"We have enough fat guys in red in this place, agnellino." The light jab at Copia wasn't lost on you, but you brushed it off as you gently tugged on his sleeve, silently asking him again. In response, he groaned.

Secondo was a phenomenal cook. A cook, not a baker. He'd whip up classic Italian dishes in less than an hour and still manage to make them taste like something out of a 5-star restaurant. The only thing he baked was bread because the bagged and frozen garbage at the grocery store tasted like sand. (According to him, at least. You still snuck the frozen Texas Toast into the Ministry now and then as a snack.)

"Will it shut you up?" he asked, grabbing your face in his hand and smushing your cheeks together until you were forced into doing duck-lips. Despite his harsh words, there was no malice in his tone. Only begrudging affection. When you nodded, he released you, allowing you to follow him into the fancy kitchen of his chambers.

"Get me the flour from the cabinet, if you can reach it. All-purpose, not the bread flour," he specified quickly. Last time, you'd accidentally handed him cake flour. It resulted in quite the mess. You took your time as he got a few bowls from underneath the sink, arranging them on the marble countertop.

He turned around, watching you carefully with mismatched eyes, like marbles stolen from a child's jar. "Well?" he asked, crossing his arms, black sleeves rolled up as he waited expectantly.