Saturday afternoon arrived wrapped in sunshine, the kind that made everything feel just a little more possible. At precisely one o'clock, Alex found himself in front of apartment 3B, heart ticking with quiet anticipation. In one hand, he held a modest bouquet of wildflowers—soft blues and whites that reminded him of Katya's eyes and hair. In the other, a canvas bag cradled a jar of artisanal raspberry jam and a container of premium sour cream. He'd remembered her voice, barely above a whisper, calling raspberry jam the "taste of childhood," and had hunted down the best he could find that morning.
He drew a breath, the air catching in his lungs. Excitement. Nerves. Strange emotions for someone usually so composed. Then he knocked.
The door opened almost at once—she'd been waiting. Katya stood in the doorway, silver hair tucked into a simple braid, a navy apron tied over a cream sweater and well-worn jeans. Her cheeks were flushed, and her blue eyes sparkled with shy delight.
"Alexey-kun!" she said breathlessly. "You're… you're here."
"Katya," he answered, a warmth in his voice that surprised even him. He held out the bouquet. "These reminded me of Kagemori Park."
Her eyes widened as a soft gasp escaped her. She took the flowers, fingertips brushing his in a brief spark of contact that sent a quiet jolt up his arm."Цветы… Он принёс мне цветы! Какие красивые… и так… так мило с его стороны," she murmured, voice thick with emotion. Then in English: "They're beautiful, Alexey-kun. Thank you." She turned quickly, flustered but smiling, vanishing into the apartment in search of a vase.
Alex stepped inside, setting the canvas bag on the entryway table. The place smelled like old books and something warm—yeasty and slightly sweet. He glimpsed the kitchen from the living room: spotless, with bowls, measuring cups, and ingredients arrayed like soldiers awaiting command.
Katya returned and placed the flowers in a simple vase on an overloaded bookshelf. Their color burst against the muted tones of well-loved novels."Please, come in," she said, then gestured toward the kitchen. "I've already started the blini batter. Babushka Natasha's recipe needs time for the yeast to rise."
"Надеюсь, я всё сделала правильно. Я так давно не пекла блины по её рецепту… Что, если они не получатся? Какой будет позор перед ним," she fretted under her breath, fingers twisting the edge of her apron.
"I'm sure they'll be perfect," Alex said gently, walking to her side. "I'm honored to learn from the master. Or at least, the master's granddaughter." He pulled the sour cream and raspberry jam from his bag. "I brought a few extras."
Katya's eyes lit up. "Raspberry! Oh, Alexey-kun, that's… that's my favorite! How did you—?"
He smiled, just a touch enigmatic. "Lucky guess."
Her cheeks colored. "Он такой внимательный… Он помнит такие мелочи… Это… это так трогательно," she whispered, placing the jam on the counter beside honey, strawberries, and what looked like homemade cherry preserves.
The ceramic mixing bowl, draped in a tea towel, sat in the center like an altar. Katya exhaled slowly, trying to gather her confidence."Okay. Babushka Natasha's blini. They're different from the thin ones in restaurants—yeast-based, thicker, with a slight tang. The secret," she said, voice steadying, "is patience. You can't rush the batter."
She lifted the towel. Pale bubbles pocked the surface of the mixture."Кажется, дрожжи работают. Слава богу," she sighed with relief.
Alex peered inside. "It looks… alive."
Katya giggled—a light, musical sound that tugged at his chest. "It is! That's the yeast doing its magic." Her nervousness melted as she stepped into her element. She folded in the flour, eggs, and warm milk with practiced ease, her fingers steady except when they brushed against his. Then they trembled ever so slightly.
"Его рука… такая тёплая. Я чуть не уронила венчик," she muttered, eyes downcast, cheeks rosy.
Alex steadied the bowl with one hand, grasped the whisk with the other, doing his best to focus. "So, Chef Katya, what's my role in all this?"
She looked up, smiling for real this time. "You, Apprentice Alexey, will be chief batter-stirrer. Under very close supervision. And maybe, if you prove worthy… the blin-flipper."
"I accept the challenge," he said with a dramatic bow that made her laugh again—freely, brightly.
Together, they moved through the tight kitchen, bumping elbows, exchanging smiles. Her occasional Russian asides mixed with soft Japanese instructions, the rhythm of their banter syncing with the motion of the batter and the warmth of the kitchen.
Katya, surrounded by her grandmother's tools, became someone new—grounded, sure, radiant. The quiet girl from school was gone, replaced by a woman who spoke with her hands and heart.
Of course, not everything went smoothly. Eager to be helpful, Alex dumped flour into the bowl too quickly, unleashing a puff of white dust that settled over both of them.
Katya blinked, stunned—then burst into laughter. "Ой, Алексей-кун! Ты весь в муке! И я тоже! Мы выглядим как два снежных привидения!"
Alex grinned and reached out, brushing flour from her cheek. His fingers lingered just a second longer than they should have.
The laughter stilled. Her breath hitched. Their eyes met.
The air crackled, heavy with unspoken longing. Her cheeks, already flushed, deepened to a vivid crimson."Его прикосновение… Такое нежное… Моё сердце сейчас выпрыгнет из груди," she breathed.
Alex leaned in, slow, tentative, his gaze falling to her lips. He caught a trace of vanilla and something softer—her.
And then—beep! The stove timer shrieked.
They jumped. Katya turned away at once, fumbling with the bowl. "The batter… needs to rest again. Before we… cook."
Alex exhaled, heartbeat thudding in his ears. Too close. He didn't want to rush her—didn't want to scare her away. But the near-kiss hung between them like steam over the stove.
While the batter rested, so did they—quiet, flustered, pretending to busy themselves while the silence stretched. And yet, beneath it, something new had taken root.
When it was time, Katya retrieved a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet. "This was Babushka's," she said with reverence. "She always said it remembered every blin ever cooked in it."
She melted a pat of butter, then ladled a scoop of batter into the pan, swirling it expertly. "Wait for the bubbles," she said. "Then flip." A moment later, she slid the golden-brown pancake onto a plate. "Вот! Первый блин… и не комом! Бабушка была бы горда."
Alex applauded. "Perfect form. My turn?"
Katya grinned and handed him the tools. "Let's see if you've got what it takes, Apprentice."
Alex poured too much batter, swirled too slowly, and flipped too soon. The result: a wonky, misshapen blin.
Katya tried—and failed—to contain her giggles. "Ну… не совсем шедевр, Алексей-кун, но… для первого раза… съедобно!"
He laughed. "Edible? I'll take it. Round two!"
And so the afternoon slipped by in a haze of warm batter, sizzling pans, and flour-dusted smiles. Each small mishap turned into shared laughter. With every flip, every touch, every glance, Alex felt something quietly shift in him. Walls he'd kept up without knowing were softening.
Maybe the first blin had been a mess. But this day—this moment—was anything but.