The oven was already awake when Willow arrived.
Not roaring—never roaring—but alive in that low, patient way Michael preferred. Embers glowed like coals tucked into themselves, heat held rather than spent. He was there before the rest of the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hands dusted with ash, eyes on the fire as if it were speaking to him.
"Morning," he said, without turning.
She paused. "How did you—"
"You walk softer when you're tired," he replied. "And you're tired today."
She smiled despite herself and tied her apron.
The lesson began without ceremony.
"Fire doesn't need force," he said, drawing the peel through the mouth of the oven, rearranging embers with care. "It needs intention. You bank it so it keeps its heat through the night. You don't leave it exposed."
He stepped aside. "Your turn."
She hesitated, then mirrored his movements. Too quick at first—then slower, matching the rhythm he set. The heat kissed her knuckles, not enough to burn, just enough to remind her it was real.
"Listen," he said. "You can hear when it's settled."
She did. A soft crackle, a steadiness she hadn't noticed before.
"That's good," he said. "That's enough."
They worked in companionable silence as the rest of the staff trickled in. During service, he checked on her often—not hovering, just present. When she faltered, he adjusted the fire himself, then showed her again, hands close but never touching.
She realised something halfway through the night: she wasn't watching the clock.
She wasn't counting the minutes until it was over.
After close, as they cleaned down, she asked, "How did you learn this?"
"My mother," he said. "She sang. Played piano. But she cooked like it was prayer."
He banked the fire with a reverence that bordered on grief. "She said if you care for heat properly, it won't hurt you."
Willow thought of all the times heat had hurt her—voices raised, hands slammed, doors thrown. She swallowed.
"I like the oven," she said. "It feels… honest."
He looked at her then, something warm and approving in his gaze. "It is."
When she left, the embers slept safely behind iron doors, heat held for morning. Willow carried that image with her—the idea that strength could be quiet, that care could be deliberate.
That night, she dreamed of fire that did not burn.
Willow's Diary
He taught me how to bank the fire.
Not just how to move embers, but how to keep warmth without letting it rage. I think that's how he lives—holding things inward so they don't consume him.
I wonder what it would be like to be tended the same way.
Poem — Embers
He doesn't feed flame
to make it obey.
He gathers it,
cups the glow,
lets it sleep.
If this is strength,
then maybe
I can learn it
without fear.