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Chapter Forty-Five

Lilianna

I looked at the ingredients Christopher had laid out on the kitchen island like he was preparing a still life painting.

Everything was artfully arranged, intentional in that effortless way only someone confident in the kitchen could manage.

A bag of flour dusted the counter with a fine veil of white, as though a snowstorm had lightly passed through.

Eggs gleamed in a small ceramic bowl, yolks the color of marigolds, while a bunch of fresh herbs—sage, parsley, and maybe rosemary—rested on a wooden cutting board beside a pale wedge of cheese and a small silver grater.

There was also a bottle of olive oil that caught the morning light, casting golden reflections onto the countertop.

I stared at it all like it was written in another language.

“So… what exactly are we making?” I asked, slowly walking around the island as though I might spook the ingredients if I got too close.

Christopher looked up from where he was rolling up his sleeves, a playful glint in his eyes. “Technically, we’re making pasta. But I like to think of it as edible therapy.”

I blinked. “We’re making pasta? Like, from scratch?”

“Handmade,” he said with a dramatic flourish, pulling an apron from the drawer and shaking it out. “Artisanal. Heartfelt. Messy.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “You realize I can barely boil water, right?”

“That’s what makes this exciting.” He handed me a linen apron with pale green embroidery along the edge—delicate vines and tiny stitched flowers. It smelled faintly of basil and citrus and maybe even a hint of the cedarwood cleaner they used on the counters. “Come on. You’re going to love it.”

I hesitated for a second, then took the apron and slipped it over my head, tying it awkwardly behind me. The fabric was soft and worn, clearly used many times before. I felt like I was stepping into a world I didn’t belong in—but the warmth in Christopher’s expression steadied me.

“What’s step one?” I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

“We build a well,” he said, already pouring the flour into a neat little mound in the center of the counter. With his fingers, he carved out a small crater in the middle, like a miniature volcano. “You crack the eggs into the center.”

I picked up one of the eggs delicately, holding it like it might explode in my hand. “If I get shell in the dough, is that considered flavor?”

He laughed, rich and low. “That’s called texture. Totally different.”

I cracked the egg a bit too hard against the side of the bowl, and it splattered slightly as it landed in the flour well. “Ugh. That was… not elegant.”

“Not bad, though.” He nudged the yolk toward the center with a finger.

“Now keep going.” Once we had three eggs nestled in the flour crater, he handed me a fork and gestured for me to start mixing.

The eggs swirled slowly at first, then thickened into a paste as I pulled flour from the edges.

It stuck to the tines of the fork in clumps, stubborn and gloopy, and some of it tried to escape entirely.

“This is so weird,” I muttered, laughing as a bit of the flour flew off the fork and landed in my hair.

“You’re doing great,” Christopher said, nudging his shoulder gently into mine as he started kneading his own dough beside me.

His movements were smooth and confident—strong palms folding the dough over itself again and again, like he was sculpting something alive.

“It’s supposed to look like a mess. It’s part of the charm. ”

I kept working mine, my hands sinking into the sticky, cool texture.

The dough started to come together, changing from wet and unruly to something more cohesive, something that almost obeyed.

There was something oddly satisfying about the rhythm of it—press, fold, turn.

Like my body had fallen into sync with something ancient and grounding.

“See?” Christopher said after a few minutes. “You’re getting it.”

I glanced at him, noticing the way his eyes softened when he looked at me—not with amusement or pity, but with real pride. “Maybe I’m not hopeless after all.”

“You’re far from it.” His compliment sat with me in a way I wasn’t used to.

Not flirty or teasing—just true. After another ten minutes, we were feeding long sheets of dough through a pasta roller.

The noodles fell in neat, silky ribbons onto the parchment, the strands soft beneath my fingers.

It felt like magic—like I had conjured something real from flour and eggs and effort.

“What kind of sauce are we making?” I asked, brushing flour from my cheek.

“Simple,” he said, moving to the stove. “Olive oil, garlic, a bit of lemon juice, and fresh herbs. Nothing fancy. Just honest flavor.” He minced the garlic with practiced ease, the scent quickly filling the air—sharp and comforting all at once.

He added it to the hot oil, and the sizzle made my mouth water.

While he worked, I cleaned up the counter, catching little bits of flour that had drifted all over the place like snowflakes. He angled the camera slightly, catching close-up shots of the pasta ribbons and a quick time-lapse of the sauce reducing in the pan.

“No face,” I reminded him.

“No face,” he confirmed, his tone gently amused. “Just pretty hands and artisan vibes. Mara’s going to swoon.”

“And the world still won’t know it’s me?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder at the setup.

“Not unless you start narrating in song.” He told me with an amused look on his face.

I snorted and shook my head. “Not likely.” We plated the pasta in wide, shallow bowls, the strands tangled beautifully in a light coat of sauce, steam curling upward like an invitation. He shaved a little cheese over mine and handed me a fork like he was offering a crown.

“To your first real dish,” Christopher said, lifting his glass of sparkling water.

“To not accidentally poisoning anyone,” I said with a small laugh, clinking mine against his.

The first bite was light and bright, the herbs singing through the olive oil, the garlic just present enough to warm my tongue.

The pasta was toothsome and tender, and somehow knowing I’d helped make it made it taste even better.

We sat together at the kitchen island, shoulder to shoulder, and for a long time, we just…

ate. The kitchen smelled of lemon and garlic and something sweet beneath it—maybe safety. Maybe home.

And I didn’t need a camera to prove I belonged here. I just did. I hadn’t realized how full I was until I set my fork down with a soft clink against the ceramic bowl. My stomach was content, but more than that, there was this subtle, unexpected sense of satisfaction warming my chest.

The kitchen around us had softened into a cozy hush, lit only by the golden spill of late-afternoon light filtering through the wide windows over the sink.

Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeams, and the scent of lemon, butter, and garlic lingered in the air like an invitation to linger just a little longer.

Across from me, Christopher leaned back against the island, one arm folded over his middle while the other held his mug.

His sleeves were still rolled up, forearms lightly dusted with flour, the faintest trace of dough clinging beneath one of his knuckles.

His smile was relaxed, slow in the way that made you feel like you were the only one he was smiling at.

“You didn’t hate it,” he said, voice dipped with amusement but genuine. “That’s a start.”

I snorted softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t burn anything. Or cry. So I’d say that’s a win.”

“High praise,” he teased.

I let the silence stretch between us for a few heartbeats before murmuring, “I liked it. Cooking. With you. It was… safe.”

His smile faltered just slightly at the edges, like he didn’t want to spook the moment, and nodded. “It should always be that.”

Before I could say more, the gentle buzz of his phone cut through the quiet. He glanced down, thumb tapping the screen, and then his eyes flicked up to meet mine.

“The post is live,” he said. Just like that, the weight in my chest returned.

He brought the phone over, turning it so I could see the screen.

The short video was beautifully done—a soft cascade of visual storytelling.

There were close-ups of hands kneading dough, flour falling like snow, steam curling upward from simmering sauce.

No faces. Just movement. Warmth. Life. The kind of life I hadn’t known I could have.

The caption read: Simple food. Honest hands. Saturday comfort.

His account was tagged beneath it, and already, hundreds of hearts and comments had begun to flood in.

Whoever filmed this has magic in their hands.

The food, the light, the vibes—this is what the internet needs more of.

I want to eat this and cry about my childhood at the same time. Perfect.

This kitchen feels like a dream. More please.

No influencer nonsense. Just calm. Thank you.

My eyes skimmed the screen, my pulse fluttering in my throat. “They like it,” I whispered.

Christopher gave a soft laugh. “They do. They feel it. You didn’t have to say a word.”

I swallowed, my fingers brushing the rim of my teacup. “But they don’t know it’s me.”

“They don’t need to,” he said, stepping closer, voice low. “The point was never about visibility. It was about truth. Showing a life that exists. And that’s what you did. Whether they know it or not, they saw you.”

I exhaled slowly, some tension in my shoulders melting down my spine. “It doesn’t feel like a war, this way.”