chapter 3

Larry pov

I didn't watch her go through the swinging doors. I stared at the counter where my fingers had briefly touched hers—a spark of cold, clinical contact. My heart was thumping against my ribs, an amateur drummer in the professional silence of the kitchen.

“Table three needs the sauce wipe on the wagyu plates, Chef,” my sous chef, Kaito, reminded me.

“It’s done,” I replied, my voice perfectly level. I focused entirely on the food. The wagyu was plated with a clean line of charcoal salt and a smear of yuzu butter, immaculate and precise. I’d spent two years building a reputation that ensured I worked only with establishments like Izakaya Mori—places where the standard of omotenashi was as high as my own. I was here on my own merit, not my past heartbreak.

Yet, all that professionalism was currently battling the utterly absurd reality of her uniform.

The chef coat felt like a suit of armor, but it couldn't shield me from the image burned behind my eyes. Jamie. My Jamie—the pragmatic, coffee-drinking, slightly cynical woman I’d loved—was now dressed like a character from a manga convention. A Lolita dress, a knee-cut, pink and white confection, high white socks, and the utterly ridiculous addition of a purple wig and a bunny hairband.

It was a costume of innocence, and it was a direct affront to every complicated, messy thing she was. She looked like a doll, a fantasy, and it twisted my gut. It was a perfect piece of omotenashi for this specific clientele—cute, attentive, non-threatening—but all I could see was the desperate, sharp intelligence beneath the wig.

Why do I care? I mentally sliced the question with the edge of my knife, dismissing it. I gave her a job. I ensured her integrity was tested. I set her on a path of honest work. My obligation ended there.

But every time the stainless steel door pushed open to allow her passage, I glanced up. I couldn't stop. I told myself it was professional observation—checking the flow, confirming the service.

She was flawless. She moved with a newly acquired grace, careful not to jostle the water pitcher, always approaching the Sanfords from the correct side. She never used a casual gesture; everything was performed with the formal precision that Mark had trained into her. She was a different person, but the costume made it feel like a performance I was being forced to watch. A cheap, saccharine mask over a serious woman.

As she cleared the small plates from the tempura course, I watched her from the pass. She bent low, her movements economical. She caught my eye briefly. No emotion. Just a neutral, professional scan of her section.

Why are you still looking at her, Larry?

The truth was complicated, and shamefully soft. Despite the pink dress and the purple hair, she was the only genuine chaos in my meticulously ordered world. And I had to know if the person who broke me had finally found a way to put herself back together. Every perfect bow she gave the Sanfords felt like a small, hard-won victory in her war against her own selfishness.

The dessert course was my masterpiece: a three-layer matcha mousse with gold flake and candied ginger. I plated them with clinical efficiency, focusing on the perfect symmetry of the garnish.

“Table three, dessert service,” I stated, pushing the tray to the staging area.

Jamie stepped up, holding the tray steady. She was close again, and I could smell the faintest trace of cheap, floral perfume beneath the rich, smoky scent of the kitchen. She looked tired under the pancake makeup, the effort of sustaining this perfect persona visibly draining her.

"Thank you, Chef," she murmured, gathering the plates.

"Your service is acceptable," I said, unable to stop myself. It wasn't praise. It was a measured observation, a small, professional acknowledgment of her success.

Her eyes flickered up, quick and dark. "I am trying to learn omotenashi, not just serve food," she countered, her voice low. It was the closest we had come to an honest personal exchange.

"It shows," I conceded, stepping back. I am trying to learn indifference, I thought, but I didn't say it.

She carried the desserts out. I watched her approach the Sanfords one last time. She placed the mousse down, delivered the description of the dessert wine pairing, and then gracefully retreated to the service corner.

The remaining fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. I was already planning the breakdown of my station, but my mind was stuck on the dining room. I saw Jamie present the check—a leather folio with a small, discreet pen. She received the payment, bowed, and stepped away while the Sanfords discussed their evening.

Finally, they stood. I heard the quiet scrape of chairs and saw Jamie quickly retrieve Mrs. Sanford’s coat, holding it out with practiced care. Mr. Sanford gave her a brief, curt nod that was the highest form of praise. Jamie responded with a respectful, thirty-degree ojigi.

Then, the Sanfords were gone, ushered out by the host.

The dining room instantly settled, the tension bleeding out of the air. Jamie returned, her shoulders visibly slumping under the weight of the moment. She walked directly to the empty table, her hands already gathering the cloth napkins and stray utensils.

She caught me watching her through the pass. I didn't flinch. I just held her gaze, my expression severe.

She gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, a breath of private exhaustion, and then she turned back to the table, her professional mask firmly in place.

I felt a dizzying mix of relief and resentment. She had passed the ultimate test: professional integrity under extreme personal pressure. She hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t cut corners. She was earning her life back.

And yet, watching her disappear behind the partition of the dish pit, my chest felt hollow. I was the one who had opened the door for her, but I still couldn’t understand why I was the one who couldn't stop looking.

I turned back to my station, grabbing a scrub brush. My shift was over, but my heart, I realized, was still standing by the yellow line, waiting for her next move.