19. We’re Friends, Aren’t We? #2
“It’s a Russian diminutive of your name—you can think of it like a nickname.
A term of endearment, even. They’re affectionate and informal versions of our full names.
My mom probably calls me at least thirteen different versions of my name a day.
” A short laugh escapes him before his face goes guarded again.
“I don’t know why I keep calling you that.
I’m sorry.” He turns away, filling a measuring cup at the sink.
I rest a hip against the counter, fork still in hand. “It’s okay, you know. I don’t mind it. I don’t think anyone’s ever given me a nickname before.”
He glances at me, then pours water into the bowl, working the mixture with one hand. “That’s… good to know. I just… shouldn’t.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” I ask, taking the cup from him when he gestures. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes.” His answer is quick, almost clipped.
“So can’t friends give each other nicknames?”
He stills, eyes locking on mine—so intense it nearly knocks the breath out of me. “I can’t see why not.”
My lips twitch upward. “There, then. It’s settled. Ella-whatever-it-is.”
His laugh is soft, genuine. “Elenochka.”
“Yeah, that.” I smile.
He shakes his head, smiling as he kneads the dough. I dribble in the rest of the lukewarm water, watching the flour and eggs collapse into a sticky ball under his hands.
“I could call you Coach Perfect Posture Who Loves to Bake and Has a Cute Dog Named Louie,” I tease.
Nik chuckles. “That’s… quite the mouthful.” He sets the dough onto the floured counter. “Here—your turn.”
I tilt my head. “My turn?”
“Mm-hm.” He walks to the sink, scrubbing his hands. “Time for you to knead.”
I wrinkle my nose. “But… it’s messy.” Growing up, messes were forbidden. My mother would be horrified right now.
Nik dries his hands, then returns to my side. “It’s okay to get a little messy sometimes.” He gently takes my hand and guides me closer to the counter. His fingers slide over mine, warm and sure. “I’ll show you.”
Our hands press into the dough together, fingers almost lacing as we roll it forward and back.
The flour puffs up into the air, dusting the counter, and ultimately dusting us.
His chest brushes my shoulder each time he leans forward.
My pulse races. By the time the dough is smoothed out, I can’t tell if the heat on my cheeks is from the work or from him.
Nik transfers the dough into a clean bowl and covers it with plastic wrap. “That needs to rest for an hour.”
I dart to the sink, hiding my face as I wash my hands. My voice comes out softer than I mean. “That long?”
“That’s right.” Nik grabs another clean bowl and gathers the ground beef, onions, oil, the small army of spices, and more water. “While the dough rests, we work on the filling.”
I dry my hands on a towel and point at the raw beef. “Do we… have to touch it?”
“Of course. We’ve got to mix everything together.”
I wrinkle my nose again. “Nope. Absolutely not. I draw the line at raw meat, Coach Perfect Posture Who Loves to Bake and Has a Cute Dog Named Louie.”
Nik chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m impressed you remembered all that.” He picks up an onion and holds it out to me. “Fine. No raw meat. But you get to cut this.”
I take it from him gingerly, as if it were a live grenade. “Did you not hear me earlier? I’m a nightmare with a knife.”
His mouth tilts into that maddening smirk. “I believe in you, Elenochka. Just as long as you don’t draw blood, I think you’ll survive.”
I huff, holding the onion like a reluctant soldier going to battle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Nik places a cutting board and a very, very, sharp knife in front of me, gives the most basic of instructions, and then leaves me alone while he busies himself with the rest of the filling.
I’m smugly proud of the first few cuts. No blood, no missing fingers. Honestly, I’m kind of crushing it.
Until my eyes start burning like I’m in a chemical gas attack.
I drop the knife with a clatter and claw at my eyes, tears streaming in torrents. “Nik, I think something’s wrong with your onion!”
He turns and immediately doubles over with laughter.
I blink furiously at him through the blur. “Why are you laughing? This is not funny. My eyes are on fire.”
His laughter only grows louder, his shoulders shaking. “Give me your face,” he manages between fits.
I freeze, my stinging eyes narrowing… or attempting to narrow. “What?”
He grabs a clean towel, runs it under the tap, and thrusts it at me. “Here. Press this to your eyes. It’ll help.”
The relief is instant. “Oh my gosh, this feels amazing.” I press the cool cloth hard against my eyes, sighing like I’ve been rescued from the brink of death.
When I lower the towel, Nik’s face is red and his hand’s over his mouth.
I knit my brows. “What?”
“Nothing.” His voice cracks as he tries to stifle another laugh.
“Nik…” I press.
He loses it again, chuckling. “Your eyes. You look a little… raccoon-y.”
I gasp and glance at the towel. Sure enough—mascara smudges everywhere. Wonderful.
Before I can retreat to the sink in embarrassment, Nik steps forward and gently takes the towel from my hands.
His movements are careful as he wipes the streaks from my cheeks, then the dark smudges beneath my eyes.
Every brush of his fingers lights a fire beneath my skin, and when his hands finally fall away, the flames remain.
“There,” he murmurs softly, meeting my gaze with a small smile. “No more raccoon eyes.”
Once I finish cutting the death onions, Nik pours them into the filling, melding everything together. Our conversations flow easily, and I hate to admit how much fun I’m having with him—even with the thought of eating lingering heavy at the back of my mind.
When the dough is finished rising, he shows me how to roll it, cut circles with a cookie cutter, and fill them. The part I can’t master is sealing them shut. His look like perfect half-moons, pinched neatly in the center. Mine resembles… lopsided ears.
So, I’m demoted to filling duty while he handles the sealing. I can’t help but think we make a good team—even if I’m more trouble than I’m worth in the kitchen. He makes everything look easy, and I wonder if there’s ever been a time when he messed up.
“So,” I ask, halfway through filling another circle, “is this your favorite dish to make?”
“It’s one of them.” Nik pinches the dumpling into a perfect crescent. “I also enjoy making ukha. It’s fish soup with root vegetables and spices.” He reaches for the next piece of dough. “My parents live near a lake, so during the summer I’ll fish. If I get a good catch, I make it.”
“You enjoy fishing?” I tilt my head, surprised. The more I learn about him, the more I realize I know nothing at all.
He dips his chin. “Among other things.” His mouth curves into a smirk as he lines another dumpling on the cutting board.
“What else?” I press.
“I like to hike and camp—mostly during late summer. I enjoy going to church on Sundays, reading my Bible.” He chews his lips, eyes darting to the pelmeni. “And… I used to enjoy dancing.”
I pause mid-scoop. “Used to?”
He gives a faint, evasive bob of his head.
“What happened? I remember you mentioned an injury before.”
His hands still. “I don’t know if—”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I interrupt. He’s given me space before, and I want to do the same.
Silence fills the kitchen for a moment, broken only by the rhythmic filling and sealing of dough.
“After my sister Daria died,” he finally says, voice low, “I lost myself. At sixteen, I started sneaking my dad’s alcohol. By twenty-one, I was out at bars more nights than not. Between the drinking and the… girls, I was a shell of who I should’ve been. Kasper bailed me out of a lot.”
I stop working, listening as he presses on.
“When I was twenty-three, I showed up to rehearsal late. Hungover. I couldn’t even focus on the choreography.
I went for a jump, landed on my left leg, and—” He exhales sharply.
“The pain was immediate. I couldn’t walk.
At the hospital they told me I’d torn my hip labrum.
They said it was career-ending .” His jaw clenches as he sets the dumpling down almost too hard.
Finally, he lifts his gaze to mine. “I was devastated, Eleanor. I continued dancing for Daria. And suddenly… I couldn’t. ”
An uneasy stillness hangs in the air.
“Kasper offered me a coaching job. And at twenty-three, that felt humiliating. But I had nothing else, so I took it. I was angry for a long time.” His voice softens, almost reverent.
“Until I found Jesus. His grace gave me purpose again. Coaching kept Daria’s memory alive in a different way.
Even if the winters are still pretty hard for me to get through. ” He gives a small, humorless laugh.
I swallow, unsure how to respond. “Gosh, Nik. I don’t know what to say other than I’m so sorry.”
He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t apologize. Everything happens for a reason. Coaching has brought me blessings I never expected.” He seals another dumpling, then glances at me with a faint, almost shy smile. “Kind of like you being here.”
My composure turns to liquid, and a slow warmth spreads across my face. Thankfully Nik saves me from having to comment.
“Tell me what you enjoy doing.” His easy smile returns, the heaviness of his past tucked away.
“I, um… well, I…” I trail off, fumbling.
What do I enjoy doing? My entire life revolves around ballet.
I’ve never had time—or permission—to explore much else.
“I journal sometimes,” I wince, feeling lame even as the words leave me.
I don’t admit that most of my pages are about food.
“I also run in the mornings. And sometimes if I have free time, I like to read.”
“Oh really?” Nik edges forward, not the least bit put off by my thin list. “What’s your favorite book?”