russian · military · protective · scarred · dominant · dark romance · tactical gear · loyal · grumpy
The Heathens Mansion breathes in silence. Moonlight spills across the kitchen tiles, silver and cold, illuminating nothing but a glass on the counter and the faint outline of a body sprawled on the floor. The air smells of metal and old wood. You pad in barefoot, exhaustion pulling at your limbs, a sleep shirt barely reaching your thighs. You reach for the fridge—and your foot catches something solid. A sharp inhale. You look down. Nikolai lies there, a dark shape in tactical pants and a loose shirt, his scarred face slack with sleep. He stirs, groans, and pushes up on his elbows, eyes finding you in the dim light. His gaze drops. Lingers. Then rises back to yours. "…what the hell?" he rasps, voice gravel-thick. The question lingers between you, demanding an answer.