"How's Salomé?" Marco's voice drifted from the phone—warm, but edged with quiet curiosity.
Giovanni, still tending to the pan on the stove, glanced over his shoulder—just in time to catch Salomé's wide-eyed panic. She shook her head fiercely, mouthing a frantic, Don't you dare.
His lips twitched, betraying the start of a grin.
"She's doing good," he said lightly. "I think."
"You think?" Marco's tone sharpened slightly. "Have you been checking on her?"
"Yeah," Giovanni replied, flipping something in the pan. "Whenever I get the chance."
A beat of silence followed. Then Marco's voice returned—lower now, deliberate.
"Have you told her how you feel?"
Salomé's breath caught in her throat.
Giovanni didn't turn around. His smirk faded, replaced by something quieter. He stood still for a moment, letting the question linger in the steam and sizzle of the pan.
Then softly, "No."
He reached over and switched off the burner.
"Not yet."
Slowly, he turned—and found her watching him.
Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them. His voice, when it came, was quieter still. Almost tender.
"But I think... she's starting to figure it out."
A long pause followed.
Then Marco's voice came through the speaker again, gentler now. "Still, you have to tell her. She'd be lucky, you know."
Giovanni exhaled slowly, his gaze still fixed on her. "I'd be the lucky one."
"Don't wait so long that someone else says it first," Marco added.
A faint smile tugged at Giovanni's lips, dry and quiet. "I won't let it get to that."
"Attaboy."
The call ended with a soft click—and the silence that followed was louder than before. The house seemed to hold its breath.
Salomé blinked, as if her brain needed a second to catch up. She could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
She wanted to move, but couldn't. Her mouth parted slightly, as if to say something—but no words came.
The tension in the room thickened with each passing second. He felt it. He knew she did too.
Giovanni ran a hand through his hair and looked away, like giving her space might ease the moment.
He hadn't meant for her to find out like this. Not in the middle of the kitchen, with half the words coming from his father.
He was going to tell her. Eventually.
When he was sure. When he knew what to say.
He looked back at her—and for the first time, couldn't read her expression.
He knew he had to speak.
But what could he possibly say?
"Breakfast?"
Salomé flinched. "Hm?"
"I made pancakes. You want some?"
"Uh… sure."
He dished out a generous portion and set it on the counter, along with a glass of milk.
"Sit," he said gently. "Food's getting cold."
She took a seat, her gaze now fixed on the stack of pancakes drizzled with maple syrup.
He watched her for a moment before saying softly, "Salomé—"
She didn't lift her head. "Can we not?"
The words weren't harsh. Just quiet.
Giovanni nodded. "Okay."
He turned away, picked up the empty pan from the stove, and began clearing the kitchen—his movements careful, almost too quiet. No clatter, no sighs. Just the soft scrape of metal, the faint clink of glass, and the hush of running water.
She ate in silence. Slow, mechanical bites. The pancakes were good—really good.
Though out of her element, she could taste them.
Giovanni didn't look back. He kept his hands busy, giving her the space she clearly needed.
But his ears stayed tuned to every sound she made behind him.
She cleared her plate just as Giovanni finished drying the last dish—a task that shouldn't have taken that long, but he'd stretched it out. He didn't want to leave. Not yet.
Salomé stepped down from the stool and moved toward the sink, plate and cup in hand.
He stepped aside to give her room, intending to leave, but as she moved, he moved too—both aiming for the same narrow space between the counter and the stove.
They stopped short—almost colliding.
She went left. So did he.
They tried again, mirroring each other without meaning to.
Still serious.
The third time, something in the awkwardness cracked the tension, and Salomé laughed once under her breath—small, unconscious.
"Sorry."
Giovanni froze, then half smiled—like her laugh had lit something inside him.
She looked up at him, surprised by her own reaction.
He didn't say anything.
She stepped back, letting him pass.
He gave a small nod and walked away.
Salomé stood at the sink, rinsing the plate with a calm expression.
Her hands moved automatically under the running water. Her heart, though—her heart was chaos.
Then the corner of her mouth twitched. A tiny, involuntary spasm.
She blinked. Tried to breathe.
It twitched again. This time on both sides, like her face was fighting a losing battle.
Then it started.
The laughter came out as a choke—sharp, surprised.
She paused.
Then another laugh broke free, bubbling up from her chest, completely out of her control now. Her shoulders shook.
She clutched the edge of the sink with one hand, breath catching in a mix of disbelief and joy.
Her whole face burned. She couldn't see it, but she could feel the heat flooding in—cheeks flaming, ears hot.
And then she laughed. Really laughed.
A giddy, muffled, breathless laugh that burst through her fingers when she clapped a hand over her mouth, but it didn't help.
She doubled over the sink, laughing into her palm, eyes wide and disbelieving, heart sprinting like it was trying to outpace reality.
Tears welled up, blurring her vision, and she laughed even harder—tears streaming down her cheeks, unstoppable and real.
"Oh my God," she whispered, pacing a small, frenzied circle. "He likes me."
She pressed the dish towel to her face, trying to catch her breath, but the tears kept falling—warm and relentless.
She laughed like a girl in love.
"He likes me."
She let out a squeal so soft it could've been a gasp. Then spun once in place, dizzy with relief and delight.
After everything—after all the doubt and hesitations—he felt the same.