“Yes,” I say. “Pasta water should be seasoned. It’s the only time you’re seasoning the pasta itself.”
“Okay,” she says and turns to grab the tub of salt on the counter.
She tips salt into her palm with exaggerated caution.
“More,” I say. “Don’t be so delicate with it.”
She gives me a look and adds more.
“Good,” I tell her. “Throw it in. Now—garlic.”
I slide a cutting board toward her and set down garlic cloves.
She stares at them like they’re a problem she can’t solve.
“I don’t cook, remember?” she reminds me, defensive.
“This isn’t cooking,” I say. “This is cutting.”
She picks up the knife.
I stop her with a simple, “Hold it properly.”
Her eyesflick up. “I am.”
“No,” I say, stepping around the island so I’m beside her—just close enough to demonstrate but no closer. “Your grip is cautious, scared.”
“I’m not scared,” she snaps automatically.
“Then don’t hold it like it’s going to bite you,” I say.
Her lips part, like she’s about to throw something sharp back at me. Like the knife.
And then her gaze drops—my forearms, my hands, the way the shirt clings slightly from the shower steam that never fully left my skin.
I feel it.
That pull between us. That magnetic line that’s been vibrating between us.
I keep my hands to myself, because… rules. Because her rules.
“Watch,” I say, and take the knife from her. I demonstrate on one clove, quick and precise. “Flat of the knife. Smash. Peel. Then slice thin.”
I set the knife down when I’m done and look at her expectantly.
She swallows and copies me. The clove pops under the blade.
“See?” I say. “It didn’t kill you.”
“I didn’t say it would.”
“You acted like it,” I say, and her mouth twitches. Before she can slice, I say, “No, hold the knife like this.”
Using my hand, I direct her to hold it correctly. “Pinch right here, the base, with your thumb and index. Good. Now wrap the rest of your fingers around the handle. This way, you have better control. Good. Like that. Now try.”
When she slices, the pieces are uneven.
“Not terrible,” I say.
