For a second, I just stand there, taking it in.
Then I move.
I don’t think too much about it—I just start.
Eggs.
Bread.
Something simple.
Cooking isn’t something I’ve done often. Not in years.
In Russia, there was always someone to do it. Always something more important demanding my time.
But now, as I crack the eggs into a pan and watch them sizzle softly, something shifts inside me.
It feels…familiar.
Like reaching back into a version of myself I haven’t seen in a long time.
A quieter version.
A softer one.
Before everything changed.
Before my father died.
Before war and survival became the only things that mattered.
I lean lightly against the counter, watching the food cook.
And my mind drifts.
To last night.
A small smile touches my lips.
It was…perfect.
Just us.
No guards. No tension. No constant awareness of danger lurking behind every corner.
Just Timofey.
And me.
I didn’t realize how much I needed that until I had it.
We have to go back today.
Back to the estate.
Back to the war waiting for us.
But for once, I don’t feel weighed down by it.
