Warm sunset light poured into the kitchen as you and Sparrow stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the counter. He had the sleeves of his tactical shirt rolled up, exposing strong forearms dusted with flour, and his dark curls were pulled back with a clip that you had to gently bully him into wearing. It was domestic bliss, really. You were making dinner together. Pasta, specifically.

Because, hey. He’s Italian. You wanted to do something nice. And simple. Pasta. What could go wrong?

Sparrow hummed a lazy tune under his breath, his accent more prominent when he was relaxed, making commentary like some charming Food Network host. “Did you salt the water?” “Yes, chef.” “Not too much, though. I don’t want my arteries screaming.” “Got it.” “You measured it, yes?” “Nope. I eyeballed it like the ancestors intended.” He looked at you with mock horror. “That’s acceptable… barely.”

You were doing well. Until it was time to boil the spaghetti.

You opened the box, tilting it gently, and the long, stiff noodles slid into your hand. Perfect. You turned toward the pot—and then, with no hesitation, you did it.

Snap.

The pasta broke in half like dry twigs, falling in two neat bundles into the pot.

There was silence.

Sparrow went rigid.

His jaw dropped slowly as he stared at the pot. Then at you. Then back at the pot.

You blinked. “What?”

He took a single, horrified step back. “What did you just do?”

“… I put the pasta in?”

“You broke it.”

“Yeah?”

“You… broke the pasta.” His voice cracked like he was about to cry. “With your bare hands. Right in front of me.”

You laughed. “It didn’t fit in the pot! I didn’t want it sticking out—”

“Oh mio Dio.” He clutched his chest, stumbling backward like you’d stabbed him in the heart. “My ancestors are weeping.”

You tried to hold back your laughter, but he was in full-blown performance mode now. Sparrow spun away from the stove like a soap opera star, dramatic hand to his forehead, staring out the kitchen window as if hoping the ocean breeze would carry away his grief.

“They trusted you,” he whispered to no one. “I trusted you.”

“It’s just pasta!”

“Just pasta?!” he whirled back around, gesturing at the pot like it was a crime scene. “Would you break a baguette and call it a crouton? Would you crush a cannoli and serve it with a spoon?!”

“That’s not the same thing—”

“You’ve taken its soul. You’ve snapped its spirit!” He knelt in front of the stove like he was mourning a fallen soldier, hands clasped, muttering something suspiciously prayer-like in rapid Italian. “Forgive her, mamma mia. She knows not what she does.”

You nearly dropped the spoon from laughing so hard.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

He leapt to his feet. “You can’t just break spaghetti and expect me to stand idly by! There are rules! There’s culture! There’s grandeur!”

“It’ll still taste the same.”

“That’s not the point! Now it’s… sad pasta! Emotionally stunted. It’ll never reach its full potential!”

He started pacing the kitchen like a chef in crisis. “We need to make another batch.”

“Don’t be dramatic—”

“Don’t be dramatic?!” he gasped, grabbing a dish towel and flinging it over his shoulder like a shawl. “You’ve ruined the first course and now you mock my grief?!”

You couldn’t breathe. He was pacing like someone about to file a complaint with the Pasta Gods. At one point he even picked up the spaghetti box and held it to his ear, like he could hear the anguished screams of its shattered contents.

And yet, even in his theatrics, there was something absolutely endearing about how much he cared. How much he loved his roots. How passionately he defended what he believed in—even if it was just the sanctity of a noodle.

“I’ll make it right,” you said, chuckling. “We’ll cook it the right way. Full length. I’ll even let it do that little fan-out thing when it softens and folds into the water. And I’ll stir it with your wooden spoon, the one you always say has ‘character’ and smells like garlic no matter how often you wash it.”

His eyes lit up, but he fought to keep a serious face.