I watch his forearms flex as he works the dough, methodical and unhurried. “What does he like?”
Boris glances at me from the corner of his eye, mouth twitching like he knows exactly why I’m asking. “Meat. Rare. Spicy. But he eats what I make.” A beat. “He trusts me.”
Theword lands heavier than I expect.
Trust.
“And you,” Boris adds, eyeing me critically. “You are too thin. Eat.”
I laugh, sharp and surprised. Too thin. No one has ever said that to me in my life. The absurdity of it makes me grin, but Boris just gestures toward the counter like the conversation is over.
Before I can argue, he slides a plate toward me.
Something golden. Flaky. Lightly dusted with powdered sugar.
“Paczki,” he says. “Polish pastry. Like doughnut. But better.”
I hesitate. Habit more than resistance. Then I pick one up and take a cautious bite.
My eyes widen instantly.
It’s soft—pillowy—with a crisp fried edge that gives way to rich filling. Sweet, but not cloying. Tart enough to make my mouth water.
Raspberry.
Powdered sugar coats my fingers as I take another bite.
Boris watches me closely, waiting.
“Holy shit,” I mumble around the mouthful.
He chuckles, satisfied. “Better than American doughnuts, yes?”
I nod, still chewing.
“My mother made these every Sunday,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel. “Fillings change. Rosehip. Plum butter. Chocolate. But raspberry is best.”
I slow down, trying to picture it. A smaller kitchen. Warm air. Someone cooking not because they have to—but because they want to.
“Did she teach you?” I ask, licking sugar from my thumb.
He smiles, just a little. “No. She cooked for love. I learned to survive.”
The words sit between us, heavier than they should be.
“And you?” he asks. “You cook?”
I shrug, suddenly aware of myself. “Not like this.”
“Then you will learn.” Not a question.
I should say no. I should remind him I’m not here by choice.
Instead, I nod.
And just like that, the kitchen becomes my favorite place in the penthouse.
Over the next week, another person starts appearing in the penthouse.
