“I like mornings,” I say, and it’s true.
They feel like blank pages.
He walks me through the morning routine.
Patient. Thorough.
Shows me how to measure by weight, not volume.
“Precision,” he says, tapping the scale. “Is respect for the recipe.”
When I stumble over the pronunciation of Kartoshka, he smiles.
Actually smiles.
“Again,” he says gently. “Kar-TOSH-ka. Little potato.”
I try three more times before I get it right.
Each time, he just nods.
Never impatient. Never condescending.
When I finally nail it, he hands me one from the cooling rack.
“Try. Tell me what you taste.”
I bite into it.
Soft. Rich. The filling sweet but not cloying.
“Chocolate,” I say. “And... condensed milk?”
He nods, pleased. “Good palate.”
And just like that, I’m not a spy anymore.
I’m a student.
And he’s teaching me something he loves.
I’m organizing trays when I slip the first camera behind the stack of mixing bowls.
Tiny thing. Juliet had them shipped in bulk. She called them “nanny cams for naughty boys.”
I place another behind the spice rack.
Another near the flour bins.
One tucked behind the stack of branded takeout boxes, just in case he ever mutters something criminal while packaging Medovik.
“This is for her,” I remind myself. “For us. For safety. We have to know who he is before we bring him home.”
Still, my hands sweat.
Because he just taught me how to make something special to him.
And I’m repaying him with surveillance.
