[Center][@Vox][/center]

The more he hears, the more March likes Rebekah. Admittedly, her culinary experience makes him feel a bit inferior, but anyone who calls him sprouts can't be that bad. Plus she's giggling, which is a good sign. (Though why she's giggling he has no idea--he wasn't [I]trying[/I] to be funny!)

[color=faef94]”Ok, sooorta speaking of moms, how old are you Sprouts because I'll be honest I can't imagine you being older than 16. Which, you know, is pretty impressive considering you're running a whole kitchen."[/color]

16? 16! 16?! He is a whole 17 [I]thank you very much[/I]! He figures she means no harm by it--after all, she's probably been mistaken as younger countless times with a height like that. But still.

[Color=lightblue]“I'm 17,”[/color] he responds, pausing for a second to bask in the glory of running the kitchen. Which, as he thinks about it, isn't as impressive when he's just doing it himself, but whatever. [Color=lightblue]“I uh, try to stay very organized. And I'm the oldest of 6, so I know how to take control, I guess.”[/color] He shrugs and glances over at Rebekah to see her reaction. [Color=lightblue]“But thanks. Do you, um, normally help the cook?”[/color]