"You fold it like this," he said, guiding my hands. "Then roll, then fold again. The layers are what make it tender."
"How many times?"
"At least ten. More if you want it perfect."
I laughed despite myself. "Who has time for perfect?"
"Tonight, we do."
We worked in companionable silence, the rhythm of the task soothing in a way I hadn't expected. Fold, roll, fold again. The dough transformed under our hands, becoming silky and smooth.
"I used to do this with my brothers," Rodion said. "When we were young. Before everything changed."
"All of you?"
"Demyan hated it—said it was women's work. Kirill did it because he was told to, but his heart wasn't in it. Mikhail was the only one who actually enjoyed it." He smiled at the memory. "He'd make shapes with the scraps. Animals, faces, abstract things that didn't look like anything. Drove our mother crazy."
"You miss him."
"Every day." He set down the rolling pin, his hands stilling on the dough. "He could have built something different."
"Yes, you said. But so could you. You could still build something different."
"I'm starting to think you might be right." He looked at me, and something in his expression made my breath catch. "I never expected this. Any of this. You, the baby, feeling like I have something worth protecting beyond territory and money and the family name."
"And now?"
"Now I want to survive tomorrow. Not just because I have to, but because I want to see what comes next." He reached outand touched my face, his fingers gentle. "I want to see who our child becomes. I want to see who we become."
I didn't know what to say. The words were too big, too important, too close to things I wasn't ready to name.
So I kissed him instead.
It started soft, tentative—a question rather than an answer. But it deepened quickly, his hands sliding into my hair, my body pressing against his. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard.
"The pasta," I said weakly.
"It can wait."
"We spent two hours—"
"I don't care about the pasta."
He kissed me again, and I stopped caring, too.
But we didn't go further. Not tonight. There was something fragile in the air between us, something that needed tenderness rather than passion. When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against mine, I understood.
"Let's finish dinner," I said. "And then let's go to bed. Together."
"To sleep?"
"To not be alone."
He nodded slowly. "That I can do."
We finished the pasta, boiled it, ate it with a simple sauce of butter and herbs. The food was good—better than good—but neither of us had much appetite. We picked at our plates, made small talk, avoided the subject that hung over everything.
After dinner, we cleaned the kitchen together. He washed, I dried. Another small domesticity, another moment of normalcy in the midst of chaos. I found myself memorizing these details—the way he rolled up his sleeves before putting his hands in the water, the care he took with each dish, the quiet rhythm we'd developed without trying.
