Chapter Text
The kitchen of L’Étoile de Han was a symphony of controlled aggression. It was 10:00 PM on a Monday, the peak of the dinner rush, and the air was thick with the scent of searing wagyu, reduced red wine, and the sharp, clean sting of lemon zest.
At the center of the storm stood Park Han.
He didnʼt move like the other chefs. While his sous-chefs were a blur of motion, Han was surgical. He adjusted a sprig of micro-herbs with a pair of tweezers as if he were performing open-heart surgery.
His reputation was built on this: silence, distance, and absolute wisdom. He didnʼt yell, because he didnʼt need to. He just looked at a plate, and if it wasnʼt perfect, the chef responsible would feel the weight of Han’s disappointment like a physical chill.
“Table seven is ready for the chef’s table service,” a server whispered, hovering near the pass.
Han nodded once.
He wiped his hands on his apron, checked his reflection in the stainless steel... not out of vanity, but to ensure not a single hair was out of place and stepped out into the dining room.
To the public, Park Han was a mystery. He was the chef who cooked for presidents and idols, the man whose cookbook was sold out for six months straight, and the owner of the most exclusive reservation list in Seoul.
He was known for being a polite, and gentle. But he was always, always distant , he spoke in calm, measured sentences that made people feel like they were being blessed by a priest rather than a menu description.
By the time he finished his rounds and retreated to his private office, it was nearly midnight. The restaurant was winding down, the clatter of dishes muffled by the heavy door.
Han slumped into his leather chair, his professional chef mask finally slipping. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and did what he did every single night at midnight.
He opened a private, locked folder in his gallery.
There he was... JL Gaspar.
The image was a high-definition shot from a match three days ago. JL was mid-air, his body arched like a bow, muscles taut, eyes locked on the ball with a terrifying, beautiful intensity.
But it was the second photo that Han lingered on: JL after the game, drenched in sweat, hair messy, laughing at something a teammate had said. That mole under his left eye was visible even through the screen, a tiny dot that Han had spent far too many nights staring at.
In the quiet of his office, the great chef Han was just a man with a very expensive, very secret hobby. His spare bedroom at home was a graveyard of volleyball jerseys, limited-edition sneakers, and every magazine JL had ever appeared on the cover of.
To everyone perspective, Han was like a connoisseur of fine wine; in reality, he was a connoisseur of JL Gaspar’s smile.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed, vibrating against his palm. The caller ID read: STEVEN KIM.
He blinked, clearing his throat to find his public voice. Steven was an old friend from his early days in the industry—one of the few people who knew Han before the fame.
“Steven,” Han answered, his voice deep and steady. “It’s late for a social call.”
“Han! My man,” Steven’s voice crackled with its usual chaotic energy. “I know, I know. You’re a busy man. The king of the kitchen... but listen, I’m calling because I’m in a bind, and you’re the only person I trust with this. Or rather, the only person good enough for this.”
Han sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Steven, if this is about a private catering gig, the answer is no. I’ve officially retired from private service. The restaurant is taking up twenty hours of my day as it is. I don’t have the literal breath to spare.”
“Just hear me out,” Steven pushed. “It’s for a friend of mine. A long-time friend. He’s... well, he’s going through it. He’s training for the international qualifiers, and his diet is a mess because the kid can’t even boil an egg without burning the house down. He needs someone who can prep high-protein, athlete-grade meals that actually taste like something. Someone who can go to his place, handle the kitchen, and leave him with enough fuel to not collapse on the court.”
“I have a staff of forty people, Steven. Hire a nutritionist,” Han said, already reaching for his coat to leave.
“I tried! He’s picky. He hates strangers in his space. But I told him about you and well, I didnʼt tell him everything, just that you were the best. Come on, Han. It’s a huge contract. Money isn’t an issue for him.”
“It’s not about the money. I have no time. My only day off is Sunday, and I spend that day sleeping.”
“Right, right,” Steven sighed. "I figured. I’ll tell him you said no. Poor JL is just going to have to keep living on convenience store protein shakes and takeout, I guess. It’s a shame, really. A world-class athlete deserves better.”
Han froze. His hand, which had been reaching for the light switch, stopped mid-air.
“Who?” Han asked. His voice was a fraction too high.
“Who what?”
“The name. Who did you say it was?”
“Oh, did I not mention it? It’s JL. JL Gaspar. You know, the volleyball player? We went to school together back in—”
Han didnʼt hear the rest of the sentence. His heart, usually a steady, rhythmic thrum, suddenly felt like a bird trapped in a cage. JL Gaspar. The JL Gaspar... the man currently staring back at him from his phone’s wallpaper, and that very man whose mole Han had memorized.
He was asking for a cook.
“Han? You still there? Look, if you’re busy, I totally get it—”
“Sunday,” Han interrupted.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Wait, what?”
“I can do Sundays,” Han said, his voice forced back into a flat, professional line, though his pulse was drumming in his ears. “I’ll sacrifice my day off. I can prepare the week’s meals in advance, stock his fridge, and ensure his caloric intake is optimized for his training schedule.”
Steven let out a shocked laugh. “Wait, seriously? I thought you were retired from private gigs?”
“I... I have a respect for the sport,” Han lied, his face heating up in the darkness of his office. “And you said he’s a friend. I’m doing this for you, Steven. Not for him.”
“Wow. You’re a lifesaver, Han. Seriously. I’ll send you his address and his number. He’s living in a condo over in Gangnam. He’s barely ever home because of practice, so you’ll mostly have the place to yourself, but he wants to meet you first to go over the menu. Is next Sunday okay?”
“Next Sunday is fine,” he replied way too fast.
He hung up the phone and sat back down. His knees felt a little weak. He looked at the photo of JL on his desk again, the sunshine of the sports world, and everyone loved.
Han was a professional. He was a master of his craft. He could handle this. He would walk in, cook the perfect meal, and walk out. He would not act like a fan, and would not mention the jerseys in his closet... he would be the cold, distant, wise Chef Park Han, holding himself, even though heʼs been dying to personally see him.
He pulled up his calendar and deleted his sleep day notes for the following Sunday. In its place, he typed a single name.
JL.
He stared at the name he had just typed into his calendar and felt a wave of cold realization wash over him.
He was a twenty-seven year old man, a culinary titan in South Korea, a person who had remained unshakable while serving royalty.
Yet here he was, staring at his phone with the wide-eyed terror of a teenager who had just been invited to the prom by the captain of the football team. Except, in this case, the captain was a world-class athlete who likely didnʼt even know Han’s favorite color was the exact shade of blue on their national volleyball team’s jersey.
His thumb hovered over the contact card Steven had just sent.
JL Gaspar.
There was no profile picture, just a placeholder icon, but Han’s mind filled in the blanks effortlessly. He knew every line of that face. He knew the way JL’s hair fell when he was tired. He knew the slight tilt of his head when he was about to serve.
Han took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Get it together, Han,” he whispered to the empty room. “You are a professional. This is a business transaction... You are just providing a service.”
He opened the messaging app. His fingers, usually so steady with a chef’s knife, felt heavy and clumsy... he began to type.
Hello, Mr. Gaspar. This is Park Han. Steven Kim gave me your contact information regarding the private chef position. I would like to—
He deleted it. Too formal. He wasnʼt a lawyer.
Hi JL. Iʼm Han. Iʼll be cooking for you on Sundays.
He deleted that, too. Too casual. They werenʼt friends.
It took forty-five minutes, three glasses of water, and a brief moment of pacing around his desk before he finally hit send on a message that was perfectly, painfully neutral.
[12:48 AM] Han: Hello, Mr. Gaspar. This is Chef Park Han. Steven Kim informed me of your nutritional requirements for the upcoming qualifiers. I am available this Sunday to discuss your meal plan and begin the initial prep. Please let me know if 10:00 AM at your residence works for you.
He put the phone face down on the desk, unable to watch the screen. He told himself he wouldnʼt check it until morning. He told himself he was going to go home, take a shower, and sleep.
His phone buzzed exactly two minutes later.
Han lunged for it, nearly knocking over a stack of menu drafts.
[12:50 AM] JL Gaspar: Oh! Chef Han! Steven told me you might say yes, but I didnʼt think you actually would! I’ve heard so many amazing things about your restaurant. Iʼm so sorry for the late text, I just got back from training. 10:00 AM is perfect! I’ll make sure there’s coffee. Looking forward to meeting you! 😊
That emoji... a simple, yellow smiling face felt like a solar flare hitting Han directly in the chest. He stared at it for a long time.
He’s looking forward to meeting me, Han thought, a dazed, uncharacteristic grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
Then the panic set in. He’s going to make coffee. I need to bring my own beans. What if he uses pre-ground coffee? I can’t let JL Gaspar drink subpar caffeine.
The week that followed was a blur of distracted brilliance. Han’s staff noticed the change immediately. He wasnʼt less strict... if anything, he was more obsessed with precision but he seemed to be elsewhere.
He spent his breaks researching optimal athlete macronutrients instead of reviewing wine shipments. He spent three hours at a high-end grocery store on Saturday night, hand-selecting the most pristine stalks of asparagus and the most marbled cuts of lean beef, acting as if he were preparing a feast for a king.
When Sunday morning finally arrived, he didnʼt sleep in too much. He was already up at 6:00 AM.
He stood in front of his closet, paralyzed. He couldnʼt wear his chef’s whites—that was too much for a home visit. But he couldnʼt wear his usual black turtlenecks either; they felt too brooding for someone as bright as JL. He finally settled on a crisp, charcoal-grey button-down and tailored slacks.
He looked expensive, professional, and entirely too tense.
His drive to Gangnam was a test of endurance. Every red light felt like an eternity. He had his professional knife roll in the passenger seat, tucked inside a leather bag, alongside a crate of ingredients he’d sourced personally.
When he reached the luxury high-rise, the security guard recognized him... Park Han’s face was, after all, on several magazine racks in the lobby—and sent him up to the penthouse level.
Standing in front of the door to 5201, Han felt the weight of his secret life pressing against his ribs. Just on the other side of this wood was the shrine in his guest room come to life.
He adjusted his collar, checked his breathing. He squared his shoulders, tall and imposing, the wise Chef firmly back in place.
He rang the doorbell.
For a few seconds, there was only the sound of his own heartbeat. Then, muffled footsteps. A lock turning.
The door swung open, and the air seemed to leave the hallway entirely.
JL Gaspar was standing there, and he was... a lot.
Han had seen him in 4K. He had seen him in person from the nosebleed seats of the stadium. But in the flesh was an entirely different experience. JL was tall with a reach and a presence that made him feel like he occupied the entire doorway.
He was wearing a simple white t-shirt that clung to his shoulders and grey sweatpants. His hair was damp, as if he’d just stepped out of the shower, and his skin had a natural, healthy glow that no camera could truly capture.
And then there was his mole. It was right there, a tiny, dark anchor under his left eye.
“Chef Han?”
JL’s voice was warmer than it had been over the phone, a soft, melodic tone that caught Han off guard. He beamed, a smile so genuine and bright that Han felt like he was standing too close to the sun.
“Youʼre actually here! I was worried Steven was pulling my leg.” JL stepped back, gesturing for him to come in. “Please, come in. Sorry the place is a bit of a mess—I just got back from an early practice.”
Han stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor. He kept his posture perfect, his expression a mask of polite, professional interest, even as his eyes betrayingly traveled over JL’s physique. Up close, the athlete’s shoulders were even broader than they looked on TV, his arms corded with lean muscle.
The TV, Han noted bitterly, did absolutely no justice to this man’s physical reality.
“Mr. Gaspar,” Han said, his voice coming out surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his lungs. “Thank you for having me. And please, just call me Han. There is no need for titles in your own home.”
“Only if you call me JL,” the athlete countered, tilting his head with a playful grin that made Han’s pulse spike. “Iʼm not much for the Mr. Gaspar stuff. Makes me feel like Iʼm in trouble with a coach.”
Han managed a stiff, small nod. “JL, then.”
He followed JL into the living area, which was floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city. It was a beautiful space, but clearly the home of a man who didnʼt spend much time in it. There were stray volleyball bags in the corner and a stack of mail on the counter.
“So,” JL said, turning around to face him, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I should probably warn you... my kitchen is basically decorative. I think I have a toaster and a coffee machine, but that’s about it. Steven said you were a genius, which is good, because I’m a disaster.”
Han looked at the kitchen... a state-of-the-art space with high-end appliances that had clearly never been touched. He felt a strange, protective surge in his chest. This man, this god of the court, was living on air and luck.
“I brought my own tools,” Han said softly, setting his leather bag down on the granite island. “And I brought ingredients for today. My goal is to ensure you donʼt have to worry about a single calorie. You should just focus on the ball; I will focus on the fuel.”
JL laughed, a clear, ringing sound. “I like the sound of that. Youʼre pretty intense, arenʼt you, Han? Steven told me you were the philosopher of the frying pan.”
Han felt his cheeks warm slightly, but he didnʼt break his cool exterior. He began to unpack his knife roll, the familiar weight of the steel calming his nerves. “Cooking is just a form of logic, JL. It is about understanding what a body needs and presenting it in a way that respects the ingredient.”
He looked up, and for a moment, his eyes locked with JL’s. The athlete was watching him with a look of pure curiosity, his head tilted, that sunshine smile still lingering.
“Well,” JL said softly, “I think Iʼm going to like your logic a lot.”
Han turned away quickly to hide the way his hands were starting to shake, reaching for a bunch of organic spinach as if his life depended on it. He was in the lion’s den now... at exact in JL Gaspar’s home. And he had to survive the next several hours without letting his low-key fan inside him scream.
The granite of the kitchen island felt cold beneath Han’s palms, a grounding contrast to the fire spreading through his chest.
He meticulously laid out his tools... his favorite Japanese steel chef’s knife, a precision scale, and a small, leather-bound notebook. Every movement was a practiced ritual, a shield he used to keep the fanboy within him from breaking through the surface.
He could feel JL’s gaze on him but it wasnʼt the critical, hungry gaze of a food critic or the demanding stare of a high-profile client, it was something worse.... it was warm, curious, and entirely too close.
“Do you always carry your own knives?” JL asked, leaning against the opposite side of the island.
He had hitched a hip against the counter, his long legs stretching out in a way that made the spacious kitchen suddenly feel very, very small.
“A chef’s knife is an extension of his arm, JL,” Han replied, his voice maintaining that low, velvety cadence that had earned him the nickname the philosopher. He didnʼt look up as he began to wash the organic spinach, his movements fluid and economical. “To use a dull or unfamiliar blade is to disrespect the produce. And since your kitchen is, as you put it, decorative, I assumed I shouldnʼt rely on finding a sharpened edge here.”
JL let out a soft, sheepish chuckle. “Yeah, good call. I think the most action this counter has seen is me opening a pizza box on it last Tuesday.”
Han’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second at the mention of pizza. He slowly turned his head, his brow twitching upward in a gesture of mild, controlled alarm.
“Pizza?” Han repeated. “On a Tuesday? During mid-season training?”
JL shrugged, looking entirely too unbothered by the judgment. “It was a long practice. I was tired, and the delivery app was right there. Plus, it had pineapple on it, so that counts as a fruit serving, right?”
Han let out a long, slow exhale through his nose. He turned fully toward the athlete, clasping his hands together over his apron. This was his Chef mode... the version of Han that could stare down an inspector without blinking.
“We need to have a serious discussion about your palate, JL,” Han said, his tone gentle but layered with the authority of a man who treated nutrition like a religion. “Steven mentioned you were struggling, but pineapple pizza as a recovery meal is not a struggle... it is a cry for help. Tell me, honestly, what does a typical day of eating look like for the world’s best outside hitter?”
JL tilted his head, thinking it over. He looked incredibly endearing when he was focused, his tongue poking out just a bit at the corner of his mouth before he spoke.
“Well... breakfast is usually just a large iced Americano and maybe a protein bar if I remember. Lunch is whatever they serve at the training center... I usually just eat the rice and the meat and skip the greens because they taste like dirt. And dinner... honestly, it’s usually whatever is open at 11:00 PM. Fried chicken, ramen, or those triangle kimbaps from the convenience store.”
Han felt a physical ache in his heart... half from the culinary sacrilege being described and half from the realization that his idol was essentially fueling a Ferrari with cheap cooking oil.
“Fried chicken,” Han whispered, shaking his head slowly. “And you wonder why your recovery times have been dipping in the fourth set.”
“Hey, how do you know about my fourth-set stats?” JL asked, his eyes widening with a spark of genuine surprise.
Han’s heart skipped a beat. He had slipped his tongue... He knew JL’s stats because he had them bookmarked in a spreadsheet on his laptop, but he couldnʼt say that.
“I... I make it my business to study my clients,” he recovered smoothly, reaching for a bunch of asparagus to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. “Steven told me you were preparing for the qualifiers. It only takes a basic search to see where your physical demands are highest. If youʼre eating convenience store kimbap, youʼre depriving your muscles of the amino acids they need to repair. It’s a miracle you havenʼt collapsed on the court yet.”
“I have a lot of energy!” JL defended himself, though he was smiling, clearly amused by Han’s sternness. “But I get it. That’s why you’re here, right? To save me from myself?”
“Precisely,” Han said, turning back to the stove. He clicked on the burner, the blue flame jumping to life. “Now, tell me about your preferences. Beyond the trash youʼve been consuming. What do you actually like? If you could have any meal for dinner, without worrying about your coach or your weight, what would it be?”
JL’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s easy. I love anything sweet. If I could, I’d just eat dessert for dinner. Like a really thick, chocolate lava cake with vanilla bean ice cream. Or those honey-filled pancakes from the street stalls. And for the main? I love Galbi—the sweeter the marinade, the better.”
Han winced. “Sugar. You are a professional athlete fueled by a sugar addiction.”
"I’m a foodie!” JL protested, laughing. “I just like things that taste good! Is that a crime?”
Han sighed, but there was a ghost of a smile playing on his lips that he tried desperately to suppress. He picked up a head of garlic and began to mince it with terrifying speed, the knife clicking against the board in a rhythmic, soothing staccato.
“It’s not a crime, but it is a challenge,” Han said. “You have the palate of a child, JL. But I suppose that’s where the logic comes in. I can give you the sweetness you crave through natural reductions... caramelized onions, roasted beets, balsamic glazes. I can give you the comfort of your fried chicken with air-crusted protein and herb-infused oils. But you have to promise me one thing.”
JL leaned in closer, his chin resting on his hand as he watched Han’s hands work. He was so close now that Han could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap... something like sweet and cool.
“Anything, Chef,” JL teased, his voice dropping into a playful, mock-serious tone.
“You will stop touching the delivery apps,” Han said, finally looking him in the eye. “If you are hungry, you call me. If you are craving something trashy, you tell me. I will find a way to make it for you in a way that doesnʼt sabotage your career. Do we have a deal?”
The athlete stared at him for a moment, his expressive eyes searching Han’s face. There was a brief silence in the kitchen, punctuated only by the sizzle of the pan as Han dropped the garlic into the oil.
“Youʼre really serious about this, arenʼt you?" JL asked softly. His playful edge had vanished, replaced by a look of genuine warmth. “Most people just want a picture or an autograph. You actually care if I’m eating my greens.”
Han’s throat felt tight. I care about everything you do, he wanted to say. I care about the way you tie your shoes before a serve. I care about the mole under your eye that I’ve spent years looking at through a screen.
Instead, he just shrugged, focusing on the pan. “I donʼt care about autographs, JL. I care about excellence. And it’s my job to ensure you are excellent.”
“Well,” JL said, straightening up and reaching for one of the coffee mugs he had set out earlier. “In that case, I think I’m the luckiest guy in Seoul. Do you want that coffee now? I promise I didnʼt burn the beans... yet.”
Han watched him walk over to the coffee machine, his grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and felt a wave of dizzying affection. He was scolding his idol, and he was standing in his kitchen, judging his love for pineapple pizza.
He took a deep breath, the scent of sautéing garlic filling the air. This was going to be a very long Sunday...
The kitchen was soon filled with the rich, grounded aroma of Han’s cooking. He worked with a quiet, terrifying efficiency, his long fingers moving with a grace that felt almost like a performance.
While JL moved around the kitchen to fetch the promised coffee... nearly tripping over a stray gym bag in the process, Han stayed rooted to his station.
He was searing a lean cut of beef that had been marinated in a reduction of pear and soy, providing that sweetness JL craved without the refined sugar that would make a nutritionist weep. Beside it, he tossed the asparagus in a light emulsion of lemon and toasted sesame.
“Here,” JL said, sliding a mug across the marble toward Han. “It’s not Michelin-star quality, but I tried to remember the water-to-bean ratio Steven once lectured me about.”
Han paused, setting his tongs down to take the mug. He took a cautious sip. It was... surprisingly decent. He looked at JL over the rim of the cup, seeing the way the athlete was watching him with wide, expectant eyes, like a puppy waiting for praise.
“It is acceptable,” Han said, his voice a low hum. “Better than the pizza, at least.”
JL beamed, the sheer force of the smile making Han have to look back at the stove to keep his composure.
By the time Han plated the meal, the sun was beginning to slant through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden glow over the penthouse. He placed the dish in front of JL at the small dining table... a sleek, modern thing that looked like it had never seen a home-cooked meal.
“Pan-seared tenderloin with a natural pear reduction,” he explained, standing tall beside the table, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual formal posture. “Served with charred asparagus and a puree of roasted cauliflower to mimic the creaminess of the mashed potatoes you likely enjoy, but without the heavy butter.”
JL didnʼt wait. He picked up his fork, his eyes locked on the meat. “It looks like art, Han. I almost feel bad for eating it.”
“Food is meant to be consumed, JL. Not just admired,” Han replied, though secretly, his heart was drumming against his ribs.
JL took a bite.
For a moment, the athlete went completely still. His eyes closed, and he let out a low, involuntary sound... a hum of pure satisfaction that made Han’s ears turn a vivid shade of pink.
“Oh my god,” JL breathed out, finally opening his eyes. They were bright, swirling with a kind of joy that Han usually only saw when JL scored a winning point. “Han. This is... this isn‹t food. This is a spiritual experience. How is it this sweet? You said there’s no sugar?”
“The pear,” Han said, trying to maintain his wise Chef persona despite the fact that he felt like he was floating. “I reduced the juice until the natural sugars caramelized. It provides the depth you like without the inflammatory response of corn syrup.”
JL took another bite, then another, his movements becoming more enthusiastic. “Youʼre a wizard. Honestly. I’ve eaten at some of the best places in the world during tours, but this... it feels like it’s actually doing something to my body. Like I’m being plugged into a charger.”
He looked up at Han, his fork mid-air. “How are you so good at this? Steven said you were the best, but I thought he was just being dramatic because you’re his friend. Youʼre actually a genius.”
Han felt the heat rising in his neck. He wasnʼt used to this. In his restaurant, compliments were filtered through servers or written in cold, sterile reviews. Having JL Gaspar... the man whose posters were hidden in his spare room look at him with such raw, genuine admiration was almost more than he could bear.
“I am simply doing my job, JL,” Han said, his voice a bit stiffer than intended.
“No way,” JL countered, pointing his fork at him. “You’re doing way more than a job. You can taste the... I donʼt know, the care? Most people cook for me because they have to. Or they bring me salads because they want me to stay in shape for the fans. But you... you made this taste like something I actually want to eat.”
He leaned back in his chair, a piece of asparagus halfway to his mouth, and gave Han a long, thoughtful look. “Youʼre a very interesting guy, Park Han. You act all cold and philosophical, but your food is so warm.”
Han’s breath hitched. He turned away under the guise of cleaning the counter, his heart racing. Too observant, he thought. He’s too observant.
“I should get started on the meal prep for the rest of the week,” Han said, his back to the athlete. “I have several containers to fill, and I need to organize your fridge so you donʼt get confused.”
“Confused? Iʼm an athlete, Han, not a toddler,” JL laughed, though he didnʼt protest. He finished the plate in record time, practically polishing the ceramic.
As Han worked on the containers, JL didnʼt leave. He stayed at the table, spinning his empty coffee mug around and chatting. He talked about the pressure of the qualifiers, the way his knees ached after a five-set match, and how much he missed his family back home.
Han listened, absorbing every word like a sponge. He already knew most of the public facts, but hearing the way JL’s voice softened when he talked about his mom, or the way he grumbled about his coachʼs whistle, made the athlete feel dangerously real. No longer a shrine, but a person.
“And then thereʼs my mole,” JL said suddenly, laughing at a story about a fan who tried to draw it on their own face. He tapped the spot under his eye. “People are obsessed with this thing. I donʼt get it. Itʼs just a part me.”
Han stopped mid-chop. He didnʼt look up.
“It... provides balance to your face,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s a focal point. From a... purely aesthetic standpoint, it is quite striking.”
He could feel JL’s gaze burning into the side of his head.
“Aesthetic standpoint, huh?” JL teased, his voice tilting up. “Is that the Philosopher talking or the Chef?”
“It is the truth,” Han said firmly, finally looking at him.
JL smiled, and this time, it wasnʼt his sunshine smile he gave the cameras. It was smaller, more intimate. “Thanks, Han. I think Iʼm really going to look forward to Sundays now.”
Han turned back to his task, his hands shaking just enough that he had to put the knife down for a second. He had survived the first day. He had cooked for his idol, scolded him for his diet, and even managed to compliment his face without dying of embarrassment.
But as he looked at the containers of food he was preparing... the fuel for the man he admired most... he realized that the secret ingredient wasn t just the pear reduction. It was the fact that for the first time in his life, Park Han wasnʼt just watching the game from the stands.
He was finally in the play...