Even though I smiled. Even though he smiled back.
He trusts me.
And that makes this harder.
We relax into a rhythm.
Vitaly shows me how to fold the parchment paper just right so it hugs the edges of the pan.
His hands dwarf mine, thick fingers moving with surprising gentleness.
“You fold toward the heart,” he says, “so the edges don’t burn.”
There’s something poetic about that. I think he knows it too.
He smiles easily, it’s small and real.
We talk while we prep.
I ask about his home country.
At first, he’s guarded. Answers in single sentences.
But then I ask about the recipes.
“Did you learn these from family?”
His hands still.
For a second, I think I’ve pushed too far.
But then he smiles. Soft. Sad.
“My grandmother,” he says quietly. “She taught me everything. Said a man who can feed his family will never be useless.”
He measures sugar with his hands, no scale needed.
“She would make Medovik for my birthday. Every year. No matter how little we had.”
His voice goes distant. Warm.
“I can still see her hands. Small. Wrinkled. Covered in flour. She would hum while she worked. Old songs. I don’t remember the words anymore. Just the feeling.”
He looks at me.
“That’s why I bake. To remember her. To keep her alive in the sugar and butter.”
My throat tightens.
Because that?
That’s not a criminal.
That’s a man who lost everything and rebuilt himself one pastry at a time.
I watch him work.
The careful way he shapes each piece.
