The kitchen was quiet except for the steady rhythm of a knife hitting the cutting board. Giovanni stood at the counter, his back to Salomé, chopping vegetables with a calm precision that seemed almost too effortless.
He wore a loose gray shirt, and black jersey shorts that stopped right above the knees. The look was casual, unbothered—exactly how he carried himself.
The most eye-catching was the apron he wore: a bright, cartoonish thing that featured a goofy smiley face and the words "World's Best Chef" in big, blocky letters.
The chopping continued, the occasional thud of the knife punctuating the silence. Each strike of the blade grated on Salomé's nerves, pulling her attention away from the words on her screen.
She shifted in her chair, glaring at her laptop as if it were the source of her frustration, but really, it was the noise. And him.
Her fingers drummed on the edge of the table, growing impatient. She glanced at Giovanni again, who seemed utterly unaware of how his presence filled the room with this... thing.
"Must you slam it down like that every time?" she asked, voice sharp, as though her words could make the noise stop.
Giovanni didn't look up. "You're hearing things." His words slid out, smooth and disinterested.
His back was still turned and his movements were unaffected. She could have sworn he didn't even hear her, as though the sound was a part of the room and not his doing.
She turned back to her laptop, trying to focus, but the rhythm of the knife was like a pulse in her head now, pounding and relentless.
"Can you keep it down a bit? I'm trying to concentrate," she shot back, more impatient this time.
Giovanni barely flinched, not even pausing in his task. His voice, cool as ever, responded without missing a beat. "If you're so bothered, you could just go to your room."
Salomé clenched her fists under the table, but she fought the urge to snap. She shifted again, fingers tapping against the laptop keyboard angrily.
Then she snapped. "Seriously, it's like you're trying to annoy me."
Giovanni finally looked over his shoulder, just enough to catch her glare. His expression remained neutral, calm, as if this was all some passing amusement to him.
He turned back to the chopping board, his movements slower now, more deliberate. The sharp, rhythmic tapping of the knife dulled into a soft whisper as he sliced through the vegetables with unexpected care.
Salomé glanced up at him, surprised by the shift. Something about that simple gesture tugged at her. It wasn't grand, it wasn't loud, but it was something.
"Thank you," she said quietly, a small, tentative smile blooming on her lips.
Giovanni didn't answer. But the corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly, a fleeting expression that almost vanished as soon as it appeared.
The silence that followed was no longer strained. The tension between them faded, settling into something gentler.
By the time they sat down to eat, the sky had turned a pale gray, clouds heavy with promise. The kitchen had grown quieter, the earlier clatter of pans replaced by the hush of simmering broth and the occasional crackle from the stovetop.
Giovanni placed a bowl of steaming hot minestrone soup in front of Salomé. Steam curled up in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of rosemary, garlic, and olive oil.
"Thanks."
It wasn't extravagant, but it tasted like something from someone's childhood. Her guess was Giovanni's.
Salomé took a spoonful, then another. The flavors wrapped around her like a blanket—hearty and comforting.
Outside, rain began to fall. First, a soft pattering, then steadier, a quiet percussion on the windowsill.
Giovanni was still, his gaze fixed on the droplets racing down the glass. There was something distant in his expression, a melancholy she hadn't noticed before.
Salomé glanced at him, then softly asked, "Where did you learn to cook?"
He didn't answer right away. The question seemed to linger between them, settling into the rhythm of the rain.
Then, quietly, he said, "My mum."
Salomé's face lit up slightly. "She must be incredible, then. What is she like?" she asked gently.
Giovanni didn't look up. His spoon hovered for a moment before he said, almost absentmindedly, "It was raining the day she died."
Then, without missing a beat, he took another bite, as if the words had slipped out unnoticed.
Salomé felt a pang in her chest instantly. She didn't say anything else—just quietly returned to her food, offering silence in place of words.
The warmth of the soup and the sound of rain filled the silence that lingered between them.
It wasn't awkward, and for that, Salomé was grateful.
Giovanni didn't speak, but he ate slowly, deliberately. She followed suit, stealing glances at him now and then, her appetite dulled not by the food, but by the sudden weight that had settled in the room.
She opened her mouth, intending to speak but nothing came. Anything felt either too much or not enough.
Perhaps it was just best to let it slide. At least for the moment.
If he wanted to say more, he would have. So maybe he didn't want to. Maybe he wasn't ready, or maybe he didn't have the right words for that moment.