“Pelmeni. My mother’s recipe.” She picks up a package of ground meat. “Except I can’t find a rolling pin, and I don’t have a proper pot to boil them in.”
“So, order room service, and try again when we’re back in Moscow.”
“I wanted to do something normal tonight that didn’t involve bombs or threats or people trying to kill us.” She sets down themeat. “I wanted to pretend for a few hours that I’m just a regular person who can cook dinner for someone without it being a disaster.”
The vulnerability in her voice catches me off-guard, and I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Show me what you’re working with. Maybe we can salvage it.”
She walks me through her attempt. The dough is too dry, so we add water and knead it until the texture improves. The kitchenette doesn’t have a rolling pin, but a nearby wine bottle works well enough. The pot is too small for traditional boiling, but we can pan-fry them.
“My mother would be horrified,” Sasha jokes as we work side by side. Her hip brushes mine when she reaches for more flour, and I remind myself to breathe. “Pan-fried pelmeni. That’s not how you’re supposed to do it.”
“If they taste good, does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” She rolls out another piece of dough. “She was an amazing cook. Before she died, I remember standing on a stool in our kitchen, watching her hands move while she explained each step. I was too young to remember most of it, but I remember the cooking lessons.” Sasha places filling in the center of the dough circle. “These were her favorite. She made them every Sunday.”
“Do your brothers cook?”
“Dmitri manages basic meals. I’m told Alexei has come around, but I’m not brave enough to test that.” She laughs. “They made sure I learned, though. Said I needed at least one normal skill. It’s not as sexist as it sounds, I promise.”
We finish assembling the pelmeni and put them in the pan. The smell fills the small room, and Sasha closes her eyes.
“That’s it. That’s what I remember.”
“Your mother’s recipe?”
“My mother’s kitchen. Sunday afternoons. Being safe.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Thank you for helping with this.”
“You did most of the work.”
“But you didn’t tell me I was ridiculous. You just helped.” She plates the pelmeni and brings them to the small table. “That counts for a lot, Tony.”
We sit down to eat. The pelmeni are misshapen and probably not authentic, but they taste good. Sasha tells me more stories about her mother, about her brothers raising her after the accident, and about trying to find normalcy in a world that never felt normal.
I find myself talking, too. About my uncle in Michigan. About learning to fix cars in his garage. About the one Christmas when he tried to cook a turkey and nearly burned down the house.
“What do you want?” Sasha asks suddenly.
My brain goes straight to the gutter. You. Underneath me. On top of me. Against the wall. I want to hear what sounds you make when you come. I want to know if you taste as good as you smell.
“What?”
“Out of life. What do you want?” She sets down her fork. “You left the CIA. You work contract jobs. You move from place to place. But what do you want for yourself?”
The question stops me cold. I don’t think anyone has asked me that in years. Maybe no one ever has.
“I don’t know,” I admit with a shrug.
“You don’t know, or you’ve never let yourself think about it?”
“Both, probably.” I push food around on my plate. “I’ve spent so long just surviving that I forgot there’s supposed to be more than that.”
“Is that what you’re doing with me? Just surviving?”
“No.” The answer comes out too fast, too honest. “With you, I’m doing something else. I’m just not sure what it is yet.”
Sasha reaches across the table and takes my hand. “When you figure it out, let me know.”
We finish dinner and clean up the kitchenette. The domesticity of it—cooking, eating, washing dishes side by side—terrifies me in ways combat never did. This feels like building something. Like establishing a routine. Like imagining a future that extends beyond the next mission.
