I eagerly prepare the meat, anticipating its juiciness and aroma. Taking the chilled pork with its tender pink hue out of the fridge, I rinse it under cool water, pat it dry with a paper towel, and leave it to air dry.
In the meantime, I prepare the rest of the ingredients. The onion turns out to be small, its golden-white layers pleasantly squeaking under the knife. The oil with a light nutty aroma and fresh herbs — thyme, rosemary, basil — fill the kitchen with a wonderful bouquet. Coarse salt, like snowflakes, and spicy black pepper complete the symphony of flavors.
When the pork is dry, I take a sharp knife and cut it into even pieces — each slice turns out neat, like a work of art. Then, I generously coat the meat with a thick marinade, with the spicy sweetness of tomato juice and the mild heat of the spices. The aroma fills the kitchen, promising something incredible. Leaving the meat to marinate, I glance at the clock and smile — we still have twenty minutes to prepare everything perfectly.
It is time to fry. The stove heats up, and the oil sizzles, spreading a warm scent. I add the onion — it begins to caramelize, taking on a golden hue. Then, the pieces of meat sizzle in the pan. They turn pale at first, and then become covered with a golden crust, releasing a delightful smell that makes my mouth water.
While the meat is cooking, I glance at Katrin — she skillfully chops vegetables for the side dish. Stepping over to help, I take a potato from her, feeling its cool smoothness.
We laugh, chatting about everything — recalling funny movie scenes, discussing favorite genres. We both adore comedies and detective stories with unexpected twists, are indifferent to horrors, but love films about racing. It is amazing how much our tastes and sense of humor match. We easily find common ground, as if we have known each other for a long time.
When the meat is ready, I can't resist and go to Katrin again. Her fiery curls shine in the soft light, cascading onto her shoulders. She carefully stirs the gravy, her movements graceful and mesmerizing. I quietly embrace her from behind, feeling her warmth and the subtle scent of her perfume. She smiles, glancing over her shoulder, and a mischievous glint sparkles in her eyes.
This moment is full of coziness. We are a team, and the kitchen is our little world, where every smell, sound, and movement becomes part of something bigger.
"Hungry, Nerd?"
"Very. Especially for your lips," I feel her breath on my face. Almost subconsciously, but swiftly, I lean in to her. With my left hand, I gently turn her face towards me. In that moment, it seems like the whole world disappears — leaving only her and me, our hearts beating in the same rhythm.
I press my lips to hers, and suddenly it feels so natural, so right, as if I have always been kissing her, every second of my life. Her lips are soft and warm, as though nature itself has gifted them to me. She responds to my kiss, and her lips begin to move in rhythm with mine, as if we were one. This isn't just a kiss — it is an explosion of emotions, filled with passion, tenderness, and something so special that I can't describe it in words. In her eyes, I see the answer — something more than just desire, a real connection, as if our entire life up to this moment has led to this kiss.
But, despite the fact that I would never want to pull away, this time, I break it off. I do it. I never thought that I would be the first to stop, but something in her gaze makes me realize that this moment shouldn't be just the way I want it to be. I gently let her go, feeling her body shiver slightly from the loss of contact, and slowly step back.
"I... I'll set the table," I try to pull myself together, although a storm of emotions still rages inside me.
Katrin simply nods, her lips still slightly parted, as if she can't believe what has just happened. But I know that this is just the beginning.
"What should we watch, Rebel Girl?" I raise an eyebrow slightly, trying to catch her mood, since she is always so unpredictable with movie choices.
On the table, covered with a bright tablecloth, my efforts are starting to appear — carefully arranged plates with food that is still steaming with freshness and a hot aroma.
"How about a comedy?"
I look at her, expecting a smile, but instead, her face suddenly becomes serious. However, in the next second, a familiar spark lights up in her eyes — the one I know so well.
"I'm against it," the girl leans back in her chair and thinks for a moment. "Let's watch something less funny."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise, tilting my head slightly to the side. Why no laughter all of a sudden? She has always been so cheerful, full of energy.
"Why?" I look at her with slight confusion in my eyes. "You love to laugh. Actually, you can't live without smiling. You're like a living fountain of positivity."
"Is that bad?" Katrin clearly doesn't understand what I mean.
"No, on the contrary, it's a good thing. One of the reasons why I like you."
"And are there many reasons?" standing up, the girl steps closer to me.
"With each day, there are more and more. You should write them down, otherwise, I might forget because of their huge number," as I reply, she tosses her hair off her shoulder, and a playful gleam shines in her eyes. "So, will you answer the question about the comedy?"
"As you said, I laugh a lot. And if we put on a comedy, I might choke on my food. After all, laughing... So, when eating, I usually put on either the news or something calmer."
I pause for a second, realizing what she means. Yes, indeed, laughter and food are a dangerous mix. I always prefer her laughing, but in moments of calm, I also know she needs silence and peace.
"Well then, I vote for a detective. Since we both like them."
"Okay," that lightness reappears in her eyes, the one I treasure so much in her.
We have dinner, sitting at the table, and start watching a movie on my phone. It stands on the table, but instead of fully immersing ourselves in the screen, we keep glancing at each other, laughing, and discussing the plot. Soon, we can't resist, move to the couch, and turn the movie on the TV. Rebel Girl settles beside me, and I embrace her, enjoying this cozy moment. We are fully absorbed in the movie.
Our glances intersect, the girl is always close, and I feel her warmth, her presence. And then, when the movie comes to an end, her reaction is completely uncontrollable.
"I was right! I was right! The killer turned out to be the postman, just like I said!" she suddenly jumps up from her seat, literally out of breath from emotions. Her eyes are burning, and her face is literally illuminated by victory. She is a true winner, and this confidence in her voice immediately pierces me.
Personally, I voted for the neighbor. I was sure he was the killer, but her conviction that it was the postman doesn't let me go. She had been convincing me all along, and now, I have to admit she is right. It feels as if an unexpected squall has hit me.
"Oh, great Rebel Girl!" I exclaim, unable to hide my admiration.
I stand up and ceremoniously start bowing to her, not feeling shy, despite the laughter in her eyes. I don't care if it might seem ridiculous. In that moment, to me, she isn't just a girl, but a true genius detective.
"I bow to your intellect and vigilance, which can only be compared to Sherlock Holmes himself. Of course, you were right, you are the great Katrin!"
"Yes, that's me! Did you doubt it, sir?" she laughs, her laughter so contagious that I almost forget where I am. I can't help but smile in response.
"Well, of course not, although actually, yes. I was one hundred percent sure the neighbor was the killer. Your postman had neither motive nor logic, admit it!" Inside, I still can't believe she is right.
She lifts her gaze to the ceiling, like a true queen, and proudly replies with a hint of calm irony:
"The great Katrin never makes mistakes and never admits her mistakes."
Rebel Girl throws the blanket over her shoulder, the one we had been wrapped in, and, with her head held high, walks across the room, portraying a true royal posture. All her behavior at that moment is incredibly elegant, as if she isn't just a girl, but a majestic and unparalleled persona.
"You are my queen!" unable to resist, I jump up to her, laughing, and open my arms to embrace her, and with this movement, I pull her into my arms. "I'm going to kiss you to pieces now for your defiance to your king!" I add with a playful challenge, not noticing how she blushes a little from my pressure.
I shower her with kisses — on her cheeks, neck, nose, lips. I try to catch her gaze, but she keeps looking away, smiling and retreating, laughing loudly and sincerely. I feel her trembling from my touches, her breathing getting faster, and her laughter mixing with her voice, creating a lively, genuine moment. It all feels so real that it seems I'm not just with her, but inside her, inside this endless flow of emotions.
"Stop it, it tickles!" she giggles, trying to break free, her face lit up with laughter, and her eyes shining with happiness.
"I'll let go, but only on one condition."
"And what is that, my king?"
"Tonight, you and I sleep in the same bed, my queen."
She freezes, and then smiles — her lips spread into such a mysterious smile that I feel her conquering me all over again.
"I don't mind, my king, only if you won't snore."
I raise my eyebrows, amazed by her boldness, and reply with a smile:
"When have I ever snored?" I reach out to her again, wrapping my arms around her waist to feel her closeness, and kiss her, barely touching her lips. She responds with the same passion, so much that I almost forget where I am.
But her laughter breaks the moment again.
"Alright, alright, I was joking," she pulls away slightly, her eyes shining with amusement. "Let me go, or I'll start feeling sick if I laugh this much."
"You'll never feel sick from laughing. You are made of it yourself," these words sound almost like a confession, because her laughter is like the air I breathe. Without it, I cannot exist. I look into her eyes, where the lights of joy and love dance.
Tonight, we fall asleep together. The soft light of the streetlamps filters through the window, and as I hold her, I feel her breathing becoming steadier, her body slowly relaxing. This moment is precious to me because it means one thing — her trust in me is growing. I know: the main thing is not to destroy this. All that is left for me is to be there, support her, and prove that I will not betray her. But I also understand how fragile her soul is and how easily one careless move could destroy what has been built with such effort. This feeling of responsibility weighs on me, but I am ready to do everything just to keep her trust.
She often tries to appear strong and carefree, but her laughter sounds like a shield. Behind the smile hides sadness, showing in every gesture: crossed arms, a gaze slipping away when the conversation gets too personal. I see how she fears showing her vulnerability, like a fragile glass figurine ready to shatter from a single touch. Something in her past has left an indelible mark — deep and painful.
I don't know what exactly caused her such pain, but I feel it was something terrifying. She doesn't trust anyone, fearing that if she reveals her soul, she will be left unprotected, alone against the whole world. I genuinely want to find out what wounded her so much, but I can't and don't want to forcefully drag these memories out. It has to be her decision, her choice. I know she will open up when she feels that I won't use her weaknesses against her. I could learn about her past, about her pain, but only if she decides to share it herself, when trust is at a level where she understands that I am not her enemy.
She doesn't see a direct enemy in me, a threat, but her suspicions are valid. After all, if I learned her wounds, her vulnerability, could I, accidentally or unconsciously, cause her even more pain? Could I become that very person who, trying to help, destroys her even more? I feel that for her this is a matter of life and death, for a wounded soul is easily ruined if one is not careful. This thought penetrates me, and I cannot get rid of it. I want to help, but I know I could lose her if I am not careful.
At one point, she called me a "poor little boy". But I know that she herself was that defenseless girl, hiding her vulnerability behind a mask of strength. She went through something terrifying that left deep scars. I understand her because I was once like that myself — closed off, not ready to trust.
I opened up to her only because she accepted me as I am. When I realized that she didn't judge me and didn't wish me harm, I was able to show my true side. It happened unexpectedly, but perhaps that's how it was meant to be — fast, but at a moment that couldn't be missed. Now I know what I must do. I must show her what I saw in her. This isn't just a desire — it is my obligation.
I know I can become her support, help her overcome her fears and doubts. I see how she hides her vulnerability, but I am ready to support her so she becomes strong in her truth and acceptance of herself.
Now, there is only one thing left: to show her the strength hidden beneath her pain and fear, and prove that she is worthy of love and care. I am ready to fight for that.