Page 105 of Ruins
I try to peer over his shoulder, but his broad frame blocks my view.
“Here we go.” Julian straightens with a triumphant grin, holding up a small box of cupcakes, their sugary tops gleaming under the kitchen lights. When my eyes light up, he chuckles. “Santo wouldn’t be too pleased if he knew about this stash.”
I wink, accepting the box. “He doesn’t need to know.” I grab one and immediately take a bite, the sweetness melting on my tongue. “Does he really not allow snacks?”
“He prefers healthy snacks only.”
I grimace. “He doesn’t know about my sweet tooth yet.”
Julian smirks. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Warmth spreads through me at the thought. Maybe I’m making a friend.
“What’s for dinner?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Hungry already? You’ve got a cupcake in hand.”
I laugh. “No, I just wanted to know if I could help.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to learn. Please.”
He studies me for a moment, then grins. “Alright then.” He pulls open a drawer and hands me a crisp white apron.
I take it gladly, the cool fabric smooth in my hands. “What are we making?”
“Spaghetti aglio e olio.”
I pause, the words familiar. “Spaghetti, garlic, and oil?”
I slip the apron over my head, tying it securely around my waist.
Julian nods approvingly. “You’ve been paying attention.”
He turns to the counter, where a spread of fresh ingredients awaits—flat-leaf parsley, cloves of garlic, dried chili peppers, and a freshly made spaghetti. “It’s a simple dish, but full of flavor.”
For the next half hour, we work side by side. Julian shows me how to finely chop the garlic and parsley while he slices the chilies with effortless precision. He walks me through sautéing the ingredients in olive oil, his voice patient and encouraging at every step. The air fills with a mouthwatering aroma, making my stomach growl in anticipation.
As we wait for the water to boil, he hums an unfamiliar tune under his breath, moving around the kitchen with an easy fluidity—like he belongs here.
I watch him, admiring how naturally he handles everything, how at home he seems. He tosses a pinch of salt into the pot with a little flair, and I giggle.
Once the pasta is cooked, he guides me through the final steps—tossing the noodles into our sizzling mix of olive oil, garlic, and chilies. A generous sprinkle of parsley and freshly grated parmesan finishes the dish.
Julian plates it up, handing me a fork. “Try it.”
I twirl a bite onto my fork and take my first taste. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the flavors bold and balanced—rich olive oil, tangy garlic, the slow burn of chilies, and the freshness of parsley tying it all together.
“This is... amazing.” I swallow, unable to hide my delight.
Julian grins. “I had a feeling you’d like it.”
We sit down to eat, and soon the rest of the kitchen staff trickles in, joining us for dinner. They’re warm and welcoming, chatting with me about the ins and outs of the house, telling stories about Santo and how kind he is to them.
The thought makes my heart warm.
Here in this kitchen, surrounded by easy laughter and acceptance, I feel something I’ve been missing since arriving.
