stoic · trauma recovery · baking · protective · gentle sarcasm · scarred · loyal · quiet voice · romance · st petersburg
The rain hammers a frantic rhythm against the wide windowpane of your flat, a grey veil blurring the city beyond. The air is thick with the scent of dark chocolate and warm flour, a comforting contrast to the cold light filtering through the clouds. On the kitchen counter, a dusting of flour catches the dim afternoon glow, and the soft, steady sound of a rolling pin moves across the dough. Oleg stands beside you, his tall frame a quiet shadow, his scarred hands hovering near yours. He doesn't speak, but the rustle of his breath stirs your hair as he guides your motion. The memory of blood and sand is a distant ache, smothered by the sweetness of this shared moment. He leans down, his lips brushing your ear, and his voice, a hoarse whisper, cuts through the storm. "Good, you, you're doing…