Salomé turned back to the tray.
Steam curled up from the bowl—a generous serving of ramen noodles, dressed up with whatever she could scavenge from the fridge: a soft-boiled egg, scallions, bits of leftover chicken. A masterpiece born of pure, chaotic spite and stubborn affection.
She adjusted the spoon. Turned the bowl slightly so it faced him just right.
Then she stepped back, hands on her hips, and looked down at him.
"I'm now going to encroach on your space," she announced, and dropped onto the bed.
The mattress bounced under her weight.
Close, but not touching him.
She leaned back on her palms and exhaled toward the ceiling. Her hair was still damp with sweat from the effort, clinging to her temples.
Giovanni shifted, finally—just slightly. His hand fell away from his face.
He blinked up at the ceiling, then over at the tray. Then at her.
"You cooked," he said, flatly.
"I believe I did."
A long beat passed.
Then, slowly, he propped himself up on one elbow.
She didn't look at him, only smiled to herself.
Giovanni reached for the spoon, gave the bowl a lazy stir, and brought the first bite to his mouth.
Salomé waited, one eyebrow already halfway raised in anticipation.
He tasted it—and his face didn't change. Not a flicker of reaction.
She leaned a little closer. "Well?"
He said nothing.
"Giovanni," she called.
He ignored her and sat up straighter. Moved the tray onto his lap, switched to chopsticks and went in for another bite.
The slurping began.
Salomé narrowed her eyes. "You're really not going to tell me how it is?"
Still no reply.
Salomé turned her gaze away, then back again, watching him from the corner of her eye.
The concentration. The way his fingers gripped the cutlery, elegant and precise. The soft, steady rise and fall of his throat as he swallowed.
Her eyes dropped to his Adam's apple—how it bobbed with each motion, sharp and pronounced in the glow of the lamplight.
She blinked.
What the hell was that.
She coughed—loudly. Sat up straighter, rubbing at her face like she needed a reboot.
Giovanni glanced at her, one brow arched in silent question.
"Oh, I'm fine," she said too quickly. "Just hot. And a bit sweaty."
He hummed and went right back to eating.
The silence in the room stretched. She couldn't stand it. So she started talking.
"You know, it's kind of amazing that I don't even need a stove to make a decent meal. Just boil water in the electric kettle, pour it into the noodles, wait five minutes, toss in some extras, close it up again—and bam. Gourmet dining."
She smiled. "No flame needed. This way I get to eat and not burn the place down."
"Technology has done us a lot of good. It really has," she added, nodding like she was making a serious point.
Giovanni raised his bowl and drank the last of the soup down to the last drop. He set it back on the tray, then reached for the pack of paper towels on the nightstand.
Pulling out two sheets, he dabbed his mouth clean with quiet precision.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Salomé gasped dramatically, hand flying to her chest. "You're so very welcome."
He shifted to lie back down but she stopped him with her hand on his chest.
"Your thoughts?"
He didn't wait.
"The chicken was raw. The vegetables were still frozen in the middle. Ramen is already salty, so adding even more salt was unnecessary."
She exhaled loudly through her mouth, eyes fixed on him in a sharp glare. "You don't say."
He lifted both arms in surrender. "You asked."
She gave his chest a light thump with her fist. "You didn't have to spell it out for me, dumbass. I wanted appreciation, not criticism."
"I could only do one so well."
She rolled her eyes and pushed herself up from the bed.
"First and last time you get to taste my food," she huffed, turning on her heel with exaggerated grace.
"Wasn't actual cooking, so…"
She whipped her head around, eyes narrowed. "Excuse you?"
He shrugged, unapologetic. "I said thank you."
Her stare lingered, daring him to say more. Then she turned again, muttering under her breath, "So ungrateful."
Giovanni leaned back against the pillows, watching her with mild amusement as she walked out, before shutting his eyes.
Outside the room, Salomé gently pulled the door closed behind her.
The smile she'd been holding back broke free—wide, uncontrollable, stretching from ear to ear. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the laughter bubbling in her chest.
She looked down at the tray and shook her head in amusement. All that whining, yet the bowl was wiped clean.
Her eyes rolled and she skipped happily down the hall to the kitchen.
*
The scent of something savory wafted into her room, tugging at the edges of sleep.
Salomé stirred on the bed.
Her eyes blinked open slowly, registering the soft golden hue of morning light spilling across the ceiling.
The smell of spices and something buttery hit her nose, and her stomach gave a hopeful rumble.
She smiled, still groggy, her head sinking deeper into the pillow.
A second later, she sprang up, scrambled out of bed, tugged her sweatshirt over her head, and darted barefoot into the hallway.
First stop: the bathroom.
She brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, and patted it dry. As she looked up, her eyes met her own reflection in the mirror.
Her cheeks were still pink from sleep, and her blue hair stuck out in every direction like a rebellious crown.
She sighed and ran her fingers through it, pushing it back in some attempt at presentability.
There. Not perfect—but passable.
As Salomé padded down the hall, the savory smell grew stronger—rich and warm. Her stomach was practically singing.
She slowed as she approached the kitchen.
Giovanni moved with quiet ease from sink to stove to counter, like he owned the space—which, technically, he kind of did.
A voice drifted through the air, low and masculine, coming from his phone on loudspeaker.
Her steps faltered. Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head, listening closer.
Her brows furrowed trying to recall where she'd heard the voice.
"Who is—?"
Then recognition slammed into her.
Both hands flew up to her mouth just in time to muffle the gasp.
Her eyes flew wide, brows leaping halfway up her forehead.
Oh shit.
Giovanni looked up just then, catching her deer-in-headlights expression.
His mouth curled into a smirk, smug and knowing, before turning back to the sizzling pan on the stove.
"Yes Father," he said casually. "I'll take care of it."