One word, but the honesty in it made my heart flutter. “Me too,” I admitted.
We stood there for a moment, just looking at each other, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t quite name. Then the timer on my stove beeped, breaking the spell.
“That’s my cue to actually cook the pasta,” I said, turning towards the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable. Though ‘comfortable’ might be relative given the ceiling height.”
“I’ve adapted to human architecture,” he said, following me into the kitchen. “Your space is… nice. Warm.”
Coming from Rion, this was practically effusive praise. I felt a ridiculous flush of pleasure as I moved to check the sauce.
“Thanks. It’s not exactly an architectural marvel like your place, but it’s home.”
“It suits you,” he observed, looking around at my book-lined walls and mismatched furniture. “Orderly chaos.”
I laughed. “That might be the most accurate description of my life I’ve ever heard.”
My kitchen suddenly felt much smaller with Rion in it. He seemed to take up all the available space and oxygen, his presence both intimidating and thrillingly intimate. I became hyperaware of every movement as I reached for the pasta, conscious of how close he stood.
“Can I help?” he asked, his deep voice close enough that I could feel its vibration.
“You already brought enough bread for a small army,” I said, turning to reach past him for the colander. “You’re officially a guest now. Just relax and?—”
As I turned, my elbow caught the edge of the simmering sauce pan, sending it teetering dangerously. In my haste to catch it, I knocked over the glass of wine I’d poured earlier, creating a red waterfall headed straight for my white kitchen rug.
“Oh no, no, no!” I lunged for the sauce while simultaneously trying to intercept the wine, resulting in me doing neither effectively.
Rion moved with surprising speed and precision for someone so large. One massive hand steadied the sauce pan while the other caught the wine glass before it could shatter, though not before a generous splash had escaped.
“Sorry!” I grimaced, grabbing a dish towel to blot the spreading red stain. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”
“No harm done,” he said calmly, setting the wine glass safely on the counter and checking that the sauce pan was stable. “The sauce is saved.”
“The rug isn’t,” I sighed, dabbing ineffectually at the stain. “Though honestly, it was only a matter of time. I’m a walking disaster in confined spaces.”
“Here.” Rion crouched down beside me, taking the towel from my hands. His fingers brushed mine, warm and surprisingly gentle. “Salt,” he said.
“Salt?”
“For the wine. It helps absorb it before it sets.”
He moved to my pantry with the confidence of someone who knew their way around a kitchen, located the salt, and returned to sprinkle a generous amount over the stain. His massive hands worked with delicate precision, blotting rather than rubbing.
“Where did you learn that trick?” I asked, watching him work.
“Trial and error,” he replied, not looking up. “Red wine and baking don’t always mix well.”
I tried to picture Rion in his kitchen, flour-dusted and cursing at a wine spill, and found the image endearingly domestic.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Most of my kitchen disasters end up as permanent reminders of my clumsiness.”
He glanced up, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Not everything needs to leave a scar.”
Something about the way he said it made me think we weren’t just talking about wine stains anymore. I held his gaze, acutely aware of how close we were, both crouched on my kitchen floor.
“The pasta,” he reminded me gently after a moment.
“Right! The pasta.” I scrambled to my feet, feeling flustered. “Can’t have a pasta dinner without the actual pasta.”
Rion rose beside me, his movement fluid despite his size. In the small kitchen, we were practically pressed together, his warmth radiating against my side. I tried to focus on dumping the pasta into the boiling water, but my hands trembled slightly.
