"Now the tomatoes. And we'll add some herbs—not too much, you want to taste the tomato, not just the seasoning."
The kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and tomatoes, so much better than my burned attempt. My stomach growls as he hands me the spoon. "You stir. Keep it moving so it doesn't stick."
I take the spoon, and he moves behind me, his chest against my back, his hand covering mine as he guides the motion.
"Just like this. Gently."
I can barely concentrate. He's so close, his warmth seeping into me, his breath stirring my hair. My heart is hammering, and I know he can probably feel it. His hips aren’t touching me, and I wonder if they did, if he’d be hard. If we could burn dinner for a second time, for a different reason.
If we were a real married couple, real newlyweds, we would.
"Maeve." His voice is rough. "The sauce."
Right.The sauce.
I focus on stirring, and gradually he steps back, giving me space. But the air between us feels charged, electric.
"For the pasta, you want to salt the water," he continues, moving to fill another pot. I glance over and see him add salt, then set the water to boil. He comes back to check the sauce, standing next to me now, our shoulders almost touching.
"Taste it," he says, holding out a spoon with a bit of sauce.
I blow on it carefully and taste. It's good—really good. Rich and flavorful, and nothing like the mess I made earlier.
"It's perfect," I say, biting my lip. "But you made it."
"You helped,” Sean insists, his eyes meeting mine. "See? Not useless."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. He's being kind. Patient. So different from the cold, angry man from our wedding night.
The water boils, and he shows me how to add the pasta, how to stir it so it doesn't stick, how to test if it's done.
"It should be al dente—you don’t want it mushy,” he explains. We work side by side in the small kitchen, and it feels domestic. Intimate. Like we're a real couple, not two people forced together by circumstance. It would be so easy to pretend that’s the case, that this isn’t just a momentary diversion from how things really are.
"Drain it, but save some pasta water," he instructs. "We'll add it to the sauce—it helps everything come together."
I follow his directions, and then we're mixing the pasta with the sauce, and it actually looks like food. Good food.
"We did it," I say, unable to keep the smile off my face.
"You did it." He's smiling too, just a little. "I just supervised."
We plate the pasta and sit at the small dining table. I take a bite, and it's delicious. Sean pours a glass of wine for each of us, and I try to ignore the prickling feeling along my arms, the strangeness of sitting here alone with him in this small, ordinary space, without staff or a formal dining room around us.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For not making fun of me. For teaching me."
"You don't need to thank me." He twirls pasta on his fork. "You want to learn. That's more than most people."
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I find myself relaxing for the first time since we arrived in Dublin.
"Sean?" I set down my fork. "Can I ask you something?"
He tenses slightly but nods. "Sure."
"What was Dublin like? Growing up, I mean."
His expression clouds. "Not good."
"Tell me anyway. Please. I want to understand you." My throat tightens, and I realize that it’s true. He knows a lot about me; I want to know more about him, this husband that I was given and that I need to learn to live with.
