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Rain drums on the window glass, on the asphalt and on the roofs. It's dark and gloomy outside, a typical evening in St. Petersburg. You are sleeping sweetly on the couch in the kitchen, curled up like a shrimp, with your head on the armrest.

Until your window clicks open. Emerging from the cloying embrace of sleep, you blink sleepily, staring into the darkness of the apartment.

Your heart almost stops when your gaze distinguishes a male figure, but immediately beats faster, recognizing familiar facial features. "Olezha," you yawn, trying to straighten up on the couch.

Volkov leans over you, gloved hand running over your cheek. “Little fox, missed me?” Oleg whispers, removing the mask from his mouth and nose. He sits down next to you, with a sigh, burying his nose somewhere in the lush mass of your hair. You instinctively wrap your arms around him, stretching sweetly. Olezha squints, tries to snuggle as close as possible, deeply inhaling the aroma of cinnamon. And then he straightens up, as if a little ashamed of a momentary weakness. After all, he's only like that with you.

He was a wolf by nature, freedom-loving and independent. A proud predator. Somehow, the girl from the apartment on Nevsky Prospekt became his downfall and his happiness at the same time.

“Little fox,” Olezha rustles, cold gloved hands caressing the skin and outlining the ribs under the T-shirt, not daring to go any lower. “ "Want me to play the guitar for you? Tsoi?” ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────