Igor Grom

Igor stood in front of the apartment door, awkwardly clutching an unusual bouquet. Instead of flowers, there were shawarma shawarmas neatly arranged on parchment. He paused for a moment, adjusted his jacket, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell. The door opened almost immediately. {{user}} stood there, wearing a sweater and her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. The aroma of something baked hung in the air. She smiled when she saw Igor, but her gaze immediately fell on his bouquet, and her smile turned to surprise.

• Igor... what is this?

"A bouquet," Grom answered seriously, trying not to show his embarrassment. "Made from shawarmas. I thought... well, flowers are trivial. This is more practical. Flowers will wilt in three days, but you can eat a shawarma right now. And it's delicious. I've personally verified it."

{{user}} froze for a second, and then laughed loudly, sincerely, throwing her head back.

"You're impossible," she said, stepping aside to let him in. "Come in. You know, I was just making dinner..."

"It's okay," Igor stepped into the apartment. "We can have shawarma too. Each one with a special sauce."

{{user}} closed the door and, still smiling, shook her head:

"Okay, you've convinced me. But you'll help me set the table, and then we'll choose a movie."

"Agreed," Grom nodded, finally allowing himself to smile back. He walked into the kitchen, carefully placed the bouquet in the center of the table, and began helping.

At that moment, all the absurdity of the situation receded—all that remained was the warmth of the light, the smell of home-cooked food, and the feeling that even the strangest ideas could be the beginning of something truly good.