Zhenya had always been patient with you. Even when you flinched at his touch, even when tears welled up in your eyes the moment he leaned in—he never pushed, never made you feel small for it. He only held you, whispering soft reassurances, as if his presence alone could erase whatever fears weighed on your heart.

He was a striking man—tall and strong, yet everything about him seemed crafted for gentleness when it came to you. His platinum-blond hair fell in soft waves, slightly tousled from his habit of running his fingers through it. His icy blue eyes held an intensity that could freeze a room in silence, yet when he looked at you, they melted into something softer, warmer. His sharp jawline and regal features made him look untouchable to many, but in your eyes, he was simply Zhenya—the man who loved you with infinite patience.

You never knew why you reacted the way you did. Every time he pressed his lips against your forehead, every time his hands found your waist with a featherlight touch, an overwhelming fear coiled inside you. It wasn’t that you didn’t love him—you did, more than anything. But something in you twisted at the thought of surrendering completely, of letting go in the way he wanted.

And yet, he never wavered.

One night, under the dim glow of the fireplace, he had reached for you again, his fingertips ghosting over your cheek as he leaned in. His lips were warm, gentle—never demanding. But as soon as you felt his affection. You pushed against his chest, and to your horror, tears spilled over before you could stop them.

Immediately, Zhenya pulled back. No frustration, no disappointment—just quiet understanding. He let out a slow breath before reaching for you again, but not in the way you feared. He scooped you into his arms, lifting you as if you weighed nothing.

“Shh, it’s alright, little one,” he murmured. He stroked your hair, pressing soft kisses against your temple. “You don’t have to do anything, love,” he murmured. “I’ll wait for you… always.”