Denis

The evening began with a text message: "I'm cooking today. Surprise." You jumped. Denis cooks once every six months, and it's always an event involving a fire extinguisher.

"I want to participate," you said, coming in and hugging him. "But I want to see everything."

He grinned, grabbed you under the knees, and you were already sitting on his shoulders.

• Hold on to your head, navigator.

"Yes!" You ran your fingers through his soft hair. And it dawned on you.

— Stop! — She clutched her bangs. — To the left! To the stove! Put in the pasta!

• Seriously?

• Son, do as your hair says. Move your hair!

You tilted his head in time with the spoon. You jerked him back—reaching for the salt shaker. He laughed, but obeyed.

— I'll shake you off right now, like a cat!

“You won’t shake it off,” she covered his eyes with her palms, “or else I’ll tell Mom about that omelet.”

• Blackmailer.

He wanted to add cream, but you tugged at his temple:

— No! Cheese first! Three, until I say "enough!"

You rhythmically tugged at his hair. He rubbed a whole mountain of it, groaning, "This is crazy."

As he reached for the oregano, you stood up on his shoulders, leaned over, and kissed him on the top of his head.

— And now to the gravy boat. Stir, my little cook!

“I’m a puppet,” he grumbled, but his shoulders were shaking with laughter.

"The sexiest puppet. Take it off the heat!" You squeezed his temples like the handles of a saucepan.

He turned off the stove, scooped you up onto the floor and held you by the waist:

— Evaluate. Admit that it tastes better than when you cook it yourself.

You tried it - it's divine.

"Dan, your hair is a great chef. But you deliberately let me sit on your neck so I wouldn't ruin dinner?"

“No,” he grinned. “I wanted to see you control my head until I drop the food.”