#also fourth wall break kinda? for this writing? pro being aware he's a character?

[prosciuttulipa]

"Prosciutto," It carries itself over into the kitchen, where a blond man works at the counter, knife stalling. "I'm home."

He knows he has every right to be mad. The culprit comes into view, surprisingly quiet and composed. From what Prosciutto remembers of her, she would've made a ruckus, tripping over ten things and herself before making it to him. But it has been two years. A lot can happen in two years.

She looks friendly but tired, and her smile has dulled, like she's been through something difficult, and is still crawling her way out. "I'm sorry I've been away," and the words are tender and wonderful (he'd almost forgotten her voice). "How have you been? Taking care of yourself?"

"Obviously."

Silence fills up the space as they take a moment to orient themselves. They've been apart, but that doesn't mean they've been unaware. He has felt her change, knows how parts of him no longer fit against her as well as they did. She knows he's felt the push and pull between them, how she occasionally crawls into his arms at night and disappears in the morning, a dream to the both of them.

And yet. She laughs slightly, and the cadence is the same. Right on cue, he finds himself smiling at the sound.

Times have changed the two of them, but enough of them has stayed. He chops up the rest of his ingredients, throws it in the frying pan. "How about staying for dinner?"

The pan sizzles, oil popping like fireworks. "I'd love that."