PAVEL'S POV
"Pasha, ma che fai?"
I look up from the spaghetti I was just going to place into the pot. Asya is standing on the other side of the kitchen island, staring at my hands in horror.
"You do not break spaghetti!" She walks around the island, shaking her head.
"They're too long. Can't fit into the pot," I say.
"No, no, no, you can never do that." She takes the spaghetti noodles out of my hands and throws them into the trash can in the corner before heading toward the cupboard to grab another package. But the moment she opens the cabinet door, she stiffens, her fingers tightening around the handle as she stares at the different bags of pasta lined neatly on the top shelf.
They're all different brands.
I walk up behind her and gently lift her free hand until it hovers in front of the shelf.
"Take your time," I murmur next to her ear before letting go.
