❛❛She was the voice that calmed the storm in him❞
࿇࿇࿇
"Ti amo." his voice was barey above a whisper as placed a soft kiss on my forehead.
Dante held me in his arms, his fingers brushing through my hair.
My heart fluttered. "I love you m...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I S A B E L L A
Dante.
Dante, is his name.
I haven't been able to get him out of mind; his beautiful amber eyes, his smile, his words, the way he makes sure that I'm resting and healing properly.
For the first time just thinking about someone makes me feel giddy.
I can feel my cheeks heating up just thinking about him. I've known him for the past 3 days,and he took care of me was like I was his queen.
The way my name sounded in his voice, the way he holds my hand when he comes to see me in my-his room, the way he always makes sure I am comfortable.
It all just feels too good to be true.
We don't talk that much, but when we do it feels so safe and secure, but I know that all this is temporary and I will need to go back to the shit house with two little sadistic bitches who love to hurt me even though I haven't done anything wrong to them.
Shaking my head, I walk to the kitchen.
Well, more like limping my way into the Kitchen, I decided to make some Fettuccine for him. Dante must've been feeling like I'm just being lazy and staying in bed so this might fix it?
I've been healing well I guess, the first time I'm being treated for being injured. I like staying here, but it's wrong for me to be enjoying this, I don't deserve this at all.
Getting rid of my thoughts, I gather my ingredients.
Smiling, I sift the flour onto the counter. I crack the eggs into the center of the flour, watching the yolk and flour mix together.
As, I knead the dough, feeling it go sticky to smooth under my hands, I forget everything else, focusing only on cooking.
I don't know how to explain it, it's quite a joy that fills me every time I cook. I had learnt cooking on my own when I was young,.
Once the dough is wrapped and resting, I move on to the sauce.
Simple, fresh ingredients-just tomatoes, garlic, and basil. That's the way it should be, I think. No need to over complicate things when the flavors can speak for themselves.
I started humming a song unknowingly, a pang of happiness filling me when I cook.
When the pasta is finally boiled and tossed in the sauce, I pause for a moment, just looking at the plate in front of me, a mixture of pride and nervousness arises.
Would he like the food? Maybe I should taste the food, but I shouldn't without permission. Busy in my thoughts, suddenly a rough yet gentle voice startles me.
