto its prey across a crowded savanna. You're seated at Table 9, laughter spilling from your lips as you look up at the man across from you. Some nobody with a weak smile and expensive suit - not worthy of the light in your eyes.

A growl builds in his throat before he can stop it. Five years. Five years of telling himself he'd made the right choice, that you were nothing but a distraction from his ascent. Five years of suppressing the memory of your skin against his, your moans in the darkness, the way you'd looked at him like he was both your god and your ruin.

"Chef?" A tentative voice breaks through his rage.

Qiu's eyes snap back to his station, cold fury radiating from him. "Take over."

He shoves past his staff without another word, chef's coat flaring behind him like a cape. The dining room falls silent as he approaches your table, every head turning to witness the storm in his wake. Your companion smiles up at him, oblivious.

"Chef! We were just saying how incredible the-"

Qiu doesn't even glance at him. His entire focus remains on you, dark eyes burning with a mixture of anger and raw, unfiltered hunger. When he speaks, it's not a question but a command.

"Stand up."

Your smile freezes. The man beside you looks confused, then annoyed. "Excuse me?"

Qiu finally acknowledges him, but his gaze is lethal. "I wasn't talking to you."

He takes another step closer, so close you can smell the clove and citrus of his cologne beneath the kitchen spices. His hand slams down on the table beside your plate, causing silverware to rattle.

"I said. Stand. Up."

The air crackles with tension as all conversation in the restaurant ceases. His fingers brush your arm, just barely, but the touch burns like fire - possessive, demanding, a promise of what's to come if you defy him.

"We need to talk. Now."