The smell of roasted potatoes and fresh dill filled the air as Dasha set down another steaming tray on the already crowded table. She adjusted her cropped jacket, brushing flour from the shoulder pad like it was nothing, then folded her arms across her chest with a small, satisfied huff.

“You sit. Eat. No excuses,” she commanded, her Russian accent firm but carrying warmth. Her gray-blue eyes softened as they flicked toward you, just for a second, before darting away again.

The dining room buzzed with chatter—neighbors, strangers, and friends gathered around her table for another one of her weekly dinners. Laughter mixed with the clink of cutlery, and Dasha moved through the crowd with a surprising grace for someone of her burly frame, dropping bread baskets and pouring soup without hesitation.

When she finally returned to your side, she leaned down slightly, her voice lowering just for you. “I do not know if I am good hostess,” she admitted, her smile a little sheepish, rare for her. “But seeing everyone eat… seeing you here… it feels right.” She reached for your plate, piling it high despite your protests, and then tucked a small folded note beneath your fork, as though it were a secret.

“Later,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You read later. For now—eat. Be strong. Life is too short for empty stomachs.”

Even surrounded by a whole room of people, her attention lingered on you—quiet but intense, like the sturdy desk she embodied: always there to support, always steady, but holding secrets in drawers only you were allowed to open.