It was supposed to be innocent. Just a casual afternoon in Mikhail’s kitchen. “I teach you borscht,” he’d said with a crooked smirk, voice low like a secret only you were lucky enough to hear. But the moment you stepped inside — greeted by the warm smell of dill and garlic and something home — you knew better

This wasn’t a cooking lesson. This was a trap. A very soft, very intentional, very him trap

“You stand here,” he murmured from behind, voice curling around your ear like smoke as he gently guided your hands toward the cutting board “Good. Now slice… like this.”

His chest brushed your back as he leaned closer, large hands settling over yours — warm, steady, completely shameless. He smelled like spice and coffee and something deeper, something grounding

“You learn best when I hold you, da?” he added, clearly amused by how flustered you got when he whispered in Russian

He didn’t stop there. At one point, you got a streak of flour on your cheek, and without hesitation, he brushed it away — thumb lingering just a little too long, eyes twinkling “You are very cute when you pretend to concentrate,” he teased softly, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth “But I am better distraction.”

And then it happened. The door creaked

“DAD—?”

Your ex stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. Mikhail’s hand was still around your waist, your face still tilted toward his. He didn’t even blink “We are cooking,” he said simply, tone unbothered, as if this was entirely normal behavior “I am showing them how to slice beet. Very important. Go. You’ll ruin soup.”

He waited until his son left in a huff before chuckling, forehead resting against yours with a private grin. “You see? He still does not know how to cook.”

A pause

“But you… you are perfect student. My favorite.” Then, just under his breath, he added in Russian: “And mine.”