A cutting board appears in front of me, a knife set neatly beside it. He nudges the tomatoes closer, like the next step is obvious.
“Dice these. Small pieces. Uniform.”
“I’m not your sous chef.”
“Tonight, you are.” He’s already working on the garlic, knife moving fast and precise. The muscles in his forearm flex with each cut. “Consider it job training. You never know when you’ll need to make pasta at one AM for a mafia boss.”
I pick up the knife and start cutting. Poorly.
“Smaller.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
I slice through a tomato with more force than necessary.
“Aggressive.” He sounds amused. “Taking something out on the produce?”
“Just doing what you asked.”
“Mmm.”
We fall into silence.
He moves through the kitchen like it’s second nature—oil in the pan, heat adjusted without checking, garlic crushed under the flat of his blade. Each motion is clean, controlled.
It feels wrong. Too ordinary. Like I’ve stepped into the wrong version of this story. This isn’t how criminals are supposed to spend their nights.
But he’s not just a criminal, is he?
There’s too much to him. Too many layers.
And I hate that I keep trying to peel them back anyway.
“The sauce needs checking.”
I look up.
He’s holding a wooden spoon, steam rising from the pan behind him. He dips it into the sauce, brings it toward me.
“I can check it myself?—”
He puts the spoon to my lips. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask.
The sauce touches my tongue before I can protest. Rich. Warm. Tomatoes and garlic and something deeper.
I swallow before I can stop myself.
“Well?”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine.” He sets down the spoon. Returns to the stove. “Generous, coming from someone who can’t dice a tomato properly.”
“Don’t do that again.”
“Do what?”
