The knife on Grayson’s desk glared at Neville like a damning piece of evidence he needed to remove. If only he had managed to toss it back at Shelly, none of this would’ve happened.

But there was no room for regrets. Especially not when Grayson—someone who rarely smiled—was smiling like that. That smug curve of his lips made Neville’s fingers twitch with the urge to throw something at his boss’s perfect face.

This was worse.

Ignoring his attempt to offer a one-time food delivery, Grayson leaned back in his chair with his usual elegance.

"I won’t make it hard for you," he said, his eyes locking onto Neville’s. "I’ll provide everything you need to be able to cook."

Neville’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses. The thick frames did little to hide his irritation. He glanced past Grayson and spotted Bryan, pale and sweating like he was one breath away from a meltdown.

Neville folded his arms and said firmly, "I’m not a chef, sir."

The moment the words left his mouth, he wanted to curl up and disappear.

Why did he say it like that? He wanted to get closer to Grayson—but not like this. And that stupidly handsome face staring him down wasn’t helping.

"You don’t need to be a chef," Grayson countered smoothly. "Just make something like those snacks from before."

He could hear Bryan making strangled, desperate noises on the side. Neville knew Grayson wasn’t asking for much—but if he gave in now, he would lose the only ground he had left.

"That—" Neville clenched his jaw, reminding himself to stay firm. "That was just samples, sir."

"Hmm," Grayson’s eyes gleamed in amusement. "Then send over those samples."

Bryan was practically vibrating in place, silently begging Neville to surrender. But who was Neville to back down now?

He opened his mouth to refuse, but Grayson cut him off before he could even start.

"I’ll raise your salary by twenty percent," he said, as casually as if discussing the weather.

Shelly’s voice popped in like an overly excited conscience.

[Ohh, he’s serious. Serious handsome people—why refuse them, host? This is a blessing from the universe~ ✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧]

Neville’s eye twitched. It would’ve been more convincing if she weren’t squealing in delight.

It was a tempting offer, but... why was Grayson so insistent? It didn’t feel like a bad deal, but something about it felt off.

In the end, he took a breath, shaking his head, and forced out a single word, "No."

He could already hear Bryan’s theatrical, silent sob in the background.

Grayson’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The atmosphere was suddenly still, heavy, and dangerous.

"No?" Grayson repeated the word, slow and low, turning the simple syllable into a threat.

"No, sir," Neville said again, matching his tone. He planted his feet firmly and refused to flinch.

Grayson’s eyebrows rose slightly.

"Interesting," he murmured. The air in the room eased. But that smile of his deepened—along with the amusement in his eyes.

Neville’s heart nearly skipped a beat. There was a sudden, stupid impulse to just say yes.

"How about vacation time?" Grayson proposed, a calculating gleam flashing in his eyes.

Ah. That reminded Neville exactly why this man used to be the youngest general in the Imperial Galaxy. He clearly knew what people valued. And now, he was targeting what Neville liked most.

Vacations.

That was a smart move.

"Vacation?" Neville’s voice pitched slightly higher than before. His eyes betrayed him with that involuntary sparkle, dropping his guard completely.

"Two permanent vacation days per month," Grayson said, leaning forward, elbows resting on his desk. "It’s an addition to your regular time off. Non-negotiable, guaranteed, and you will not be called in for emergencies on those days."

Bryan actually gasped out loud this time. He looked back and forth between them in disbelief, like he was witnessing some forbidden ritual.

Neville’s mind raced. Two guaranteed days off every month?

As he tried to process that, Grayson added, almost lazily, "Paid, of course."

Bryan looked like he was genuinely reconsidering his entire career. Clearly, Grayson’s actions were highly unusual—and Neville knew it.

But why?

Still, if Grayson was willing to go this far just to have him cook. Maybe this was a good deal for both of them.

Of course, Neville couldn’t just cave in completely.

"Fine," Neville heard himself say before his brain could catch up, forcing a reluctant tone. "But I can’t cook anything complicated. Simple meals at best."

Grayson’s smile widened. "Of course. Whatever you prefer."

Neville immediately regretted it. Did I just agree too early?

He quickly replied to re-establish defenses.

"And you’re not allowed to complain about what I make," Neville added, pointing a finger. "But you can tell me if there’s something you don’t like in it—so I’ll try not to add it next time."

"Of course," Grayson replied lightly.

"Three meals a day," Neville continued, deciding he might as well set the ground rules while he still could. "Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. No special requests. No midnight snacks. No weekend calls or off-day summons. And definitely no—’Hey, Hope, remember that thing you made six months ago? I’m craving it,’ demands."

"Okay," Grayson agreed without hesitation.

"And—" Neville pointed at the knife still sitting on the desk, "—I’m taking that with me."

"Be my guest." Grayson picked it up without a flicker of annoyance and held it out to him.

All those immediate agreements should’ve been satisfying. Instead, Neville just felt like he had just signed away his soul to a particularly cunning devil. A handsome, silver-eyed devil now extending a hand—offering a knife across the desk.

Neville stared at that hand a beat too long. The knife looked like it might stab him, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Grayson’s hand—elegant, strong, with long fingers that looked equally comfortable holding a pen or handling the unfamiliar blade.

Not that he had been paying attention to his boss’s hands. That would be... weird. And extremely unprofessional.

Still, he took the knife, his face heating up, and bolted out of the office before he could embarrass himself any further.

Behind him, Bryan was already briefing Grayson about his new "chef" contract, additional employment details, and updated salary.

But who cares?

...

The next day, Neville was jolted awake. He rolled out of bed, stumbled into his kitchen, and pulled up his light brain to check what ingredients he needed to buy from the system mall—

And then he stopped.

The calendar display blinked cheerfully at him, bright letters spelling out FOUNDATION DAY, one of Planet Xylos’s major holidays celebrating the establishment of civilization.

Which meant every office was closed.

Including Maxwell Corporation headquarters.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Neville muttered to the empty room, scrubbing a hand over his face.

[You seem upset, host! (◕‿◕) But it’s another day off! You should be happy!] Shelly floated cheerfully beside the counter.

"I woke up early for nothing, Shelly." He grumbled, half-asleep and half-annoyed.

He had actually gotten up early to prepare for this new side job. He wished he could go back to sleep. But sleep wasn’t easy to come by, especially since he just woke up.

Shelly showered the room with digital flowers, a weak attempt at consolation. [Think of it as practice! (◕‿◕✿) Plus, you have free time now! You could explore, or read, or—]

"I’ll just cook," Neville cut her off flatly, already walking toward the bathroom.

He went through his usual morning routine and thought, Fine. A day off was a day off. Even if it wasn’t one of his hard-won, negotiated ones, he would take it.

After cleaning up, he threw on something casual—a plain shirt and shorts—and made his way back to the kitchen.

He found himself staring into his pantry. It greeted him with a depressing sight: nutrient solutions, neatly stacked, serving as a front in case anyone questioned how he could afford actual ingredients.

You could see the real thing on the very back of it, though. It was just a little tedious to get and depressing to see.

Still, if he was going to cook real food for Grayson—three times a day, five days a week—he needed to learn what ingredients were available here on Xylos. Sure, the system mall could supply anything from Earth with points.

But that would just raise questions.

What plant did you get these tomatoes from? What kind of cosmic beast did this chicken come from? What grade was it? Why does this dish taste like nothing we’ve seen in this galaxy?

Yeah. Not worth the risk.

He needed local ingredients—something close enough to Earth produce that he could adapt his recipes. That way, when people inevitably noticed or asked about his dishes, he could simply shrug and share the recipes and the sourcing.

No suspicious imports. No secret backdoor deals.

A perfect cover story.

Neville sank into his couch, ready to scroll through the vast database Shelly had compiled for him. It was some kind of intergalactic encyclopedia—connected to every galaxy.

He knew for a fact that cross-galaxy data like this was very illegal. But then again, this was the system. Rules didn’t exactly apply to it unless this database somehow leaked into the world.

And honestly? He wasn’t about to complain. He wouldn’t be found out anyway.

Just as he was about to start browsing, his doorbell chimed.

He frowned. Who the hell would visit him on the foundation day?

It wasn’t like he had friends here. He was too busy climbing the corporate ladder and actively racking his brains to raise Grayson’s favorability that his off-work social life became nonexistent. The only person who ever checked in was Director Miller from the orphanage—and she always called first.

Without thinking, Neville got up and opened the door. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Rookie mistake.

The moment the door slid open, he froze.

He had lived on Earth for twenty-four years, where doorbells and peepholes were standard. But he wasn’t rich enough to learn more about the high-tech home systems and intercoms. To which every door in this interstellar era had a built-in intercom with a video display.

He could have—should have—checked who it was before opening the door.

It was too late now.

Because standing on his doorstep was a very tall, very handsome man in casual clothes—someone Neville had definitely never seen dressed like that before.

It took him several seconds to process what his eyes were seeing.

"...What?" he blurted.

It was Grayson.

Without the sharp business suits and the intimidating office backdrop, Grayson looked... different.

Younger, perhaps. More approachable.

Still unfairly good-looking.

He was wearing a black turtleneck and dark grey pants under a long tailcoat. His hair was a little mussed, as if he had run his fingers through it. The casual outfit did absolutely nothing to diminish his appearance—if anything, it made him impossibly more attractive, which felt utterly unfair.

Grayson held a blank expression, his silver eyes fixed intently on Neville. Neville blinked and realized that Grayson was staring—not at him, but at his clothes.

He looked down at himself.

Plain shirt. Not too short shorts. Nothing scandalous. Perfectly comfortable.

Seeing that there was nothing wrong with his outfit, Neville looked back up.

He asked in confusion, "What are you doing here?"