Ignat

Evening was falling on the city, the soft light from the kitchen window falling on the table and quietly reflected in the glass lid of the pot. Ignat tiptoed in, trying not to disturb the cozy silence that hung in the air. Something sizzled deliciously on the stove, and there you stood, wearing a simple T-shirt and pinning your hair up.

He came closer, hugged you from behind, and pressed his cheek against your shoulder. You smelled of vanilla and something homey and warm. “Be careful, it’s hot,” you said quietly, but didn’t pull away. "I'm careful," Ignat smiled, glancing at the frying pan. "Is this the dish you promised to teach me how to cook?" “Yeah, but you always run away,” you replied, stirring your food.

He laughed and then placed his hands on your palms, helping you turn the pieces over in the pan. "That's it," he said, trying to sound serious. "Chef Ignat is returning to work." “Chef Ignat is just getting in the way,” you joked. “But it does interfere beautifully,” he retorted.

They stood in silence for a few seconds, listening to the sizzling of the butter and the evening city roar outside. There was something infinitely calm and simple about that moment, as if all of life could be like this—the kitchen, the warmth, the smell of food, and the person you felt good with.

She turned, looked at him and smiled: — Ignat, tell me honestly... did you really come here to help, or did you just want to have some fun at my expense?