I smile, even though my heart aches for her. “I’ll protect you until the day I die, Sunshine,” I say, my voice thick with the promise.
She looks at me for a moment, and then she lets out a shaky laugh. A real one, this time. “You always say that. I don’t know if you realize how much that means to me.”
I’m not sure if she believes it, but I do. I meant every word. And I’ll keep saying it until she knows it’s true.
After school, I don’t ask if she wants to hang out—because Iknowshe shouldn’t be alone. I tell her I’m taking her to dinner. She doesn’t argue. Just gives me a tired nod and follows.
We both pile into my old car and drive there, the radio filling the quiet space between us.
When we arrive atLa Bella Luna, the small Italian restaurant is quiet, cozy, just what we need. It’s one of those places that has the perfect atmosphere—dim lighting, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce hanging in the air. We get a booth near the back, and after we settle in, I can see her relax, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little.
The waiter comes over, and Kenna orders without hesitation.
“I’ll have the spaghetti,” she says, and I catch the way she smiles just a little when she says it.
“Spaghetti?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Is that your favorite?”
She shrugs, looking a little embarrassed, but there’s a small glint in her eye. “Yeah. I don’t know, there’s something about the way they make it here. It’s…perfect.”
Perfect. That’s how she describes it. I don’t know why, but it sticks with me. I think about it, about how she’s sitting there, all quiet and beautiful, talking about spaghetti like it’s the most important thing in the world.
And then it hits me.
It’s not just about eating here with her. I want to redo the moment, to make it something new. To make her feel protected when she’s with me. Like she can trust me. Anywhere.
Then, just like that, I know what I’m gonna do.
I’m going to learn how to make the best spaghetti she’s ever had.
A few days pass. The hallway incident fades into whispers, but the look in Kenna’s eyes doesn’t leave me. Not when I’m walking to class, not when I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. I keepthinking about the smile she gave me in the restaurant, soft and unsure, like she didn’t know if she could be happy.
Apron on, I’m standing in the kitchen, flipping through a recipe book that’s way too complicated. Still, I’m not giving up. I’m gonna keep trying until I can make something that will actually impress her. Cooking’s not really my thing, but for Kenna, I’ll make it work.
The kitchen looks like a disaster zone. Flour is everywhere, and there’s a strange smell of garlic and burnt onions in the air, but I don’t care. I’ve got my mind set on something, and it’s the fact that I want Kenna to taste this spaghetti and know that I put everything into it.
Halfway through burning the first batch of garlic, I call my mom into the kitchen. She laughs at the mess but doesn’t ask questions. When I mention Kenna’s name, she stays quiet, but there’s a small, knowing smile on her face that says she already understands.
I finally get the sauce simmering on the stove, and the noodles boiling, and I feel like a chef for the first time in my life. When it’s finally ready, I throw it all together, dumping the sauce over the pasta, and then I pack it up in a container to take to her.
I label it with a post-it. It just says “For the girl who deserves perfect.”
Nervous doesn’t even begin to describe how I’m feeling. It’s just spaghetti, right? But somehow, this feels way bigger. Maybe it’s because I want to do something for her that goes beyond just showing up when it’s easy. I want to prove I’m serious about this, about being there for her in every way I can.
When I pull up to her house, I feel a knot in my stomach, like I’m about to walk out onto a tightrope with no safety net. My hands are sweaty as I grab the container of spaghetti and make my way up to the door. I knock, trying not to feel like an idiot.
Kenna opens the door, and I see her face light up when she sees me, though there’s a flicker of surprise when she spots the container in my hand.
“Cole?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
I hold the container out to her, a little awkward but determined. “I made you lunch.”
Her mouth drops open slightly, like she wasn’t expecting this, and she glances down at the container, then back up at me. “You...made me spaghetti?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to act casual, though inside I’m wondering if it’s any good at all. “You mentioned it was your favorite, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
She takes the container, her eyes softening as she looks at it, then looks back at me. “You really made this for me?”
“Yeah, really,” I say, a grin pulling at my lips. “It’s the best I could do.”
