“Something urgent has come up. Chef’s Table is vacant today.”

Hae‑som’s eyes widen up—she had been waiting all day, aching for him to arrive and deliver her verdict.

Surely he hadn’t abandoned service just to avoid telling her how it went. Something had happened. A family emergency… perhaps the Monk…

A cold dread crept up her spine—until Jun‑won spoke quickly.

“This has never happened before, so I know everyone is a little worried. But don’t worry, it’s nothing serious. Chef’s orders: the CDPs will take turns manning Chef’s Table.”

The senior chefs—all equal in standing to a Head Chef elsewhere—looked grave. Woon-seop, who had no dishes to oversee immediately, stepped forward first.

Hae‑som stood watching, stunned—until her name was called.

“And Hae‑som.”

“Yes?”

“You’re on assistance. Step up.”

There was no better person for odd jobs, since she had no menu of her own to run.

Fortunately—more than fortunately—she had spent weeks wandering every station while everyone else developed menus. She knew every garnish, every sauce, every pairing.

The other chefs had expected to resent seeing an intern standing at Chef’s Table. Instead they were relieved. Better her than chaos—no complaints, no mistakes, no trouble.

Hae‑som was nervous—trusting nothing but her memory—but she would not back down. She planned to leave anyway. If something went wrong, she would take the blame. It mattered little.

“Don’t just memorize everything without thinking. Think about how the ingredients work together. It’ll come naturally.”

Jae-geon’s voice. His advice. Suddenly she knew—she would get through this.

The printer whirred. The first ticket slid out. Woon-seop snatched it up in his large, steady hand.

“First order! Table 1—two full courses!”

Service began smoothly. Appetizers. Entremets. Then mains. But timing was everything—every single dish had its own precise countdown.

Sea urchin brûlée: 8 minutes. Braised abalone: 7 minutes. Perilla seed broth and braised short ribs: 12 minutes 30 seconds.

She had always known Chef’s Table ran like clockwork—but she had never realized it ran to the second.

That was why he always wore a watch.

So she wrote everything down. Every time Woon-seop called an order, she noted the time beside it. Step by step. Minute by minute.

Woon-seop, Hae‑som, and Jun‑won together—struggling through what Jung Jae-geon did alone, every single night. With such calm. Such ease.

There was no time to marvel at him. Jun‑won was already anxious.

“Bambi—Table 17 entremet still isn’t out?”

Hae‑som flipped through the stack of tickets—thick as debt—and found Table 17.

Appetizer service: 30 minutes total. The last appetizer had gone out no more than five minutes ago. And hadn’t Jun‑won himself said—wine pairing—take it slow?

She held out the annotated ticket.

“Sunbae—didn’t you mark Table 17 to hold for five minutes? Wine pairing?”

“Ah… did I?”

“Appetizers just went out. We can take our time. Let’s fire Table 13 main first, then 17 entremet.”

Jun‑won narrowed his eyes—impressed—and adjusted the order. Exactly as she said.

“Bambi… you’re getting too good at this. Running Chef’s Table too? Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

“I learned from the best.”

Just as he had known this day would come—he had taught her everything. On her very first day.

How to tie an apron so it wouldn’t slip. How to read the pass. Every garnish. Every pairing.

“Taste everything. It’s our tradition. How can you cook if you don’t know what it tastes like? Eat it properly.”

He had taught her to taste.

Back then she had been too overwhelmed to see it. All of it—his care. His kindness.

The realization settled heavy and warm behind her eyes. Jun‑won watched her go quiet and bit back a smile.

“Where did Jung Jae-geon find such a marvel? How does he keep his heart to himself?”

Woon-seop agreed, sliding the finished main course to the pass.

“Not a marvel. A treasure.”

“Well I never!”

“He treats her like one, doesn’t he? We all see it.”

Jun‑won nodded, smiling. Woon-seop rang the bell.

“Table 17 entremet—up! Fire mains: 3 and 11!”

Hae-som stood there, wide awake yet lost.

“I… I like you too.”

His confession—once just an excuse to her—echoed in her ears.

“Once you succeed on your own, once you develop the menu yourself, I’ll let you go. Just like that. No strings attached.”

His voice had been steady—but his eyes… had been desperate.

“Forget that damn burdock. Look at me, Hae‑som.”

And it had sounded… so… real.

---

Service ended. A battle fought and won.

Chaotic—but no complaints. Better than expected. Praise came from every side. And yet… she felt no joy.

She had proven herself. And today—she would leave.

As long as she stayed near him—Ji‑won would destroy them both. And Jae-geon would keep fighting… keep risking everything… just to protect her.

It was better this way. For her to step aside.

Whatever Jae-geon really felt.

She locked the messy, burning ache deep inside her locker—along with her uniform—and walked out.

She had just taken a few steps when someone called.

“Seong Hae‑som.”

It was Seung‑jun, leaning out of Jae-geon’s office.

“Come inside a moment.”

He was in charge of ordering and supplies while Jae-geon was gone—using his computer, his office. Invoices and orders spread across the desk like a chaotic map. Jae-geon would have hated the mess.

But where was he?

Seung‑jun typed, comparing lists. Then asked quietly.

“Do we need to order more burdock?”

“No, sir.”

“And the tasting results?”

“Not yet.”

He looked up.

“Have you called Eun‑seong?”

“No.”

“You have no idea where he is?”

“No.”

Hae-som answered quickly, defensive and convinced this was somehow her fault.

“Why?”

Seung‑jun studied her—something knowing in his eyes—and reached for something on the desk.

“He left this behind. Thought I’d keep it safe.”

He handed it over.

Her heart sank. Heavy. Solid. A new cookbook by Chef Jean—carefully inscribed on the cover in neat handwriting: ☆ To Hae‑som ☆.

Thick. Filled with Post‑its marking page after page. She opened one—yellow, neat.

It was a translation. French to Korean and English. Careful. Precise.

Jung Jae-geon spoke fluent French. He did not need this for himself.

He had done it… for her.

“….”

Strange. He was gone. And the longer he stayed away… the more she felt him everywhere.

She had admired him. Respected him. She had told herself she only slept beside him because she needed rest. Because he felt familiar. Like home.

But… was that ever really true?

“Go home. Catch the last train before it’s gone.”

Seung‑jun was already back at his screen. Frowning. Worried.

“Goodnight.”

She walked out. Sighed.

“Head Chef or not… vanishing like this without a word… leaving everyone to worry… how can he do this?”

She pulled up his contact list to call.

And found… his number was gone.