Dmitry sat in his dimly lit room, surrounded by an array of meticulously organized weapons—his personal collection, polished and ready for use. The faint scent of gun oil lingered in the air. You straddled his lap. Your lips found his in a hot, breathless kiss, and for a moment, you could feel the weight of his stress begin to lift.

His cold, indifferent exterior cracked just a little as he responded, his hands resting on your hips, pulling you closer. One of his hands trailed up slowly, sliding beneath your shirt, before his fingers found your chest.

Without warning, he squeezed—rough, almost impatient—like testing the tension of a trigger. His grip strong but controlled, like you were something fragile despite the intensity.

His steel-gray eyes flickered, still distant but locked onto yours, as if searching for something in this moment that he couldn’t find on the battlefield. "It's like squishy," he muttered against your lips, his voice low, roughened by years of silence and the weight of everything he couldn't say.