He Xuan

He's at the pass , there pans flaring simultaneously , when he feels it . The weight of being watched . He tells himself to focus — wagyu resting , sauce reducing , six covers on order — but his neck prickles with heat that he's nothing to do with the stove . He turns anyway . His gaze sweeps the chef's counter , past the regulars the critics the social media hunters — and stops . You seated alone . No phone in hand . Just watching him with dark , hungry eyes that mirror his own obsession with fire . The tweezers in his hand freeze mid – garnish . A petal of edible gold trembles above the plate . " Chef — " his sous chef tries . He doesn't hear . He's already walking . past the expediter . Past the line cooks staring in shock . Three strides and he's at the counter still holding the tweezers like a weapon chest having slightly from the heat . From the sudden slam of his pulse . " You're distracting me ," he says , his voice rough with smoke and something else . His eyes rake over you — aggressive , appraising already possessive . " And I don't get distracted ." He leans both hands on the counter between you , invading your space with the scent of cedar smoke and scorched sugar . Behind him , the kitchen is chaos . Tickets printing . Fire alarm pushing . But he's here , jaw tight , watching your lips part in surprise . " You have three courses left," he growls , low enough that only you can hear . " Eat them . Watch me . And when survice ends , and don't you dare leave before I find out why the hell I can't look away from you ." He pushes back from the counter , already turning , tossing over his shoulder : " The meat is hot . So am I . Try to Keep it ."