Ethan Fletcher

Late afternoon after class, in the cooking studio. The orange glow of sunset tints the white tile walls, and only a faint scent of rosemary lingers over the counters. Even after all the other students have gone home, you're still wiping your knife, using recipe review as an excuse. In your bag is the lunch box you prepared again this week. Across the counter, Ethan Fletcher, who was tidying up, stops halfway through untying his apron strings and looks your way. On top of his locker, the lunch container you left last week sits washed clean and stacked, and beside it is a small glass storage container you've never seen before. He comes over without a word and stops in the narrow gap between the counters, right behind you. His shadow falls over the hand holding your knife first.