The last blin had vanished, the final smear of raspberry jam scraped from the bottom of the jar. A satisfied silence settled over Katya's cozy living room, broken only by the quiet clink of cutlery as they slowly began to clear the table. Sunlight spilled through the window in warm, honeyed rays, catching the fine dusting of flour still clinging to countertops and sleeves—a soft echo of their earlier, delightfully chaotic kitchen adventure.
"Я так наелась… Кажется, я больше никогда в жизни не смогу есть," Katya sighed with theatrical misery—I'm so full… It feels like I'll never be able to eat again in my life—though her expression held none of the regret her words implied. As she stacked plates with careful grace, her lips curled into a smile. "Но это было так вкусно. Особенно потому, что мы готовили вместе." But it was so delicious. Especially because we cooked it together.
Alex grinned, just as full and equally content. "I think my main contribution was enthusiastically redecorating your kitchen with flour, not actual cooking."
Her laughter chimed like windbells, light and musical, and Alex felt it land somewhere in his chest. "Your enthusiasm was… a key ingredient, Alexey-kun. And your blin-flipping improved dramatically by the end. Only a couple of casualties."
They moved around the kitchen in quiet harmony, their motions syncing naturally despite the small space. Alex found himself unusually aware of the way her sleeve brushed his, the soft scent of vanilla and berries that clung to her hair, the way her fingers lingered just a beat longer than necessary when passing him a dish. Each subtle contact sparked a warmth inside him, a gentle reminder of the almost-kiss that had hovered between them earlier—and the brief, stolen kiss she'd given him after the festival. That memory still pulsed warmly beneath his skin.
As Katya washed and Alex dried, she hummed under her breath—a soft, lilting tune he didn't recognize. It sounded distinctly Russian, tinged with sweetness and a quiet melancholy.
"Эта мелодия… Бабушка всегда её напевала, когда пекла пироги," she said softly, as though reading his thoughts—This melody… my grandmother always used to hum it when she baked pies. Her voice dipped, more memory than explanation. "Она говорила, что это песня о доме, о возвращении." She said it was a song about home, about returning.
"It's beautiful," Alex murmured, moved by the small, intimate glimpse into her past. He was beginning to understand just how sacred her bond with Babushka Natasha was. That she would share this moment with him felt deeply significant—like being welcomed into a private world.
Once the kitchen gleamed again—thanks to Katya's meticulous touch—they stood for a beat in companionable silence. The sun had dipped lower, slanting golden shadows across the floor. Alex knew he should go. But part of him—a rather loud, stubborn part—wanted to stay wrapped in this bubble of warmth and vanilla-scented quiet for as long as possible.
"Well," Katya said, drying her hands on a tea towel, her tone tinged with reluctant finality, "the Great Blini Adventure of 2025 is officially complete." She looked up at him with a soft smile. "Thank you, Alexey-kun. For the flowers. For the jam. For your… enthusiastic assistance. And just… for being here."
She hesitated, then added in a whisper, "Этот день был таким… настоящим. Я давно так не смеялась. И так… не чувствовала себя понятой." This day was so… real. I haven't laughed like this in so long. And… I haven't felt this understood.
Alex stepped closer, drawn in by the vulnerability in her voice. "The pleasure was all mine, Katya. I had a wonderful time." His voice dropped, playful now. "And for the record—your blini are the best I've ever had. Hands down."
She flushed, but the delight in her eyes was unmistakable. "You're biased. You're my apprentice."
"Maybe," he said, grinning. "But I also happen to have excellent taste."
Their eyes met, the air between them shimmering with something unsaid but deeply felt. Alex wanted to reach for her hand, to close the small space between them, to say something more—something that would capture how special this had been. But he didn't. He could feel her hesitation, too, that delicious nervousness that mirrored his own. The memory of her post-festival kiss lingered like a promise, but he wouldn't rush this. He wanted to let it unfold naturally.
"I should probably… let you get some rest," he said at last, though it felt like the last thing he wanted.
Katya nodded, eyes lowering for just a moment. "Yes. A little. You must be tired, too. Flour-sifting is not for the faint of heart."
They moved to the door, that easy silence returning. At the threshold, Alex turned to her. "Next Saturday?" he asked, voice gentle. "For pelmeni? Or borscht? Or… maybe just books and coffee?"
Katya's face lit up, the earlier flicker of disappointment vanishing. "Он хочет встретиться снова! Уже на следующей неделе! Моё сердце… оно поёт!" He wants to meet again! As early as next week! My heart… it's singing!
"Yes," she said breathlessly. "Any of those sound wonderful, Alexey-kun. Or… all of them, eventually?" Her eyes held a playful challenge.
Alex's heart gave a small, joyous leap. "All of them, eventually," he echoed. "Clearly, we have an ambitious culinary and literary itinerary."
His hand hovered at the doorknob. Then he paused, turned back. "Katya…" He hesitated, words eluding him. He settled on the truth. "Thank you. For today. It was perfect."
She stepped closer, her eyes luminous in the dimming light. "Thank you, Alexey-kun." Her gaze dropped, flicked briefly to his lips, then back up. He caught the spark of the same boldness she'd shown at the festival—but this time, it faltered. Instead of a kiss, she reached out and gently squeezed his arm.
"До следующей субботы," she whispered—Until next Saturday.
"Until next Saturday," he replied, voice a little rougher than he intended.
He squeezed her hand in return, then finally, reluctantly, stepped into the hall.
As he walked away, a quiet, steady joy bloomed in his chest. Today hadn't just been about blini. It had been laughter and memory, shared stories and silences. Something tender was growing between them—unforced, unspoken, but very, very real.
The following week at Seiwa International Academy moved with a different rhythm. The sweetness of Saturday clung to Alex like the faint scent of jam on his sleeve. There was a new closeness between him and Katya, an ease that hadn't existed before. Their glances across the classroom felt charged now, layered with the memory of soft smiles and flour-covered hands.
Katya, too, seemed lighter. Her smiles came quicker, her soft Russian murmurs filled with daydreamed warmth."Скорей бы суббота… Интересно, что мы будем готовить на этот раз? Пельмени – это так весело лепить вместе…"If only Saturday would come sooner… I wonder what we'll cook this time? Pelmeni—they're so fun to make together…
Even their study sessions in the library had changed. Between annotated margins and highlighted kanji, they now shared jokes about blini disasters and playful debates about borscht versus miso.
One afternoon, while studying side by side, Katya let out an exasperated sigh. Her textbook lay open to a passage of particularly dense classical Japanese grammar. "Эта древняя грамматика… она как будто специально создана, чтобы мучить студентов!"This ancient grammar… it's as if it were designed to torture students!
Alex leaned over, pointing gently to a particle she'd overlooked. "This here—it's passive voice. If you read it that way, the structure starts to make sense."
She blinked at the page, then gasped in recognition. "Oh! You're right! How did I not see that?" She looked at him, her expression half awe, half gratitude."Алексей-кун, ты просто гений! Ты всегда всё замечаешь. Спасибо тебе огромное! Ты спас меня от многочасовых страданий."Alexey-kun, you're a genius! You notice everything. Thank you so much! You've saved me from hours of agony.
Then, with a mischievous smile: "Maybe your next apprenticeship should be in deciphering ancient texts. You've clearly mastered the art."
Alex laughed. "I prefer apprenticeships with edible rewards, thanks."
Their shared laughter earned a few shushes from nearby students, but neither of them paid any mind. In their little corner of the library, they were wrapped in their own quiet world—built from jam jars, forgotten songs, and slowly unfolding affection.
And neither of them could wait for Saturday.