That you touch your hair when you're thinking. That you taste everything with the same spoon and clean it between tastings. That you have a scar on your left forearm that looks like a bad burn and sometimes you rub it absently when you're stressed.
"That you're a perfectionist," I say instead. "That you care more about the food being right than being fast. That you'd rather take the time to do something perfectly than rush and have it be just okay."
The amusement fades into something more serious. "That's what it takes. In this industry, perfect or nothing."
"That's a lot of pressure to put on yourself."
"It's the only way I know how to work." He takes a sip of coffee. "Fifteen years in professional kitchens teaches you that good enough isn't good enough. Either you're the best or you're forgettable."
There's something almost sad in the way he says it, like he's never considered there might be middle ground between perfection and failure.
"What if good enough is actually great?" I ask quietly. "What if you're so focused on perfect that you miss great?"
He doesn't answer. Just watches me with those tired eyes that have seen too many kitchens, too many services, too many years of grinding himself down in pursuit of something that might not exist.
I turn back to the apples, giving him space to sit with the question.
The dough has rested enough. I roll it out on a floured surface, keeping it rustic and imperfect, just like a galette should be. Flour poofs up into the air as I work, dusting my hands, my apron, probably my face.
I'm arranging the apples in the center of the dough, working in concentric circles, when Levi appears beside me.
"You've got flour," he says, his voice lower than before.
"Where?" I reach up to brush at my face.
"Here." He's closer now, close enough that I can smell coffee and something else, something woodsy that might be his soap or his shampoo or just him. "Hold still."
His hand comes up, thumb brushing across my nose. The touch is gentle, but I still rub my thighs against each other.
We're standing so close. Too close. Close enough that I can see the individual whiskers of his stubble, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar above his left eyebrow that I've never noticed before.
Close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly, if I rose up on my toes, I could find out if his mouth is as warm as it looks. His thumb lingers for half a second longer than necessary. His eyes drop to my lips, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
Then he steps back, hand dropping, the moment shattering like sugar glass.
"Thanks," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
He nods, not quite meeting my eyes, and returns to his stool. But his coffee sits untouched now, his hands wrapped around the cup like he needs something to hold onto.
I turn back to the galette, my own hands shaking slightly. That was... something. Something more than a boss helping an employee with flour. Something that felt charged and dangerous and like we were both teetering on the edge of a line we absolutely should not cross.
Focus. I need to focus.
I fold the edges of the dough up around the apples, creating those characteristic rustic pleats. Brush it with cream, sprinkle with turbinado sugar for crunch. Slide it into the oven that I preheated while the dough was resting.
"Twenty-five minutes," I say, more to fill the silence than anything.
"While it bakes, make the whipped cream."
Right. The cardamom whipped cream.
I pull out the stand mixer, pour in cold heavy cream, and start it at a medium speed. As it begins to thicken, I add powdered sugar and a decent amount of cardamom, enough to be present but not overwhelming.
The kitchen fills with the smell of baking apples and butter and cinnamon. Comfort and warmth and home. Exactly what Juniper's is supposed to evoke.
"Tell me about your grandmother," Levi says suddenly.
I look over at him. He's still on that stool, but his posture is more relaxed now, the tension from that moment earlier easing slightly.