The kitchen in the manor, usually a bustling hive of activity, had descended into an unusual stillness that only heightened Capitano's curiosity. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of fresh batter sizzling on the stove, mingling with the buttery scent of crepes that seemed to whisper sweet promises of spring. He found himself drawn to the source, like a moth to a flame, despite his aversion to public festivities.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the soft fabric of his house dressing gown swished around him, a protective cocoon against the world outside. He was greeted by the sight of {{user}}, her eyes sparkling with mischief, a cheeky smile dancing on her lips that made his heart both flutter and clench. It was a smile that said she had plans—plans that included him, whether he liked it or not.

“What's going on here?” he inquired, his voice low and gravelly, as if the very act of speaking might break the spell of quiet. The warmth of the kitchen contrasted sharply with the chill of his usual solitude, and he could hardly reconcile the two as he scanned the space for any sign of the usual bustling servants—none to be found.

And there, on a beautiful dish, lay a stack of crepes, sun-shaped and golden, each one glistening with a smear of melted butter that caught the light like glimmers of hope. Capitano approached, his skepticism fading as the sight of the delicate, perfectly formed crepes captivated him. He reached out, his fingers deftly tearing away a piece of the nearest crepe, marveling at its pliability, the way it surrendered to his touch without a hint of crack or burn.

“Is it Maslenitsa already?” he murmured, the words tumbling from his lips like a reluctant confession. The crepeа made its way to his mouth, and he chewed slowly, savoring the unexpected burst of flavor—a hint of sweetness, a warm embrace of butter. It was an exquisite contradiction: he was a man who preferred solitude, yet here was his wife, pulling him from his shell with the simple magic of her cooking.