I eagerly prepare the meat, anticipating its juiciness and aroma. Taking the chilled pork out of the fridge, its tender pink hue is delightful to the eye. 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 other ingredients. The onion is small, its golden-white layers pleasantly squeaking under the knife. The oil with a light nutty aroma and fresh herbs—thyme, rosemary, basil—fills the kitchen with a wonderful bouquet. Coarse salt, like snowflakes, and spicy black pepper complete the flavor symphony.
When the pork has dried, I take a sharp knife and cut it into even pieces—each slice neat, like a work of art. Then, I generously coat the meat with a thick marinade, its spicy sweetness from the 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 perfect everything.
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 first turn pale, then cover with a golden crust, releasing a delightful smell that makes my mouth water.
While the meat cooks, 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 well our tastes and sense of humor match. We connect easily, 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 the 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 kiss her. With my left hand, I gently turn her face towards me. In that moment, it seems like the whole world disappears, and it is just 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 are 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 that moment has led to this kiss.
But, despite not wanting to part, this time, I break it off. I do it. I never think I'll be the first to stop, but something in her gaze makes me realize that this moment shouldn't be what 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 say, trying 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, trying to gauge 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," she leans back in her chair and thinks for a moment. "Let's watch something less funny."
I raise an eyebrow in surprise, tilting my head slightly. 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?" she stands up and approaches me closer.
"With each day, there are more and more. You should write them down, otherwise, I might forget because there are so many," I reply as she tosses her hair off her shoulder, and a playful gleam appears 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 while eating is dangerous. So, when I'm eating, I usually put on the news or something more calm."
I pause for a second, realizing what she means. Yes, indeed, laughter and food are a dangerous combination. I always prefer her laughing, but I also know that in moments of calm, she needs silence and peace.
"Well then, I vote for a detective. Since we both like them."
"Okay," a light spark 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 is on the table, but instead of fully focusing on the screen, we keep glancing at each other, laughing, and discussing the plot. Soon, we can't resist and move to the couch, turning on the movie on the TV. Rebel Girl settles beside me, and I wrap my arm around her, enjoying the cozy moment. We are fully absorbed in the movie.
Our glances meet, she is always close, and I can feel her warmth, her presence. And then, when the movie is about to end, her reaction is completely uncontrollable.
"I was right! I was right! The killer was the postman, just like I said!" she suddenly jumps up, almost out of breath from her emotions. Her eyes are shining, and her face is literally illuminated by her victory. She is a true winner, and the confidence in her voice strikes me right away.
Personally, I had voted for the neighbor. I was sure he was the killer, but her certainty that it was the postman kept me on edge. She had been convincing me all along, and now I have to admit she is right. It feels like an unexpected whirlwind hits me.
"Oh, the great Rebel Girl!" I exclaim, unable to hide my admiration.
I stand up and ceremoniously start bowing to her, not caring about the laughter in her eyes. I don't care if it seems ridiculous. In that moment, she isn't just a girl to me; she is 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 a 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 halo of calm irony:
"The great Katrin never makes mistakes and never admits to them."
Rebel Girl throws the blanket over her shoulders, the one we had been wrapped in, and, with her head held high, she walks across the room, portraying a royal posture. Everything about her at that moment is incredibly elegant, as if she isn't just a girl, but a majestic and unparalleled figure.
"You are my queen!" I can't resist, I jump up to her, laughing, and open my arms to embrace her. With that movement, I pull her into my arms. "I'm going to kiss you 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, and lips. I try to catch her gaze, but she keeps looking away, smiling and retreating, laughing loudly and sincerely. I can 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, it is as if I'm not just with her, but inside her, inside this endless flow of emotions.
"Stop, it tickles!" she giggles, trying to break free. Her face is lit up with laughter, and her eyes are sparkling with happiness.
"I'll let go, but only on one condition."
"And what is that, my king?"
"Tonight, we sleep in the same bed, my queen."
She freezes, then smiles—her lips spread into such a mysterious smile that I can feel her conquering me all over again.
"I don't mind, my king, only if you don't snore."
I raise an eyebrow, surprised by her boldness, and reply with a smile:
"When have I 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 such passion 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 bad if I keep laughing like this."
"You'll never feel bad from laughing. You're made of it," these words come out almost as a confession, because her laughter is like the air I breathe. Without it, I wouldn't be able to 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 can 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 most important thing is not to break this. All I have to do is be there, support her, and prove I won't betray her. But I also understand how fragile her soul is, and how easily one careless move could destroy something that has been built with so much effort. This feeling of responsibility weighs on me, but I am ready to do anything to keep her trust.
She often tries to appear strong and carefree, but her laughter sounds like a shield. Behind her smile is sadness, showing in every gesture: crossed arms, a gaze that wanders when the conversation gets too personal. I see how she fears showing her vulnerability, like a fragile glass figurine that would shatter with just one touch. Something in her past has left an indelible, painful mark.
I don't know what has caused her such pain, but I feel it is something terrifying. She doesn't trust anyone, afraid that if she reveals her soul, she will be left unprotected, alone against the whole world. I genuinely want to understand what has hurt her so deeply, but I can't and don't want to force those memories out of her. It has to be her decision, her choice. I know she will open up when she feels I won't use her weaknesses against her. I can learn about her past, her pain, but only if she chooses to share it with me, when the trust is at a level where she will know I'm not her enemy.
She doesn't see me as a direct enemy, a threat, but her suspicions are valid. After all, if I know her wounds, her vulnerabilities, could I, by accident or unknowingly, cause her even more pain? Could I become the person who, trying to help, would destroy her even more? I feel that for her, it is a matter of life and death, because a wounded soul can easily be destroyed if not handled carefully. This thought consumes me, and I can't shake it. I want to help, but I know I could lose her if I'm not careful.
At one point, she calls me "a little poor boy." But I know that she herself is the vulnerable little girl, hiding her weakness behind a mask of strength. She has gone through something terrifying, leaving deep scars. I understand her because I have once been like that—closed off, not ready to trust.
I only open up to her because she accepts me as I am. When I realize that she doesn't judge me and doesn't wish me harm, I am able to show my true self. It happens unexpectedly, but perhaps that's how it is meant to be—fast, but at the moment that can't be missed. Now I know what I have to do. I have to show her what I see in her. It isn't just a desire—it is my obligation.
I know I can be 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 can become strong in her truth and self-acceptance.
Now, there is only one thing left: to show her the strength hidden beneath her pain and fear, and prove that she deserves love and care. I am ready to fight for that.