PAVEL’S POV
“Pasha, ma che fai?”
I look up from the spaghetti I’m about to drop into the pot and find Asya staring at my hands in horror from the other side of the kitchen island.
“You do not break spaghetti!” she exclaims, already walking around the island toward me while shaking her head in disbelief.
“They’re too long. They can’t fit into the pot,” I say.
“No, no, no. You can never do that.” She takes the spaghetti out of my hands and tosses the broken noodles dramatically into the trash can in the corner before marching toward the cupboard for another package.
The moment she opens the cabinet door, though, she freezes.
Her fingers tighten around the handle as her eyes land on the different pasta brands lined up across the top shelf. I recognize the tension in her body immediatel
