It’s just been two hours since she settled in and I realize, I can't stay in this house, can't go upstairs and lie in that guest room knowing she's down the hall in my bed wearing my clothes.
The couch is fine. I've slept in worse places, on warehouse floors and in the cramped backseats of surveillance cars. But I'm not tired. It's barely past eight and my mind won't fucking shut off, won't stop replaying every single moment from tonight.
Upstairs, the floorboards creak as she moves around.
“Fuck it.” I grunt, push off the couch and move to the kitchen, needing something to occupy my mind before I do something stupid like go upstairs and check on her again. The house is always stocked for situations exactly like this. Emergencyprotocols. I open cabinets to check inventory: canned goods, pasta, rice, everything we need for a week or more.
My hands find the rigatoni before my brain catches up.
The good kind, with ridges that catch sauce. San Marzano tomatoes. Garlic. Olive oil.
Pasta all'Arrabbiata.
I stare at the ingredients lined up on the counter and know this is stupid, know I should make something simple. Something that doesn't screamI've memorized every detail about you and I know this is your favorite meal even though we haven't had a real conversation in four years.
But my hands are already moving, pulling out the cutting board and knife, reaching for the pan, because I need something to focus on.
The garlic goes in first. Sliced thin and dropped into hot olive oil where it sizzles immediately, the smell filling the kitchen sharp and pungent in a way that grounds me. I let it turn golden but not brown, never brown, because she likes it just right even if she'd never admit she cares about details like that.
The tomatoes next. I crush them by hand, feeling the flesh give way under my fingers before I throw them into the pan where they sizzle and pop against the hot oil. I add salt and red pepperflakes. Just a pinch, not too much. She doesn't like it too spicy even though she pretends she can handle anything.
The pasta goes into boiling water and I set the timer for twelve minutes, already stirring the sauce when I hear her footsteps on the stairs, slow and hesitant, like she's not sure she should be coming down here.
I don't turn around. Just keep stirring, focusing on the movements, because if I look at her I'm going to lose what little control I have left.
"You're cooking."
Her voice is still rough and tired from everything tonight put her through.
I nod. “Couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
She moves into the kitchen and I hear her bare feet on the tile. A soft sound that shouldn't affect me as much as it does. She stops somewhere behind me, close enough that I can feel her presence like heat radiating across the space between us.
"Smells good. What are you making?"
"Pasta."
"I can see that. What kind?" I can hear her eyes rolling and it makes my lips twitch.
"Arrabbiata."
Silence.
I glance back and immediately regret it because she's standing by the table still in my clothes, the shirt hanging off one shoulder to show her collarbone, the sweatpants rolled so many times they're bunched at her waist. Her hair's dry now and falls dark and smooth down her back, catching the kitchen light in a way that makes my hands tighten on the spoon.
She's staring at me with an expression I can't read. Something between surprise and suspicion, and it makes my chest feel tight.
"That's my favorite."
I know.
"Good timing then." I hum absent mindedly and turn back to the sauce before she can read anything on my face.
"How did you know?"
"I didn't. It's what was in the cabinet."
