We fall into an easy rhythm after that. Me kneading the dough with gentle pressure, just like I showed him that first time. Him finishing his beer and setting it in the recycling bin.
I roll out the gnocchi dough, cutting it into perfect little pillows while the bolognese simmers on the stove, rich with tomatoes, garlic, and red wine.
Vin moves around me with surprising grace for such a large man, staying out of my way but somehow always close. When I reach for the olive oil, he’s already handing it to me. When I need the gnocchi board from the high shelf, he retrieves it before I ask.
This. This is what I tried to explain to him: this is everything between two people, this comfort in silence. This unspoken choreography of two people existing in the same space without friction. This is what I meant about home.
I plate the gnocchi carefully, arranging each piece just so, drizzling the bolognese in a spiral pattern, garnishing with fresh basil and a grating of parmesan. When I turn to bring it to the table, Vin is already sitting, waiting, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
I set the plate in front of him. Our fingers brush, an accident that sends electricity shooting up my arm.
When he takes a bite, he closes his eyes making that expression that feeds my soul. That’s why I cook. That moment of pure bliss when good food erases everything else and, for just a second, there’s nothing but the simple pleasure of flavor.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, eyes still closed. “This is….”
He doesn’t finish. Just opens his eyes and looks at me, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face before he locks it down.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Good?”
“Perfect.” He takes another bite, groaning softly. “Fucking perfect, Sophia.”
The sound of my name in his mouth, rough with pleasure, does things to me, makes me want things I shouldn’t want from a man who uses me like a toy. Who will never, ever love me back.
I make myself a small plate, more for show than hunger, and sit across from him. We eat in companionable silence, the tension from the past few days slowly evaporating.
When he finishes, he sits back with a satisfied sigh. “Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Feels like I should thank you again.” His gaze drops to his empty plate, then back to me. “For putting up with my shit.”
The Vin version of an apology.
“You fixed my chair,” I say softly. “I’d say we’re even.”
Something eases in his expression. He stands, gathering his plate and mine without asking, and carries them to the sink. When the water runs hot, he squirts dish soap and starts scrubbing with methodical attention.
I watch him, this brutal man washing dishes in my tiny kitchen, and feel something tender and stupid and utterly doomed unfurl in my heart.
He washes the other dishes next, the pot I used for the sauce, the gnocchi bowl, then sets them on the drying rack with quiet precision. Moving quietly to the kitchen, I dry the dishes as he finishes, our arms brushing in the small space.
The comfort of it steals my breath, this quiet domesticity. This is what I’ve always wanted: not grand gestures or expensive gifts, but someone who shares the small moments. Someone who sees the dishes need doing and does them without being asked.
I remind myself that the someone in this case is Vincenzo Demonio, that this is temporary, that this will end.
I’ll take what I can get.
When the last dish is dried and put away, I pull out the last ingredients to add to the cannoli cream. Vin goes very still behind me, tension flooding back into his shoulders.
I don’t look at him, just measure out the last little additions, trying not to think about the last batch, about dumping it over his head in a fury I’ve never felt before.
He doesn’t touch me and doesn’t speak. He just watches as I finish and carefully cover the cannoli filling, sliding it into the refrigerator next to the leftover gnocchi.
“For later,” I say quietly. “When I’m ready.”
The message is clear: I’m not there yet. Not completely.
He nods, understanding in his dark eyes.
