I pulled out the chicken, started prepping.
Quentin didn't move. Just watched me work.
After a long moment: "I want you to stay."
I didn't look up. "You sure?"
"No. But I want you to stay anyway."
"Okay then."
I kept cooking. He kept watching.
And slowly—very slowly—the tension began to shift.
I butterflied the chicken with precision. Seasoned it with confidence. Moved around his kitchen like I'd been there before.
"Where'd you learn to cook?" he asked.
"My grandmother and then mostly my aunt. She..." I paused, choosing words. "She's the one who raised me. After my mom died."
"Your aunt? I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago." I started the pan heating. "Anyway, she believed everyone should know how to cook properly. Said it was a life skill that made you self-sufficient."
"Smart woman."
"She is." A small smile. "Terrifying sometimes. But smart."
"Terrifying how?"
"Just... she has high standards. Expects a lot. Doesn't tolerate excuses or weakness." I added butter to the pan. "But she also taught me everything I know about being strong. About standing up for myself. About not letting anyone make me feel small."
I heard the love in my voice. Hoped he did too.
And felt guilty for it. Because Aunt Filomena was manipulating me. Pushing me to find proof that might not exist. Pressuring me to see Quentin as guilty when the evidence said otherwise.
But she doesn't know that. She believes what she's been told.
By Silvio.
The thought came unbidden. Unwelcome.
What if Silvio lied to her? What if he's been lying to all of us?
"You okay?" Quentin asked.
I realized I'd stopped moving. "Yeah. Just... thinking."
"About?"
"About family. About how complicated it is." I placed chicken in the pan. The sizzle filled the kitchen. "About how the people we love can hurt us without meaning to."
"Or hurt us while meaning to?"
I met his eyes. "Sometimes that too."
We looked at each other.
