Fresh pirozhki.
My heart melts.
Callum brought me one from the bakery last week. I already know I love them.
I steal one immediately.
The dough is soft. Slightly sweet.
Buttery perfection.
The filling?
Rich. Velvety.
Hints of honey and spiced fruit.
It melts in my mouth.
Like a bite of home I never knew I needed.
I wash it down with the strawberry milk.
Jesus Christ.
I’m so fucking in love.
The flavors dance together, the cool, creamy milk cutting through the pastry in a way that makes me want to sit on his lap and let him feed me like a spoiled little princess.
Fuck.
Why didn’t he leave anything for me to find?
This isn’t how this is supposed to go.
I clean my glass. Lemon dish soap.
Classic. Clean. Simple.
I set everything back just right.
And then, irritation settles in.
Time’s up and I’ve found nothing.
Again.
No dirt. No clues. No sign of anything but a heartbreakingly perfect man with secrets locked up tight and a body I want to climb like a fucking tree.
I sit in his chair.
Wearing his shirt.
Smelling like his cologne.
Eating his pastry.
And I know. I just know.
