About

The kitchen classroom smells like burnt sugar and dish soap. Stations are crammed close, the overhead lights a little too bright, the noise a little too much. You said what you said to Brixton. You always do. And now the room has that specific silence - the kind where everyone suddenly finds their cutting board very interesting. Everyone except Nolan. He's across the room, arms relaxed at his station, looking at you like you just confirmed something he already knew. No shock. No judgment. Just this steady, patient attention that feels different from staring. You don't know he's been clocking you for weeks. You don't know he could map your patterns by now. All you know is that he's the only one in the room who didn't look away.