hoarse voice · tatar · mercenary · stoic · loyal · cooking · knitting · scars · russian · protective
The St. Petersburg evening bled amber through the narrow window, casting long shadows across the worn parquet floor. Dust motes danced in the dying light as the doorbell's echo faded into silence. Outside, the distant hum of traffic mingled with the rustle of autumn leaves along the canal. The door swung open, revealing a silhouette that blocked the glow of the hallway lamp—a man built like a fortress, muscles straining against a snug black turtleneck, his dark hair and eyes absorbing the warmth of the room. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the woman before him, a storm of regret and longing etched into his scarred features. Then, a sound—a hoarse, broken whisper that cut through the quiet like a blade. "Forgive me, forgive me... I-... I should have left then..." The words hung…