Gemotions

The scent of garlic and oregano hung heavy in the air. Marco had been in the kitchen all morning, a rarity. He usually left the cooking to Elena. She found him carefully chopping vegetables, a focused frown etched on his face.

"Cosa fai?" she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity. He turned, a wooden spoon clutched in his hand.

"Sto cucinando," he replied, and then, in a perfect, lilting Italian, "Mi hai reso felice." A wave of heat flushed through Elena’s body. Her own Italian, once so precious to her, now seemed suddenly inadequate.