Four AM

The kitchen is mine at 4am.

No tickets screaming from the pass. No servers hovering. Marina's voice absent for once. Just me, the hum of refrigeration, and dough that needs my attention.

I prefer it this way.

The croissant batch from yesterday sits in the walk-in, layers of butter and dough resting at precisely forty degrees. I pull it out, check the temperature with the infrared thermometer. Forty-one. Acceptable.

The lamination process doesn't forgive mistakes. Three folds, each one doubling the layers. By the end, there will be eighty-one layers of butter suspended between eighty-two layers of dough. One degree too warm and the butter melts into the flour. One fold too rough and the layers compress.

Perfection isn't about talent. It's about control.

I roll the dough with measured pressure, watching the butter spread evenly through the window of gluten. Turn. Fold. Chill. Repeat.

This is what I know. This is what I trust.

"Um, excuse me?"

I don't turn around. The voice is unfamiliar, which means it belongs to the new hire Marina mentioned. Kitchen assistant. Another body to train, to correct, to eventually replace when they realize fine dining isn't glamorous.

"Walk-in's behind you," I say. "Mise en place sheet is on the clipboard. Start with the fruit prep."

"Right. Sure. I just, I'm Sam. Sam Reyes. Marina said I should introduce myself to the pastry chef?"

I continue rolling. "You've introduced yourself."

A pause. I can feel him standing there, probably expecting something more. A handshake. A welcome. Some gesture of professional courtesy.

He'll learn.

"Okay," he says slowly. "So the fruit prep. What exactly am I..."

"Clipboard. Instructions are detailed."

"Got it. Clipboard. Detailed." Another pause. "You're Eli Nakamura, right? I tried your tasting menu dessert last month. The one with the yuzu and..."

"I know what I make."

"It was incredible. Like, actually life-changing. The texture contrast between the..."

"The fruit isn't prepping itself."

Silence. Then footsteps moving away.

Good.

I finish the first fold, wrap the dough in plastic, and return it to the walk-in. When I pass the prep station, the new hire is studying the clipboard with intense focus. He's tall. Dark curly hair escaping from under his cap. Something about his posture suggests he's not used to kitchens, unguarded, loose-limbed. Corporate refugee, probably. Marina collects them.

He looks up as I pass. Smiles.

Nobody smiles at 4am. Especially not in this kitchen.

I walk past without acknowledging it.

The soufflé bases need attention. I pull eggs from the reach-in, separate yolks from whites with mechanical precision. The whites go into the mixer, the yolks into a bowl for the crème anglaise base.

Behind me, I hear the walk-in door open and close. The sound of produce being transferred. He's actually following the prep list without asking more questions.

Unexpected.

The meringue peaks stiff and glossy under the whisk attachment. I fold it into the chocolate base, three strokes clockwise, then two counter, maintaining as much air as possible. The soufflés will rise perfectly or they won't rise at all. There's no middle ground.

"Coffee?"

I turn. The new hire, Sam, stands holding two paper cups from the bodega down the street. Steam rises from the lids.

"I grabbed some on my way in," he says. "Figured everyone could use caffeine at this hour. How do you take yours?"

"I don't drink coffee during prep."

"Oh." He looks at the cups. "Right. Steady hands. Should've thought of that."

"Yes. You should have."

He doesn't flinch at my tone. Most people do. Instead, he just nods, like he's filing the information away.

"Black for later, then. I'll leave it by your station."

He sets one cup at the far edge of my workspace, well away from any ingredients, and retreats to his prep station.

The soufflé base is perfect. I pour it into ramekins, level each one with an offset spatula, and slide them into the deck oven.

Eight minutes. Not a second more.

I set the timer.

The kitchen comes alive around me as the morning crew filters in. Leo arrives first, already talking too loud about last night's game. Then Mika with her sushi rice and silent concentration. The line cooks roll in at five-thirty, and by six, the space that felt like mine is just another workplace.

I don't mind. The work is the same regardless of witnesses.

But I notice, as the hours pass, that the coffee cup stays exactly where Sam left it. That he completes the fruit prep faster than anyone I've trained. That when he has questions, and he has many, he asks Leo instead of interrupting me again.

The soufflés emerge from the oven at the precise moment the timer sounds. Golden. Risen. Perfect.

"Holy shit."

Sam has drifted close enough to see. He stares at the soufflés like they're something miraculous rather than the result of calculated chemistry.

"Language," I say.

"Sorry. Just, how do you get them that consistent? They're identical."

"Measurement. Temperature. Technique."

"But they're so..."

"Go back to your station."

He goes. But I catch the edge of his smile as he turns, not embarrassed, not offended. Something else. Something that looks almost like delight.

I don't like it.

I don't like how his presence disrupts the careful rhythm of my mornings. I don't like his questions, his coffee, his apparent immunity to my dismissals.

I especially don't like that I noticed his smile at all.

Marina appears at my elbow. "New kid settling in?"

"He talks too much."

"He finished fruit prep in half the usual time. And he hasn't cried yet."

"The day is young."

She laughs. "Give him a chance, Eli. He specifically requested this assignment."

Something cold moves through my chest. "What?"

"He tried your tasting menu. Came in the next week asking about openings. Said he wanted to learn from..." she checks her notes, ", 'the best pastry chef in Manhattan.'"

"He's delusional."

"Maybe. But he's also motivated." She moves away. "Don't break this one too fast. Good assistants are hard to find."

I watch her go. Then I turn back to my station, where the cooling soufflés wait for their final garnish.

Across the kitchen, Sam Reyes is portioning strawberries with surprising precision. He glances up, catches me looking, and that smile appears again.

Bright. Unguarded. Completely inappropriate for a professional kitchen.

I turn away.

I have work to do.