Prof walked back to the head of the class, leaving me alone with my new protégé. I turned to look at Rian, one eyebrow raised. Ever since I told him off, he hadn't stopped studying me. Those obsidian orbs were relentlessly boring into my being.
It was getting annoying.
"Hey," I said, snapping my fingers in front of him. His gaze refocused on me, unflinching. "Let's test just how much you know," I challenged, smiling devilishly. "You ever make ratatouille before?"
Rian frowned, his rosy lips turning downward ever so slightly. "The French dish?"
"Yep," I said, grabbing my apron off the kitchen's coat hook. I wrapped it around my waist, tying the strings firmly behind my back. "I'm gonna show you how to cook it."
He tilted his head, his brow furrowing. "Doesn't that involve cutting several different types of vegetables, and preparing a side dish as well?"
"So you really did study up, huh?" I said, amused. "Well, you're right. This way, I can show you how to use several different knives and throw in a lesson on seasoning, all in one go." I turned and started to collect my set of culinary knives, assembling them on the counter.
"The books I read described it as a complex gourmet dish."
"What's your point?"
"Is it really suitable for a beginner to make this? Everyone will be tasting it afterwards."
I paused, glancing back at him. "Are you nervous?" I raised an eyebrow, a note of amused incredulity in my voice.
Rian's gaze darkened when my eyes met his. "Not at all," he replied. He surveyed me for a moment longer. Against my will, I found myself drawn into his stare.
"Are you?" he asked abruptly.
"Huh?" I returned, surprised.
"Are you nervous?" There was an intensity to his voice that caught me off guard. "You are responsible for me, after all." He took a step in my direction. I turned to face him completely, feeling myself being pulled further in. "Wouldn't it reflect badly on you if the dish I make tastes horrible?"
I was face to face with him now. He took another step towards me, still with that intense glint in his eyes. I resisted the urge to grab the kitchen counter as a crutch—it felt like his stare placed a physical weight on me. The right side of my ribcage twinged painfully.
"Well?" he asked again. "Are you?"
I mentally dragged myself back to the present and forced my mind to focus on his question. Squaring my shoulders, I tried to communicate my honesty through my face.
"Rian," I said evenly. He stiffened when I said his name, but I pushed on anyway.
"I'm not nervous," I said truthfully. "I'm not worried—not in the slightest. You'll be fine."
He searched my eyes, no doubt looking for signs I was lying. "How do you know?" he questioned, expressionless as ever.
"Well," I said, grinning broadly. "You are learning from me, after all."
He seemed to freeze then, the tiniest bit of shock creeping into his face. My grin morphed into a smirk—even if it was at the very end, I was a bit proud of myself for cracking that icy exterior of his.
Turning back around, I started reassembling the culinary knives. After a moment, I heard Rian moving to go pick up an apron from the hook behind me. I took the opportunity to let out a shaky breath. How could someone pack so much into just one look?
Rattling myself out of my thoughts, I heard Rian approach the counter from my right. I picked up one of the larger knives, motioning for him to grab it. After a moment's hesitation, he took it from my hand.
"That's called a chef's knife," I informed him. "You probably read about this already, but just for thoroughness' sake I'll go over it anyway." I paused and waited for some signal of acknowledgement.
Of course, there was none. He just stood and waited for me to continue.
"Okay," I moved on. "Usually when we make a dish with this much of a focus on sliced vegetables, we use the chef's knife." I gestured to the curve of the blade. "It's good for chopping, slicing, mincing . . . it's probably your most versatile tool."
I grabbed an eggplant and cutting board from the supplies on the counter. I placed the eggplant in the center. "Go ahead and cut it into slices," I told him.
He scrutinized the vegetable for a minute before stepping forward. He placed one hand on the side of the eggplant and smoothly cut through it, neatly separating it into two halves.
He continued like this for a while before I stopped him. "Here," I pointed to the half he'd sliced. "See the way you cut it? When you do that, the eggplant loses some of its juice and flavour." Unthinkingly, I reached for the handle of the knife, and my hand landed on Rian's fingers.
I froze momentarily, possessed by the sudden urge to yank my hand back. I smothered the impulse to flinch away; I was his teacher, after all. Teachers don't flinch away from their students.
Pretend.
Slowly, I gripped Rian's hand over the knife. I saw him glance down at me out of the corner of my eye, but I kept myself focused on the task at hand. God forbid I get sucked into his gaze again.
"Here," I repeated, more softly this time, "cut it this way."
I maneuvered Rian's hand towards the eggplant, guiding the knife as it sliced through the vegetable. I did it a few more times, continuing my explanation. "When you cut it towards yourself, you're able to control the distribution of your strength throughout the cut. That way, any fluids that would have been wasted by slicing it with too much strength are retained, and the taste is richer."
I released his hand, watching him carefully cut it the way I showed him. While his back was turned, I quickly pressed my hands against my cheeks to cool them down. "Ridiculous," I muttered.
"What was that?"
"Oh, nothing," I stammered, withdrawing my hands. Pointing at the knife again, I moved his elbow and corrected his posture. "Make sure to stand properly. Since chefs make a living off slicing vegetables, it's important to make sure your posture doesn't suffer because you're bending over a cutting board all the time."
He glanced at me impassively before straightening and continuing to slice the eggplant. I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding. Why did everything feel like a test with him?
The next hour passed by like that. He cut the rest of the eggplant, zucchini, and tomatoes without any problems. He really was brilliant—everything I told him, he picked up within a minute or two.
Finally, we began to sauté and bring everything together. He began to add the seasoning as I instructed him to, and we'd prepared a side dish of mashed potatoes with garlic and pepper. I taste-tested everything and tried to hide my smile at how good it was. He was a natural.
"Oh, wait a second," I told Rian, watching him stir the mash potatoes vigorously. "Make sure not to stir too fast, or the moisture in the upper layers will dissipate."
I gestured for him to move out of the way so I could show him. He took a step back, about to lean against the counter. As I was about to grab the spoon's wooden handle, something behind Rian caught my eye. It glinted ominously in my peripheral vision, and as soon as I realized what it was, I spun back around just as Rian was about to rest against the counter edge.
"Wait!" I panicked. I lunged forward, reaching behind Rian before he made contact. I shoved the knife jutting over the edge of the counter away before Rian's back hit it, wincing as it cut into my palm.
Rian froze and pushed himself away from the counter, his eyes widening slightly as he noticed what nearly happened. I quickly clenched my hand, trying to keep the blood from seeping out.
"Are you okay?" I asked in concern.
Rian turned to me, swiftly regaining his wits. "Yeah, thank you," he said, examining me with a different look in his eyes than before.
"Did you get hurt?" he asked, his voice also sounding peculiar, but I was too focused on keeping my bleeding fist hidden behind my back to pay much attention.
I forced a smile onto my face. "No, I'm fine," I lied. "Be careful, okay? This is a kitchen, after all. Always be aware of where you left your knife."
Rian only nodded in response. He turned back to the ratatouille, which thankfully had not started to burn. "Continue stirring this," I told him. "And remember, be gentle!"
He cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing infinitesimally. "Didn't you say you were going to show me how?" he asked in a low voice.
My breath caught in my throat, and I struggled to come up with an excuse. The pain in my hand felt like it was spreading, and I felt a sharp pang in my ribcage. I could feel warm liquid start to drip past my knuckles, and I quickly clasped my other hand over it behind my back. I didn't have time to be examined by Rian—I had to go find a bandage.
"It's fine, you can do it," I said hurriedly. When he still didn't move, I tapped my foot impatiently. "What are you waiting for?" I asked, feigning irritation, and nodded in the direction of the stove. "Do you like your food burnt or something?"
That got him going. He promptly continued to stir the dish, lowering the flame to a slow simmer. I speed-walked out of the kitchenette, murmuring a quick "I'll be right back" before dashing out of the classroom.
I headed down the hall to the staff lavatory. Hardly anyone used this place, so I had some privacy.
I withdrew my clenched fist from behind me, wincing as I slowly opened it over the sink. A hiss escaped me as the gash was exposed to open air.
Blood dripped freely into the sink basin. There was a long slash stretching diagonally across my palm, about three inches in length.
"Shit," I murmured as I surveyed the damage. It wasn't too deep, but I wouldn't be able to hold a knife for at least three or four days.
I washed out the wound as best as I could before heading over to the right side of the room. There was a first aid kit in every staff bathroom, and I could see one sitting on the top shelf of the toiletry stand next to me. It was just sitting there, waiting for me to grab it.
Six feet in the air.
"Why am I so short?" I griped, trying and failing to jump and grab the handle of the box. I cradled my bleeding hand against my chest, reaching as far up as I could in a vain attempt to stretch my spine. It was no use; I couldn't get anywhere, no matter how hard I tried.
Out of nowhere, a hand reached out above my own.
I stiffened as someone pressed up behind me and grabbed the container handle, slowly lowering it and placing it on the table in front of me. The plastic of the container clattered loudly as it was set down, and I jolted slightly at the sound.
I could feel every contour of the person's body even after they moved away, a lingering imprint.
No, actually . . . it was more like a living memory.
"As it turns out, I don't mind my food a little burnt."
Every muscle in my body tensed, and I turned slowly to meet my saviour. As if I didn't already know.
A good head taller than me, glaring down at me unforgivingly. A pillar of dark perfection, in a 'Kiss the Cook' apron.
Rian.