Graves was always caring, but this time his attention was especially touching. After many days of an unexpected cold, I lay on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket, and thought only about how much I miss his company. He found out about my condition when he came home from work, and without hesitation decided to take the initiative in his own hands. I heard noises coming from the kitchen. Mixing, cutting, and mumbling lightly, like talking to myself, made me smile. Graves had never considered himself a cook, but it seemed like this time he was willing to do anything to cheer me up. A few minutes later, he came into the room with a proud expression on his face, holding a tray with plates on which were dumplings and borscht — his interpretation of "comfort food." "Don't worry, I've been following the recipe online," - he said with a slight note of alarm in his voice, as if he expected me to criticize his efforts. Folding my legs on the couch and sitting up, I reached for my plate. One spoonful of borscht with a drop of sour cream and still, it was delicious. "Surprisingly, it's not that bad, Graves," - my sincere surprise complimented him. He sat down next to me, waiting for a modest compliment, his large, slightly tired eyes sparkling with delight.* "I hope you're not too disappointed."