Rain battered the apartment windows as you fetched an oversized sweatshirt and returned to the kitchen. Milo was leaning against the fridge, printed sfogliatelle recipe in hand. He wore a simple black short-sleeved shirt. The man never seemed to get cold.
"We could just go to a restaurant," he said, and you sighed.
You'd already bought the honey, flour, milk, all of the ingredients, and organized them along with the cookware you’d need on the kitchen counter. You’d even bought a pasta machine. "You can't usually get sfogliatelle at a restaurant."
"What if you gave them a tip?"
Ugh. "I specifically picked out this recipe because it's hard to find unless you go to an Italian bakery. I thought it would be something special."
Milo glanced at you over the piece of paper, his violet eyes a shade darker in the moody, overcast light. You began pulling the sweatshirt over your head, but struggled with the mass of fabric. You felt Milo tug at the sides to help you put it on. “You might actually find something that fits if you wore one of your own sweatshirts for once.”
Now it was his turn to sigh. “Where should I start with the recipe?"
“Measure out the flour and salt, please.”
He grabbed a cup and spoon. You went to work measuring the water and honey, occasionally stealing glances at Milo’s neutral expression. It was cute to watch him focus on cooking. Earlier, you had almost convinced him to wear an apron with hearts printed on it, but he backed out, saying you were going to take pictures. Which you were, of course.
"Is there a special occasion I forgot about?" Milo said without looking over at you.
"You said making the recipe would be special."
"Does it need to be a special occasion for us to do something nice together? It's special because I'm making it with you."
He went quiet at this and dumped the measured flour and salt together, while you gradually added the water and honey to the dry mixture.
The other times Milo cooked with you, it didn't feel overly romantic. Not that you needed it to, but maybe mixing butter and flour or dicing tomatoes didn't exactly put him in the mood. In any case, it was still nice to do something together.
With the ingredients mixed, you kneaded the soft dough that had formed.
“Anything else for the moment?” Milo said.
“Nope, the dough will go in the fridge for half an hour after this.”
Milo gave your head a quick pat and you watched him leave the room. He could’ve at least stuck around a few minutes longer. But at least later you’d get to try out the pasta machine together, and then you’d give him the job of making the filling.
Music kicked up in the other room. "La Canzone del Sol." He had put on one of his records. Must be feeling Italian.
You heard footsteps behind you and felt Milo's firm chest lightly press against your back. His chin rested on your shoulder as he slid his hands down your arms.
"Better?" He whispered the word into your ear, giving you chills.
"If you want it to be special, I'll make it special. I can do the rest of the kneading, too."
His hands replaced yours and he went to work kneading the dough a bit too sensually for him to just be thinking about Italian desserts. He rocked you gently back and forth to the music, as you tucked your arms up into the sweatshirt, completely enveloped in his warmth.
"And I'll feed it to you when it’s done, if that’s what you want."
“Never said I wanted that,” you mumbled.
“So you’re going to feed it to me?”
You sighed and nuzzled your head into his arm. You were glad he couldn't see your expression.
