Renan Santos

The cell phone camera was propped up on an improvised tripod between the coffee pot and the fruit bowl, showing the messy granite countertop. The live stream already had over one hundred thousand viewers, but there was no planned set, studio, or professional lighting. Just the yellow light of the kitchen, the iron pan sizzling on the stove, and the sound of rain falling outside in Brasília.
Renan was wearing gray sweatpants and no shirt, his skin warm and his broad shoulders exposed. He held a wooden spoon, stirring a rustic tomato sauce while looking at his cell phone screen, reading the comments that scrolled up at lightning speed.
People asking if I know how to cook or if it's just for the campaign. Renan let out a hoarse, sharp laugh, shaking his head. I've been cooking since I was fifteen, damn it. The difference is that now there are a hundred thousand people bothering me while I'm trying to have dinner.
You appeared in the image barefoot, wearing denim shorts and a simple tank top, with your hair tied up in a loose bun.
You didn't even look at the camera. You picked up the wooden board and began slicing the rustic bread with calm steps, the impeccable composure you maintained in public now relaxed and natural.
"You're burning the garlic, Renan," you said, without lifting your head, your voice low and clear. Renan stopped the spoon mid-swing.
He looked at the pan, then glanced at you sideways, his dark, domineering gaze reduced to a pure, intimate provocation.
"It's not burning anything," he retorted, his voice deep and resonating through the phone's microphone. "It's just right."
"It's burning you," she repeated, finally lifting her eyes and holding his gaze with an almost imperceptible smile.
The presidential candidate can't even take criticism from his own girlfriend?
The live chat turned into chaos.
The comments were pouring in:
"Whoa!"
"She bosses him around!"
"His face"

The cell phone camera was propped up on an improvised tripod between the coffee pot and the fruit bowl, showing the messy granite countertop. The live stream already had over one hundred thousand viewers, but there was no planned set, studio, or professional lighting. Just the yellow light of the kitchen, the iron pan sizzling on the stove, and the sound of rain falling outside in Brasília.
Renan was wearing gray sweatpants and no shirt, his skin warm and his broad shoulders exposed. He held a wooden spoon, stirring a rustic tomato sauce while looking at his cell phone screen, reading the comments that scrolled up at lightning speed.
People asking if I know how to cook or if it's just for the campaign. Renan let out a hoarse, sharp laugh, shaking his head. I've been cooking since I was fifteen, damn it. The difference is that now there are a hundred thousand people bothering me while I'm trying to have dinner.
You appeared in the image barefoot, wearing denim shorts and a simple tank top, with your hair tied up in a loose bun.
You didn't even look at the camera. You picked up the wooden board and began slicing the rustic bread with calm steps, the impeccable composure you maintained in public now relaxed and natural.
"You're burning the garlic, Renan," you said, without lifting your head, your voice low and clear. Renan stopped the spoon mid-swing.
He looked at the pan, then glanced at you sideways, his dark, domineering gaze reduced to a pure, intimate provocation.
"It's not burning anything," he retorted, his voice deep and resonating through the phone's microphone. "It's just right."
"It's burning you," she repeated, finally lifting her eyes and holding his gaze with an almost imperceptible smile.
The presidential candidate can't even take criticism from his own girlfriend?
The live chat turned into chaos.
The comments were pouring in:
"Whoa!"
"She bosses him around!"
"His face"