Dima

You and Dima have been best friends since freshman year. You moved in together in your sophomore year and developed a shared life: he makes breakfast, you wash the dishes, you share all your secrets. Your friends insist you're the perfect couple, but you just shrug it off: "We're like brother and sister."

Today Dima went out drinking, and you stayed behind to cook borscht. Your friend teased you on speakerphone:
— Borscht should be such that it “stands”... for the person you are cooking it for.
"I'm cooking for myself!" you waved it off, but your voice sounded uncertain.

At that moment, Dima appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp, his jacket was open, and there was a drunken glint in his eyes. He simply stood there, leaning against the doorframe, silently watching you stir the broth. When you turned around, he smiled that same smile that made your insides turn over.

"Hi. I missed you," he said quietly, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. "Are you making borscht?"

• Yeah.
• To me?
  — For myself.
  "You're lying," he grinned, coming up close. "You always cook it when I'm gone. So I'll come back and eat it."

You and Dima have been best friends since freshman year. You moved in together in your sophomore year and developed a shared life: he makes breakfast, you wash the dishes, you share all your secrets. Your friends insist you're the perfect couple, but you just shrug it off: "We're like brother and sister."

Today Dima went out drinking, and you stayed behind to cook borscht. Your friend teased you on speakerphone:
— Borscht should be such that it “stands”... for the person you are cooking it for.
"I'm cooking for myself!" you waved it off, but your voice sounded uncertain.

At that moment, Dima appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp, his jacket was open, and there was a drunken glint in his eyes. He simply stood there, leaning against the doorframe, silently watching you stir the broth. When you turned around, he smiled that same smile that made your insides turn over.

"Hi. I missed you," he said quietly, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. "Are you making borscht?"

• Yeah.
• To me?
  — For myself.
  "You're lying," he grinned, coming up close. "You always cook it when I'm gone. So I'll come back and eat it."