𝐄𝐳𝐫𝐚 | 18+

05

I walk up the the counter and instruct him to get the pasta as I fill the bowl with hot water. I set it on the stove and turn it on, waiting for it to heat up.

"Here you are." He hands me a package of spaghetti.

"It's Chef to you," I narrow my eyes at him jokingly.

He stands straighter. "Sí, Chef." He says seriously.

"Whatever the fuck that means, anywho.." I raise my eyebrows and look back at the water which is starting to bubble already.

"It's from an Italian cooking show, you know, Masterchef?" He says.

"Oh, yeah, I've heard of that." I nod, remembering I once attempted one of the dishes and almost waxed my eyebrow off with hot honey. Don't ask how, I have no idea.

"I've almost killed myself so many times in the kitchen..." I mutter. "I cut my finger once and had to get stitches, it was awful. I passed out because from all of the blood." I say, as we wait for the water to boil.

"You must have a passion for killing people." He mumbles, leaning his back against the counter and facing me as I stared at me water in hopes for it to boil a bit faster.

"You're the Italian one," I roll my eyes.

"You know, not all Italians are a part of the mafia." He says, in the corner of my eyes I can tell he's staring at me, but not in a mean way.

"I know, I was joking." I smile, turning towards him and instantly feeling paralyzed under his gaze.

"Do Italians learn about the mafia in school?" I ask, i've never really asked myself these questions but since I have someone who can answer me why not shoot all the questions I can think of.

"Yes. I learned about it in eighth grade, I think." He responds. I nod.

"Do you have a bluetooth speaker?" I ask, looking around me. What kind of cooking show is it without music?

"A bluetooth speaker? No, I do not." He presses his lips together.

"I'll have to get you one. They're life changing." I say.

The edge of his lip pulled up, but I looked back at the water once I heard it boiling.

"Ooh, it's ready!" I say. He undoes the spaghetti package and hands me the pasta. I hold it on each end and go to snap it in half when he makes a sort of sound I don't even have a name for.

"Ma che fai!? No, you can't break the pasta. That's practically illegal," He takes the pasta from my hands gently and puts one side in the bowl, making sure to not have it splash.

A few seconds later, the pasta in the water had lost its stiffness to he was able to fit the rest of it on there.

"Magic." I say.

"Indeed."

"What's your favorite italian curse word?" I ask.

"Hm...probably cazzo. It means fuck and dick at the same time. A two in one package." I throw my head back laughing at his statement.