Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 0286

Abby

Six years ago.

The stainless steel countertops gleamed under the harsh lighting of the culinary school kitchen as I plated my dish with trembling hands. The scent of my creation, a painstaking fusion of herbs and spices, wafted tantalizingly through the air—but I had no appetite.

My gaze flickered across the room, landing on the stern face of Professor Hawthorne, who punctuated the silence with the scribbles on his notepad and the clicking of his shoes on the tile floor.

“Time,” he called out, his voice cutting through the flurry of student activity.

The room went still as Professor Hawthorne began his rounds. His critiques were always light, allowing plenty of room for improvement. As he made his way past each station, the students let out sighs of relief at his gentle encouragement.

And yet, he was never like that with me.

“Overcooked,” he pronounced after no more than a nibble of my carefully crafted dish. “And the balance of flavors is off. This is a cooking class, not an exercise in mediocrity, Abby.”

I felt my cheeks flush with a mixture of anger and embarrassment as I watched him jot down notes. The silence that followed his departure from my station felt like a heavy weight on my shoulders, and although I wanted nothing more than to retort, it was as if my voice was stolen from me.

He moved on, praising Jackson's seared salmon, gushing over Sophia’s perfect risotto. Their success stories felt like stabs to my gut. Why was he always criticizing me so heavily when everyone else received praise?

The bell rang. As the other students left, chatting and laughing happily over their passing grades, I lingered, my gaze locked on the dish that had so thoroughly failed to impress. I got a C-. Barely passing. To me, it might as well have been a colossal failure.

Once I was finally alone in the hallway, I sank to the floor, my back against the cool tile wall beneath the stairwell.

“Dammit,” I murmured, blinking away the tears that threatened to come. “Another horrible grade.” I crumpled up my results and tossed them into a nearby trash can.

That was exactly where he found me, the one person who caused all of this. His shadow fell over me like an eclipse.

“Miss Abby, what seems to be the problem?” Professor Hawthorne's voice was devoid of its usual sharpness, but I couldn't look at him

I glared up through watery eyes, my voice coming out sharper than I intended.

“What do you think the problem is? You nearly failed me, again! Even when I pour my soul into my cooking, it's like you hate everything I do. You never critique the others like you critique me!”

Even I was shocked by my own words. It was as if they tumbled out all at once, like they couldn't be contained any longer.

He regarded me for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, he crouched down to my level, his tone unexpectedly gentle. “I know I'm hard on you, Abby. It's because you can do better. You have enormous potential, but you're not reaching it.”

His words left me reeling. He had never hinted at believing in me, not once.

“Potential?” I echoed, disbelief lacing my voice. “Then why do I feel like you're trying to sabotage me?”

Hawthorne sighed, a rare show of kindness in his stern demeanor. “I push you because I see what you could be, not what you are. I won't apologize for that.”

But his cryptic acknowledgment of my abilities did nothing to ease the sting of his constant disapproval. Standing up, I wiped my face with the back of my hand, determination drying my tears. “Fine. I'll show you potential.”

The next class was a blur, a night spent practicing and perfecting every detail of my dish. I barely slept, too busy researching, practicing, imagining Professor Hawthorne's praises when I really aced it and showed him what I was made of.

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