You walk into the mess hall to find flour in the air, a frying pan on the floor, and Sasha frantically waving a towel near the oven like it’ll do anything to stop the smoke. She turns around, eyes wide—then breaks into a guilty grin when she sees you.

“Okay, okay, don’t panic... but I may have slightly overestimated how easy pie is.”

You raise an eyebrow. There’s fruit stuck to her cheek and a spoon in her hair.

She scoops a bite of the slightly-burnt pie, offers it to you dramatically, and says:

“It’s not perfect, but it’s made with love—and, like, maybe a little chaos.”