Boys Like Him

The familiar smell of flour and butter hit me the moment I stepped into the culinary lab. It was ridiculous how grounding it felt, the clean gleam of the stainless-steel counters, the hum of ovens already preheated, and knives laid out like soldiers. My chest loosened a fraction. This room had always been my sanctuary.

I slipped into my station, setting my knives down with careful reverence most people reserved for prayer. Around me, chatter buzzed, the same voices from years past, some new, some too loud for my comfort. I tugged at the hem of my apron and tried to fade into the rhythm of the room.

"Miss Nyelle," Professor Hart's voice cut through. He was tall, silver-haired, with that perpetually stained chef's coat that somehow made him more authoritative instead of less. He always spotted me, no matter how small I tried to make myself.

"Yes, Chef?" My voice came out quieter than intended, but he didn't seem to mind.

He glanced at the neat way I'd already arranged my tools. "Still, the only student who treats mise en place like a religion. Excellent."

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. Compliments always made me itch. Still, I nodded and murmured, "Thank you, Chef."

The class started, and I fell into the movements like second nature. Today was laminated doughs, croissants, and puff pastry. The part of baking that demanded patience, control, and precision. My wheelhouse.

Around me, some students groaned as their dough tore or their butter leaked. Someone cursed when flour puffed up into their face. I kept my head down, hands steady. The anxiety that gnawed at me everywhere else went silent here, drowned in the logic of ratios and the promise of a clean rise in the oven.

"Perfect lamination," Professor Hart announced when he stopped at my station, lifting the edge of my dough to examine the layers. "As always. If only the rest of you took notes from Miss Nyelle."

A few students shot me looks, some impressed, some irritated, but I pretended not to notice. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and whispered a small, "Thanks."

By the end of class, golden, buttery croissants cooled on my rack, their layers crisp and delicate. The sight alone eased something in me.

When the timer beeped for dismissal, I packed my tools in precise order, wiped down my station until it gleamed, and tugged my backpack onto my shoulders.

The hall outside was noisier, filled with students spilling between classes, but I moved through it like a ghost, hugging the wall. My phone buzzed with a text from Mariah.

"Break time, bitch. Meet me at the fountain."

I exhaled. At least with her, I didn't have to pretend quite as hard.

When I reached the fountain in the quad, she was already there, perched on the stone ledge, iced drink in hand and sunglasses shoved into her curls. She grinned the second she spotted me.

"There's my favorite kitchen witch," she teased, arms open wide.

I rolled my eyes but stepped into her hug anyway, the comfort of it sinking into my bones.

"How was class?" she asked as she pulled back. "Bet you showed those dough-heads who's boss."

I shrugged, biting back the smile tugging at my lips. "It went fine."

"Fine?" She narrowed her eyes. "Translation, you killed it, and Professor Hart probably proposed marriage again."

I laughed despite myself. "Shut up."

Mariah's grin widened. "Never. I live to embarrass you."

We sat together on the fountain ledge, the sun sharp overhead but softened by the breeze that finally, mercifully cut through the heat. Students streamed past, laughing, smoking, and scrolling on their phones.

Mariah launched into a story about her English professor mispronouncing her name three times in a row, her arms flailing as she mimicked his stammer. I listened, sipped from the water bottle I'd packed, and let her chatter steady me.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of steel, steam, and voices. After baking came food science, a lecture heavy with formulas and reactions that most students groaned at. I didn't.

I liked formulas. They made sense. Gluten development, starch gelatinization, and Maillard reactions every process had a cause and an effect. Unlike people, and emotions.

I scribbled notes fast and neat, diagrams crowding the margins. The professor threw out questions no one wanted to answer, and my hand lifted before I could stop myself. His nod came like permission, and I recited the explanation automatically.

A few students turned to glance at me. I felt the heat crawl up my neck, but kept my gaze on the notebook.

By noon, my head buzzed with information, but it was a good kind of buzz. A controlled kind. I stopped by the student café for lunch and ate in the quietest corner I could find. Mariah texted me memes throughout, dramatic GIFs that made me stifle laughter behind my spoon.

Afternoon classes dragged, less engaging, but I powered through them. Menu planning. Restaurant management. Numbers and margins, deadlines and flow charts. None of it thrilled me like the doughs and sauces, but I knew it mattered. Control didn't just live in recipes. It lived in spreadsheets, too.

By late afternoon, the sky softened to gold. I walked across campus with my binder pressed tight to my chest, weaving through clusters of students sprawled on the lawn or lounging by the fountain. Their laughter rose like bubbles, easy and careless. I wasn't jealous, exactly. Just...aware that I didn't fit in that way.

And maybe I didn't want to.

Mariah found me again before my last class, shoving half a bagel into her mouth while rattling off plans for the weekend. A party invite, a movie she wanted to drag me to, and a new restaurant she swore we had to try.

"You're not gonna hide in your cave all semester," she warned, pointing the bagel at me like a dagger.

"I don't hide," I said softly.

She gave me a look.

"Okay," I admitted. "I selectively retreat."

Her laughter rang out, loud enough to turn heads, and I found myself smiling despite the coil of nerves still tight in my chest.

When my final class ended, dusk had already begun to stretch shadows across campus. I packed my things, slung my bag over my shoulder, and made my way toward the bus stop.

That was the thing about school, it was exhausting, overwhelming at times, but here I had order, predictability, professors with syllabi, assignments with due dates, and projects with measurable outcomes.

Here, I knew exactly what was expected of me.

It was only when the bus hissed to a stop in front of my building, and I stepped down onto the sidewalk, that the knot in my stomach returned.

Because home wasn't really safe anymore.

Home had Lloyd.

And whether he was behind his door, on his balcony, or laughing low through the wall, his presence was enough to make every bit of control I'd built during the day start to fray.