Origano and Basilico

Andrew’s recovery wasn’t immediate—it was slow and steady. But it was real. Over those weeks, the three of them continued to build something—friendship, support, understanding.

Maya spent more time at their apartment, caught in the rhythm of inside jokes, laughter, and easy conversation.

She’d grown closer to Carina in their shared purpose—supporting Andrew in his recovery.

Eyes only on him.

But when Maya woke on the day of her coffee date with Carina, her stomach swooped. Nervous energy made her wired and jittery. She knew she was being ridiculous. This was just a simple meet-up.

Coffee. Conversation. Carina.

But it felt different. It was a moment. Something significant. Because this time it would just be the two of them.

Eyes on each other.

And Maya wanted it to be perfect.

She’d been planning it for weeks—of course she had. Now the day had finally arrived. She lay in bed, mentally working through her checklist. She picked up her phone. Checked the weather app again — ready to make any last-minute tweaks to her outfit choice. Nope. All good. So, with a long, slow exhale to ground herself, Maya threw off the sheets and headed for the shower.

***

It was just after 10 a.m., and Capitol Hill was awake, but not in a rush.

The air still smelled faintly of rain. The sidewalks were damp and shining from the overnight showers. But the sun was already beginning to break through the cloud cover, dappling everything with a soft silver glow.

Maya Bishop was in a rush. She walked briskly and purposefully toward her destination. She knew the route by heart. It was a well-trodden path—or had been for the last two years.

She was behind schedule.

She’d spent half an hour overthinking her outfit choice—dark wash skinny jeans, white fitted T-shirt, her favourite navy utility jacket and a pair of white sneakers. She spent another fifteen minutes arguing with Vic on speakerphone about ‘hair up or down’. Maya was now regretting her outfit choice (too casual) and ‘hair down’ (because it kept getting in her face). But Vic had explicitly told her to wear it down. Maya thought Vic was a bully. And even though she had an emergency hair bobble on her wrist, she suspected Vic would know if she tied it back.

Maya hardly had time to take in the sights and sounds of the neighbourhood, speed-walking past locals and tourists as the streets began to come alive: students camped out in café windows with textbooks and laptops, an elderly couple strolled hand-in-hand, moms pushed strollers, a musician unloaded gear outside a small venue.

She didn’t stop to savour the smells in the air—coffee, lavender, fragrant candles, fresh bread. She was too focused on catching glimpses of herself in every passing window, silently rating and reassessing her outfit choice. Cursing Vic (again) for the whole “hair down” directive as the damp air added unwanted volume and wave.

Maya slowed as she reached the familiar glazed doors of the café bakery, tucked neatly between Fiorire florists and The Corner Shelf independent bookshop. The sign above the door was hand-painted in soft, worn lettering: “Caffè Pasticceria Russo – est. 1981”.

She checked her watch.

Ten minutes early.

She grasped the door handle, took a steadying breath, and stepped inside. The jingle of the bell heralded her arrival.

Maya breathed in the calming scent of espresso, warm butter, citrus zest, and the faint sweetness of almond paste. The hum of Italian and English conversation drifted through the air—a gentle blend of the Russo family chatting in the kitchen and customers murmuring at the five or six tables scattered across the patterned porcelain floor tiles. It mingled with the soft sounds of kitchen clatter and Italian radio playing quietly in the background.

On the back wall behind the worn wooden counter hung a large, framed black-and-white print of the Russo’s Sicilian grandparents standing proudly outside their first bakery. Below it, a chalkboard menu listed offerings in both Italian and English, and a large copper espresso machine, its ornate dials gleaming, sat proudly next to colourful ceramic plates and slightly mismatched mugs.

The glass cabinet beyond the counter groaned under the weight of its sumptuous display—freshly filled cannoli, golden arancini, crisp sfogliatelle, soft pasta di mandorla, and the crowning jewel: Cassata Siciliana, a treasured Russo family speciality. Behind it, shelves were lined with jars of biscotti, preserves, and imported olive oil.

Maya’s shoulders sagged in relief. Caffè Pasticceria Russo was a warm hug. Comfort. A second home.

“La nostra eroina!” (Our Heroine)

Maya barely had time to brace herself before Giovanni Russo was beaming at her from behind the counter, arms already outstretched.

“Mr. Russo.” Maya exhaled, her protest half-hearted—because she knew what was coming next. 

“Please! Giovanni!” He gesticulated wildly, laughing heartily as he pulled Maya into a bear hug. There was no escaping Russo family affection, and over time, Maya had come to realize—she didn’t want to.

“Rosa, Sal! Capitana Bishop is here!”

“I’ll stop calling you Mr. Russo when you stop calling me a hero. And a Captain—it’s Lieutenant.” Maya narrowed her eyes, chuckling as he finally released her—only for a stocky, diminutive Rosa Russo to bustle toward her, wiping floury hands on her apron.

“Tesoro!” She beamed, gathering Maya’s hands in hers and stepping back to look at her.

“So pretty. And look at your golden hair. Bellissimo!” She tugged Maya’s hands, pulling her into a warm embrace, swaying them gently on the spot.

“Mrs. Russo.” Maya smiled warmly, still blushing from the compliment, when Rosa finally let go.

Maya raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Sal!” The Russo’s teenage son hovered self-consciously by the kitchen, he nodded bashfully, his face going red before he ducked back inside.

“Capitana, I am so sorry.” Giovanni shook his head solemnly, hands on hips. “The Cannoli Siciliani you rang us about last week?”

Maya’s stomach dropped. Her plans were already falling apart. The familiar nervous anxiety began to rise in her chest.

Giovanni snorted. “I am joking, eroine!”

Maya huffed, rolling her eyes.

“We have it. We have everything you requested. Your favourite table. Your favourite biscotti. All the things.” He waved his arms theatrically toward the counter, his grin widening.

“Giovanni,” Mrs. Russo tutted affectionately, shaking her head.

She reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Maya’s ear with a fond smile, her eyes warm with affection. “So tell us, tesoro… all these plans. Cannoli Siciliani. Biscotti Cantuccini. Is this for Carina? The friend you have been talking about?”

Maya’s eyes flicked away, just briefly, showing a sudden interest in the pattern of the porcelain tiles. The warmth of a blush crept up her neck. Mr. and Mrs. Russo exchanged a knowing look.

Maya settled at the table. She had chosen it carefully. From here, she would see the moment Carina arrived. And when she joined her, Carina would have the perfect view—the counter, the display cabinets, the shelves lined with jars, the hand-written menu.

The nerves crept back in. She wanted to get this right. 

She checked her watch again. 10:25 a.m.

She studied the menu board—like she didn’t already know it by heart, down to the Italian spellings. Her knee bounced under the table. She checked the weather app again—even though she was already here, and it literally made no difference.

She had just started shredding a napkin when Giovanni appeared at her table, grinning, an espresso in hand.

Even though she hadn’t ordered one.

“On the house, eroina.” He winked.

Maya flushed, fiercely.

It’s just coffee. We’ve had coffee before. We’ve had wine. We’ve cooked dinner together. This isn’t new.

Except it felt new. 

It excited her. 

But it also scared her. It felt like something she could screw up. And she couldn’t — wouldn’t —screw this up.

She could feel herself buzzing with energy that she knew – she knew - was different from nerves alone. That old, restless, too-much-energy feeling creeping in. She wanted – needed – to shake it off. To breath it out.

She closed her eyes briefly. Then letting out a slow, steadying breath she opened them. She could see the patterned floor tiles. She could feel the pepper shaker in her hand. She could hear a burst of laughter coming from the Russo kitchen. She could smell coffee mingled with the faintest hint of almond – practically taste the amaretti and espresso.

This is good. This is fine. I’ve got this.

Maya was straightening the salt and pepper shakers with military precision when—

She saw her.

A glimpse through the window—head down, following directions on her phone. Carina was wrapped in a long, tailored wool coat the colour of deep charcoal, a soft knit jumper peeking out at the neckline, wide-leg trousers skimming the tops of heeled ankle boots.  She looked beautiful — of course she did — but Maya didn’t feel out of place. Not today. Not here. Not after everything.

Carina paused outside the door, taking in the exterior. Then Maya saw it—the exact moment her expression shifted from concentration to surprise. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a smile.

She adjusted her scarf.

Maya absorbed every detail, her own smile forming before she could stop it. Her pulse quickened. She forgot to breathe.

The bell above the door rang.

And Carina was here.

She hadn’t spotted Maya yet—too caught up in the charm of it all.

So Maya watched. Watched her eyes widen in delight, her mouth open in soft surprise, her posture ease as she inhaled the smells, absorbed the decorative touches, noticed the Italians behind the counter.

She saw the framed family photograph. The map of Sicilia.

Her smile bloomed—slow and warm.

Then she saw Maya.

A tilt of her head. Eyes shimmering. A smile blooming as understanding dawned. One hand resting gently on her heart.

Maya swallowed hard and stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor, rattling the espresso cup on her table.

Rosa had come out of the kitchen to join Giovanni, both stealing quiet glances as they busied themselves behind the counter, their smiles impossible to hide.

Carina’s gaze swept over Maya as she walked toward the table, a slow smile curving her lips, unmistakably appreciative. Maya met her eyes - the softness and quiet certainty she found there settled her.

Carina stepped into her space, her eyes steady and sure. Her fingers curled gently around Maya’s biceps, her eyes fluttering closed as she kissed her softly on each cheek. It wasn’t the Russo-style “air kiss” Maya had expected — it was more.

“Bella.” Carina offered a soft smile, warmth flickering in her eyes.

Maya’s breath hitched. She gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

“How did you find this place?” Carina raised a questioning eyebrow, her tone a mixture of fondness and curiosity.

“I know people.” Maya shrugged nonchalantly.

Carina’s eyes narrowed. “You planned this,” she said with a half-smile.

“It’s just coffee.” Maya bit her bottom lip, her eyes flickering away briefly.

“No. It’s not.” Carina let out a small breath of a laugh, shaking her head.

“Here, let me.” Maya offered as Carina started to remove her coat.

Giovanni appeared beside them, “No, signore, permettetemi.” (No ladies, allow me) he offered jovially, taking their coats and hanging them on the wooden coat stand nearby as they settled into their seats.

He returned to their table, closely followed by Rosa. They hovered expectantly, waiting for Maya to introduce them.

Maya snorted, shaking her head.

“Carina, may I introduce you to Giovanni and Rosa Russo, the owners of Caffè Pasticceria Russo — the best Italian bakery in Seattle.”

Giovanni and Rosa’s faces split into beaming smiles. Giovanni’s face reddened as he puffed out his chest with pride, giving Maya an appreciative glance.

“È un piacere conoscervi, Signor Giovanni e Signora Rosa.” (A pleasure to meet you both, Mr. Giovanni and Mrs. Rosa) Carina leaned forward slightly, offering her hand first to Rosa, then to Giovanni, her smile warm and effortless.

“Piacere nostro, dottoressa! Finalmente!” (The pleasure is ours, doctor! Finally!) Giovanni grinned, shooting a pointed look at Maya as he said it, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Finalmente, Maya porta una brava ragazza italiana!” (Finally, Maya brings a nice Italian girl!) Mrs. Russo exclaimed excitedly, clasping her hands together across her chest, her eyes twinkling with delight.

Carina laughed, bright and sudden.

“Hey! Don’t make me regret bringing you here!” Maya groaned. “I might not understand Italian, but I’m guessing they’re already embarrassing me.” She shot them a suspicious look.

Giovanni pointed to his chest, fluttering his eyelashes innocently, making them all laugh.

“Carina, welcome to Caffè Pasticceria Russo,” Giovanni said, nodding his head deferentially, “our little corner of Sicilia here in Seattle.” He waved his arm around the space with a flourish.

“And we are still here because of la nostra eroina.” Rosa’s voice wavered slightly as she squeezed Maya’s shoulder fondly.

“Really?” Carina leaned forward eagerly, resting her forearms on the table.

Maya huffed dramatically, dropping her head into her hands as Giovanni and Rosa launched into the highly embellished, proudly dramatized retelling of how Maya and her team had responded to a grease fire in their kitchen, saving the bakery—and, most importantly, Rosa’s old recipe box—from certain destruction.

Rosa’s lip wobbled as Giovanni finished, his throat tight with emotion.

Maya lowered her hands, glancing toward Carina—who was already looking at her. Her smile was soft, her gaze unwavering, full of quiet understanding.

Without a word, Carina reached out, her fingers gently curling around Maya’s wrist in a slow, deliberate way that spoke volumes.

Maya’s lips curved into a slow smile. A warmth spread through her—unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Giovanni cleared his throat. “Caffè, signores?” — breaking the spell as Carina gently withdrew her hand.

“Grazie, Mr. Russo.” Carina smiled with a small dip of her head.

“Due!” Maya offered in a wobbly Italian accent, holding up two fingers to aid understanding — earning a chuckle from all three of them.

“Signora Carina, la Capitana has requested a selection of special pastries for you to try.”

Maya’s smile faltered, just slightly.

“Capitana?” Carina asked softly, her brow knitting with confusion.

Maya shook her head, brushing it off with a small shrug—relieved when Giovanni seamlessly picked up the thread.

“Mio figlio, Salvatore, will bring them with your espressos.” Giovanni opened his arms, gestured to them both, “Questa è un’offerta speciale della casa… per la nostra eroina.” (This is a special treat from the house…for our heroine) He grinned widely as he walked backwards toward the counter.

As they waited for Sal to arrive with their order, Carina’s gaze wandered around the bakery, her smile growing as she leaned forward, already half out of her seat to get a better look.

Maya smiled knowingly. “Go on, Carina,” she urged gently, “Go and have a closer look.”

Carina tilted her head, her expression softening, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“Are you sure?”

“Si.” Maya grinned, waggling her eyebrows at managing two whole Italian words in a day, earning a snort from Carina. “Go. Be Italian.”

Carina let out a soft laugh, rising quickly. She threaded her way between the tables, arms gently folded across her chest, studying the décor—the bookcase filled with old recipe books, the jars lining the shelves. Maya couldn’t help smiling – she could see it now - Carina was like her brother. That same curiosity. How she appreciated the little things—colours, textures, details.

Carina paused at a rustic painted table along one of the walls, her brows lifted slightly, a soft smile playing around her lips as she noticed the brightly coloured ceramic plant pots the Russos had repurposed—filled to the brim with sugar sachets and amaretti biscuits. Her fingers traced the loose, hand-painted brushstrokes in the familiar blue, yellow and white of home.

When she reached the glass display cabinet, Maya chuckled quietly, watching Carina’s eyes widen and her mouth fall open at the sight. Mr. and Mrs. Russo beamed proudly, pointing out various items, the air filling with the lilting melody of Italian.

Carina was in her element—her eyes expressive, her laugh easy, talking with her hands. Speaking her native language in that glorious, rich, warm tone that always stirred something deep inside Maya.

She wanted this for Carina.

She would do anything to make sure Carina always had this kind of joy.

After Sal brought their pastries and espressos, Carina returned to the table. Her eyes filled with a flash of recognition and delight as she spotted the Cannoli Siciliana and the Biscotti Cantuccini Maya had selected.

“Maya.” 

Carina paused, as if trying to find the right words, her eyes softened with emotion, her chin trembling slightly. “I didn’t know how much I needed this little piece of home — until now.”

She propped her elbow on the table, her head cradled on her palm, voice thick with emotion. “What you’ve done for me...” Her throat bobbed. She reached out with her free hand, wrapping her fingers gently around Maya’s wrist, giving it a soft squeeze — a thank you without words.

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, her expression tender and almost shy as she looked up at Maya through dark lashes.

Maya blinked slowly, warmth blooming in her chest as she offered Carina a small shrug — like it was nothing, even though they both knew that it was.

Conversation flowed easily between them as Carina hummed with satisfaction, sampling the biscotti and cannoli — declaring to a delighted Rosa, who had joined them at their table, that they tasted of home.

Carina and Rosa swapped memories of life in Sicilia, their excitement palpable whenever they uncovered a shared experience or mutual connection. They drifted between Italian and English, always mindful of Maya, who listened attentively to their vividly painted stories from another world.

Carina’s eyes grew teary as she spoke about the hours she’d spent in the kitchen with her mamma as a little girl — before she left for America with Andrea, leaving her behind. Maya’s heart clenched as Rosa cupped Carina’s cheeks, wiping away a tear with the gentle brush of her thumb, before grabbing both their hands and practically dragging them to the kitchen to show them where the real magic happens — much to Carina’s delight.

Maya felt a pang in her chest — a quiet swell of pride in Carina, and an even deeper sense of gratitude for the Russos, who had given her back far more than she’d ever given them — in kindness, generosity, hospitality, and the way they had already swept Carina so effortlessly into their hearts.

Carina had arrived a stranger, but by the time she and Maya said their goodbyes, she was famiglia (family) — wrapped in warmth, affection, and Russo hugs.

Maya and Carina tumbled out onto the street as they wrestled with bags filled with cannoli and pastries — “per il compleanno di Andrea e gli amici dottori di Carina — offerto dalla casa.” (For Andrew’s birthday and Carina’s doctor friends – on the house!). 

The bell above the door rang out behind them — the same bell that had, somehow, led Carina home. It mingled with an enthusiastic round of “Ciao!” and “A presto!” from the Russos.

Carina threaded her arm through Maya’s, holding on tightly as they walked, her head resting briefly against Maya’s temple. 

“Grazie mille, Maya. That was…Bellissimo!” Carina smiled contentedly. “The best ‘just a coffee’ I’ve ever had.”

Maya’s chest ached. She had planned the coffee date, but she hadn’t planned this — or the way it felt to give someone like Carina something that mattered.

***

Later that evening, Maya and Carina celebrated Andrew’s birthday — low-key, just as he’d asked. Pizza from Rocco’s, a bottle of his favourite Italian wine, and Cinema Paradiso (again), curled up on the couch with his favourite people — Carina and Maya.

He loved his gifts — a beautiful leatherbound photo album from Maya (Andrew was old school, always preferring to print and mount his photos rather than scroll through them), and from Carina, a book, Vivian Maier: Street Photographer, and tickets to Everyday Light: Capturing Life in the Ordinary, an exhibition at the Lightbox Gallery.

It may have been low-key. Understated. Ordinary, even. But it was an ordinary that seemed so out of reach only months earlier. Andrew — their Andrew — not just surviving, but thriving. 

That was celebration enough.

As the movie finished, Carina reluctantly got ready to head back to Grey Sloan to cover a shift for a colleague. Maya didn’t want her to go. It would signal the end of their time together — the end of a perfect day.

During the course of the evening, there had been a softness between them. A touch here, a glance there — the sense of something deeper taking root. Something neither of them dared to name.

So when Carina stood, gathered her things, and asked Maya to carry the Russos’ gift of pastries for gli dottori (the doctors) to her car, Maya readily agreed.

They walked in silence, the air between them heavy with the weight of everything unsaid — the tenderness of a day that meant more than either of them expected.

Maya placed the boxes of pastries in Carina’s car, trying to rise above the ache settling in her chest at the thought of walking back to Andrew’s apartment alone. She wondered if the deep melancholy that had taken root inside her would show in her eyes.

She let out a slow exhale, forcing a small smile as she turned to face Carina, only to find Carina already watching her — and in her eyes, Maya saw it all reflected back. The ache. The loss. The reluctance to let go of something they hadn’t even fully held yet. Maya’s heart twisted painfully.

“Grazie, bella. For today. For all of it.” Carina whispered, her voice filled with quiet wistfulness.

She stepped close, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Maya’s cheek — lingering just a moment longer than necessary. When she pulled back, her teeth caught her lower lip, her head tilting slightly as she smiled — that tender, knowing smile that made something in Maya’s chest twist and bloom all at once.

For a moment, the air between them felt thick with possibility — but uncertainty was still there too. And Maya didn’t want to reach for something before they were both ready to hold it.

Maya paused outside the door of Andrew’s apartment, her palm resting against the door — as if to ground herself, to calm the swirling emotions and erratic beating of her heart. 

She drew in a slow, deep breath, then stepped inside.

She avoided Andrew’s searching gaze as she wandered back to the couch, settling beside him, letting her head drop back against the cushion, eyes on the ceiling.

She could feel Andrew watching her — that infuriatingly fond, all-seeing smile.

“So… tell me,” Andrew said, far too casually, breaking the silence. “How was your date—” he coughed theatrically, “—day?”

Maya shot him a glare out of the corner of her eye, but her smile betrayed her.

“It was great,” she admitted. “The Russos have officially adopted Carina. Trouble is… I think she’s already their favourite. I’ve been replaced.” She tilted her head towards him briefly, giving him a lopsided grin.

Andrew snorted. “Yeah, she has a way of getting under your skin.”

He shifted, turning to face her more fully. “Thank you, Maya.”

“For what?” Her eyes flicked to his, only to dart away again when she saw the warmth there — the weight of everything he wasn’t saying.

Andrew tutted softly, shaking his head. “For what you’ve done for me. For Carina. You’re a good friend, Maya.” He rested his hand on her leg, gently, affectionately.

Maya swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat, her eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the rug.

“You’ve gotten under her skin too, you know,” Andrew said, his voice quieter now. “I know my sister. Behind all that Italian bravado, there’s still the little girl from Sicilia. The one who stayed behind to take care of papa. The one who came to Seattle for me.” His voice grew rougher now, scraping over the words. “She’s always been strong for everyone else — self-sufficient — because trusting someone, letting someone in… that’s a risk. A risk of being left behind. Again.”

Maya exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the seam of her jeans, needing something to ground her as the weight of those words settled in her chest.

“Have you told her?” Andrew asked gently, but deliberately. “About Mason. About the breakdown. About all of it.”

Maya’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

Andrew leaned back, resting his head against the couch, voice quiet. “You can trust her too, you know.”

Maya pressed her lips together, Andrew’s words adding weight to something she was only just beginning to believe for herself — but she wasn’t there yet. She shifted the focus. “I could say the same about you, DeLuca—” she tapped his knee with the back of her hand, pausing briefly before she forced her voice lighter. “Have you told her? About your folders and your colour-coded plans?”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed, giving her a half-smile. “I see what you did there, Lieutenant Clipboard.”

Maya shrugged, her smile small but genuine. Andrew’s voice softened. “Not yet. I will... but for now?” He glanced toward the door, the warmth in his expression unmistakable. 

“Let her have this — the good stuff. Let her have lightness for a little while.”

“Agreed.”

Maya nudged his knee with hers, and just like that, it was settled.

When Maya got back to her apartment at the end of the evening, her phone pinged with a text message.

Vic:So…How did it go?

Maya: It was perfect.

Vic:I told you!

Maya waited, watching the ‘dancing dots’…

Vic:It was the hair.