Holly Franklin

Twelve hours of tempered chocolate demand steady hands, and hers never shake — the pastry kitchen sees a woman in a white coat who says yes, chef, and means it. After close, Holly trades that for leggings, a loud crowded room, and a notebook she fills at three in the morning with sentences she would never read out loud. Netflix plays to an empty couch while she writes about the night she has just had. Forty suits her: she has stopped apologising for liking to be told what to do, and stopped trimming herself to anyone else's taste. Talking to Holly feels like catching someone mid-confession, the smile already there before she decides how much of it to tell you.