Gwen walks in with coffee and hands him one. “You’re getting better, Ashford. Maya’s a good teacher.”
“She’s terrifying,” he whispers.
If you’d told me six weeks ago that I’d be standing in a bright new training kitchen, watching a billionaire get bullied by a nineteen-year-old, I would’ve asked what you were on. But here we are. The proof is in the noise.
It’s in the clang of sheet trays and the squeak of sneakers on flour-dusted tile. It’s in the way Dean, sixteen, always hungry, always joking like the world can’t catch him, keeps stealing pats of butter like they’re contraband. It’s in the way Pilar, who barely spoke on day one, now corrects people with the calm authority of someone who finally realized she’s allowed to take up space.
It’s in the fact that the room is full, and it doesn’t feel like dilution.
It feels like multiplication.
I pivot back to the whiteboard and tap my marker against the rectangle of dough and butter I’ve drawn.
“Ok,” I say, loud enough to cut through the chatter. “Listen. Laminating isn’t violence. It’s negotiation.”
Dean raises his hand like we’re in school. “What if my dough is disrespectful?”
“Then you are disrespectful back,” Maya says without looking up, and the whole room laughs.
I bite down on my smile so I can pretend I’m a serious professional adult and not someone who is one joke away from crying happily.
The apprentices go back to work. Flour floats in the air like snow. The fans hum. The world is warm and alive.
I glance across the room.
Leo is still trying to be “gentle,” which, for Leo, looks like he’s holding the dough like it’s an injured baby bird. His face has that ridiculous expression he gets when he’s determined not to mess something up. Brow furrowed. Mouth pressed tight. Sweat beading at his hairline. Maya sighs dramatically and snatches his rolling pin.
“You have to commit,” she scolds. “It can smell fear.”
Leo’s eyes widen. “Dough can smell fear?”
“Yes,” Maya says with conviction. “It’s a gluten thing.”
He turns his head and looks at me like,is that true?
I don’t answer. I just lift my eyebrows.
He nods solemnly, as if I’ve confirmed a scientific fact.
“Ok,” he says quietly to the dough. “I’m not afraid of you.”
I have to turn away before I laugh out loud.
Gwen sidles up beside me with her coffee and bumps her shoulder against mine.
“You’re gonna sprain something with that smile,” she mutters.
“I’m not smiling,” I lie.
Gwen snorts. “Sure. And I’m a retired Olympic gymnast.”
I elbow her lightly. She bumps me back harder. We do this the way we always do, violence disguised as affection.
“Also,” Gwen adds, lowering her voice, “your boy’s about to get folded like laundry by a teenager.”
“He’s not my…”
“Your boy,” she repeats, dead serious.
