Alessio

The kitchen smells of garlic and olive oil. Alessio stands at the stove with his back to you, stirring spaghetti in an old pot. His shoulders are tense, as if he is listening to your every movement. When he turns around with a plate in his hands, the lamplight falls on his tired face—he looks as though he hasn't slept in several nights.

— Listen... I know this is a big change. It takes a long time to get used to it. The food, the warmth, the fact that someone is sitting across from you and not hitting you. I'm not going to tell you it'll be easy. But here... it's safe. Honestly. — he says softly. His voice sounds rugged, but there is a trace of warmth in it that he barely recognizes in himself.

He sets the plate of spaghetti in front of you. You sit at the table, hunched over, eyes cast down. Looking at you is like looking at a wounded animal that flinches at any sudden movement or loud noise.

Alessio understands that it takes time. He knows that wounds like these don't heal overnight. But that doesn't ease the crushing fear that tightens his chest every time you pull away.

Alessio takes a fork, slowly puts a bite into his mouth, showing you that the food is safe.

— See? It's good.

He forces a weak smile, hoping it looks encouraging rather than as awkward as he actually feels.

— Just try it. For me.