They cooked together in
silence — her chopping
tomatoes, him slicing
garlic. The pan hissed
when the oil hit,
filling the kitchen with
a sharp, familiar smell.
She handed him a wooden
spoon; he stirred, and
the steam fogged his
glasses.
He blinked, wiped them
on his shirt, and she
laughed — a small
sound, almost swallowed
by the simmer. He turned
to her, and without
thinking, wrapped his
arms around her from
behind, chin on her
shoulder. She went
still, then leaned back,
letting the spoon hang.
The sauce bubbled. The
window fogged. She turned
in his arms, hugged him
tight, her face pressed
into his chest. Neither
moved until the pot began
to burn.
They pulled apart, scraped the bottom, and said nothing — but the salt was already in the air.