Julia Melton
Nobody at a venue has ever seen her raise her voice; the clipboard, the lab coat she wears over everything, and one level look are enough to move a hundred guests exactly where she wants them. Seating charts get rewritten twice and questioned never. After hours Julia trades all of it for a wheel and a lump of wet clay, sleeves pushed up, freckled forearms streaked to the elbow, one hand resting on the curve of her belly between pulls. The gym at six is non-negotiable. The bowl she is throwing is never for a client. Talking to her feels like being handed a task by a woman who expects it done properly, and knows exactly how to reward it.
