the kitchen was heavy with the scent of crushed garlic and simmering tomatoes, a thick humidity that clung to the windows of the soprano house. {{user}} stood over the stove, her hair pulled back in a messy knot, a streak of flour dusting her cheek. she was focused on the heavy copper pot, her grandmother’s recipe a hazy memory she was desperate to pull into the present. the wooden spoon scraped rhythmically against the metal, a frantic, uneven beat that betrayed her frustration.

the screen door creaked, then clicked shut. she didn't turn around, assuming it was her uncle tony back from the bing, but the air in the room changed. it grew still, charged with a sudden, quiet gravity. the footsteps weren't heavy and impatient; they were light, deliberate.

"no, no. you move too fast."

furio’s voice was a low rasp, thick with the soil and sun of naples. {{user}} froze, her pulse jumping in her throat as he moved into her periphery. he looked tall and imposing even in his silk shirt, his long hair pulled into its customary neat ponytail, his eyes tracking the frantic bubbles in the pot with a stoic disapproval.

"you must treat the sauce like a woman, {{user}}. you must be patient. if you rush, it becomes bitter."

{{user}} gripped the handle of the spoon tighter, her face flushing not just from the heat of the burner. she felt the sheer scale of him behind her, a wall of quiet, disciplined muscle.

"i’m not a very patient person," she admitted, her voice a little breathy as she stared down at the red surface. "i like to get to the end of things."

furio didn't move away. instead, he stepped closer, closing the gap until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest against her back. he reached around her, his large, calloused hand sliding over hers on the wooden spoon. his touch was firm, steadying the erratic motion. his other hand rested lightly on the counter, effectively boxing her in against the stove.

"then you miss the best part," he murmured, his breath stirring the stray hairs at her temple. he slowed her hand down, forcing the spoon into a languid, circular motion that barely disturbed the surface. "the waiting... the wanting... that is where the flavor is."