Ryan’s POV
Mathew forced his expression into something neutral, something that looked like acceptance.
But it wasn’t acceptance.
It was containment.
“Yes,” Mathew said tightly, like he was swallowing nails.
Tevin leaned back, studying Mathew’s face like he was suddenly more interested in the man than the dish.
“But you survived,” Tevin said, forcing a grin to lighten it. “So breathe.”
Mathew didn’t smile.
Not really.
He stepped back to let the next plate through, shoulders still too rigid, like he was bracing for something worse than critique.
Eve remained composed. Professional. Still.
But Ryan felt the tension in her like a pulse beneath her skin, because she knew what he knew:
Mathew didn’t care about cooking.
He cared about not being humiliated.
And he had already decided
