Page 18 of Nitro
Willa
I watched Nitro move around the kitchen, his shoulders relaxed under his T-shirt in a way they hadn’t been that morning.The argument seemed to have left no mark on him -- or maybe it had left one I couldn’t read, buried beneath the control he wore like armor.He reached for the cabinet above the sink without looking, his hand finding the pasta without hesitation, like he’d done it a thousand times in the dark.
The kitchen looked comfortably lived-in -- dark wood cabinets worn smooth at the edges, a gas stove with one burner that clicked three times before lighting, a butcher block counter with a shallow depression near the sink where years of hands had rested.It was a place someone had built a life in -- someone who knew exactly where the potholders hung and which drawer held the wooden spoon and how much salt to add to boiling water.
Nitro reached past me for the garlic, his arm brushing mine with deliberate care.“Hungry?”he asked, his voice low and even.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded and turned back to the stove, where water was just beginning to boil.There was something in the economy of his movements -- no wasted energy, no unnecessary sound -- that made it impossible to look away.He crushed garlic with the flat of a knife, added it to a jar of sauce already warming in a pot, stirred in dried herbs from a small glass jar with no label.Nothing fancy.Nothing showy.Just the care of a man who’d learned to feed himself and was now, without being asked, feeding me too.
The bread came next -- sliced and arranged on a baking sheet, slid into the oven with a twist of the dial.The kitchen filled with the sharp scent of garlic, simmering tomato sauce, and fresh bread warming in the oven.My stomach tightened with sudden hunger.
Nitro set down two plates onto the table without ceremony, arranged forks and knives beside them with the same precision he’d used on the vegetables that morning.Then he pulled out a chair -- my chair, though neither of us had said as much -- and waited for me to sit before moving to his own.
The pasta was simple -- spaghetti with red sauce, the bread warm from the oven, a glass of water for each of us.Nothing to write home about.Nothing that would impress anyone.But when I took the first bite, the flavors hit my tongue with unexpected intensity -- garlic sharp underneath the tomato, herbs cutting the sweetness, the pasta cooked exactly to the point between firm and soft.I was so used to taking care of myself that the simple act of someone making me dinner felt unfamiliar.
We ate without speaking -- forks scraping against ceramic, the occasional sound of bread tearing, the soft click of glasses being set down.But the silence carried none of the charge from earlier in the day.It wasn’t waiting to be filled.It wasn’t holding space for the next argument.
Nitro kept his focus mostly on his plate, but I caught him glancing at me -- quick looks that came when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, his gaze moving from my face to my stomach and back again.There was something in those looks, something that made my skin prickle with awareness.Not the heat I remembered from our night together, but something steadier -- the focused attention of a man still learning what I meant to him.
“Good?”he asked after a few minutes, nodding toward my half-empty plate.
“Better than good.”
His eyes brightened for a moment.“It’s just pasta.”
“It’s not, though.”The words came out before I could catch them.“It’s… you made it.For both of us.”
He held my gaze for a moment, his expression giving away nothing.Then he went back to his food, but I didn’t miss the slight shift in his posture -- shoulders dropping another fraction of an inch, jaw loosening just enough to notice.
The meal settled into an easy rhythm -- bite, chew, swallow, the occasional reach for bread or water.
I finished first, pushing my plate away slowly.Nitro was still eating, movements unhurried, attention fixed on his food instead of me.I watched him openly -- the angle of his wrist as he cut his bread, the steady movement of his throat when he swallowed, the restrained control woven through even the smallest actions.Four months ago, I’d memorized his body in darkness.Now I was learning him in daylight -- the slow rhythm of his breathing, the faint crinkle near his eyes when something held his focus, the quiet stillness he carried into moments that mattered.
He looked up and caught me watching.I didn’t look away or pretend I’d been doing something else.Just held his gaze with the same attention he’d shown me since I’d walked through the gate.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice carrying none of the accusation the words might have held.
“You’re interesting,” I replied.
His jaw tensed briefly.“Yeah, well.Not that interesting.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
The exchange hung between us.Nitro held my gaze for one more moment, then reached for my empty plate without being asked.
“I’ve got it,” I said, my hand moving to intercept his.Our fingers brushed, just enough that I could feel the heat from his skin.“You cooked.”
He hesitated, then nodded and pulled back, giving me the space to stand.I gathered the plates with careful hands, aware of his gaze on my back as I moved to the sink.The water ran hot -- almost too hot -- steam rising from the metal as I scrubbed at a spot of sauce with more force than it required.Behind me, Nitro cleared his throat.
“There’s ice cream,” he said.“If you want some.”
I turned, dishcloth still in my hand.“What kind?”
“Vanilla.”A pause.“The good kind.Not the cheap stuff.”
I almost smiled -- an involuntary movement at the corner of my mouth.“You eat ice cream?”
