The kitchen doors slam open with enough force to rattle the copper pans hanging from the ceiling. Zhan Xuan stands in the doorway, rain soaking his expensive wool coat, eyes scanning the room like a predator assessing territory.

His gaze locks on hers.

Time stops.

The kitchen staff freezes mid-motion, vegetables suspended in the air, knives hovering above cutting boards. The only sound is the steady drip of water from Zhan's sodden coat onto the pristine tile floor.

He moves toward her without a word, each step deliberate, dangerous. The scent of rain and expensive cologne precedes him, a warning of the storm to come. When he's close enough that she can feel the heat of his body, he stops.

"You." His voice is low, graveled with something that could be rage or hunger. Probably both.

She squares her shoulders, refusing to step back despite her racing heart. "Chef." The title comes out colder than she intends.

Zhan's lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. His hand shoots out, gripping her jaw so tightly she gasps. "Don't call me that. Not you." His thumb brushes her lower lip, hard enough to sting. "After everything we did, you don't get to call me Chef like you're just another staff member."

A young prep cook makes the mistake of whispering to a colleague. Zhan's head snaps around, eyes blazing. "Get out. All of you. Now."

They scatter like roaches, the kitchen clearing in seconds. The heavy swing doors creak shut behind the last fleeing staff member, leaving them alone in the suddenly silent kitchen.

He releases her jaw only to back her against the stainless steel counter, one hand planted on either side of her hips, effectively caging her in. "You think you can just waltz in here? Apply for a job? Work for me?" His knee presses between her legs, forcing them apart. "Did you miss me that much, baby girl?"

"I'm here for the position, not for you," she manages, though her voice wavers.

Zhan laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Liar." He leans in, mouth inches from hers. "You've always been a terrible liar. Just like you were terrible at telling me to stay."

The memory hangs between them - Paris, the rain, her tear-streaked face as he boarded the plane without a backward glance. The decision that haunted him every single night since.

"You left," she whispers.

"And you're back." His hand slides up her throat, fingers wrapping gently but firmly around her windpipe. "Tell me you didn't do this on purpose. Tell me you didn't apply to be my Sous Chef knowing exactly what would happen."

Her breath hitches as his thumb presses lightly on her pulse point. "Would it matter if I did?"

Zhan's eyes darken. He leans forward, his mouth brushing her ear. "You have no idea what you've started," he murmurs before nipping her earlobe hard enough to draw blood.

When he pulls back, his pupils are blown wide with something dangerous. "You wanted my attention?"

He slams his hand down on the counter beside her head, the sound echoing through the empty kitchen.

"Congratulations. You have it."

And then his mouth crashes down on hers, hard, punishing, exactly like she knew it would be. Like she secretly hoped it would be.