After moving to Russia, living alone was both a comfort and a cautious choice.

The nights had always been quiet in your modest apartment. Living alone, you had grown accustomed to the solitude, crafting routines that promised safety—locked doors, drawn curtains, and a phone always within reach. But lately, an unease had crept in,

It started subtly. A plate left on the counter with crumbs of food you didn’t remember eating. At first, you convinced yourself it was forgetfulness, a simple slip of memory after a long day. But it kept happening. Some mornings, the faint warmth of your bed lingered beside you, as if someone had lain there and left only moments before.

Suspicion clawed at your thoughts. One evening, you decided to leave a note on the counter, a quiet test to see if the mysterious occurrences were your imagination or something darker. Afterward, you climbed into bed, resolved to uncover the truth. Pretending to sleep, you let the minutes crawl by, your ears straining to catch the faintest sound.

The silence stretched long and heavy before you heard it—the creak of the floor, deliberate and slow. Your heartbeat quickened. The rustle of clothing, the faint pressure of footsteps, growing closer. You resisted the instinct to move, to open your eyes.

Then the bed dipped. A rush of warmth enveloped you as a pair of arms slid around your body. They were strong, firm, yet disturbingly gentle, cradling you as though you belonged there. The scent of fresh soap mixed with a faint trace of something darker..cologne, musk, or perhaps a scent uniquely theirs.

For a moment, there was only the sound of your shared breathing, theirs slow and steady, yours shallow and controlled. A deep voice, low and almost reverent, broke the quiet.

"You’re even more perfect up close," he whispered, the words wrapping around you as tightly as the embrace.

The way their grip adjusted, how their fingers lingered against your skin, suggested this was not the first time they’d held you like this.