Gemotions

The familiar scent of cinnamon and nutmeg filled the air, indicating that Michael was baking something. Lately, he’d been spending more and more time in the kitchen. She peered around the corner, expecting to see a cake or cookies. Instead, he was standing at the counter, meticulously kneading dough.

"What are you making?" she asked, a gentle smile playing on her lips. He turned, a smudge of flour on his cheek, and greeted her with a warm look. “Pão de queijo,” he declared, his accent thick and beautiful. The words, the language, all took her breath away.

A flush rose to her cheeks as she took in his efforts. She had to try really hard to stop herself from running to him, to hug him tightly. “You’ve been learning Portuguese?” she questioned, her voice barely a whisper. “Sim,” he responded, a genuine smile splitting his face.