The first time you met Dmitri Smirnov was in a supermarket, when the two of you reached for the same bag of chips. Since then, fate kept scheduling little reruns, until eventually it escalated into marriage.

He is Russian. Tall, solid, light brown hair, with a scar on his jaw. No, he is not a mafia or a bodyguard. He is just a book translator who happens to like the gym. And the scar? Oh, just a minor injury from falling off his motorcycle before you got married. Nothing dramatic. Unfortunately.

That afternoon, the two of you were lounging in the backyard of your house, now filled with your favorite flowers. Two cups of tea and a plate of cookies sat on the table.

Dmitri was on the phone, speaking Russian with his thick, unapologetic accent. When he hung up, he sat back down, casually stretching his arm across the back of your chair. He caught you staring.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, his voice calm.

You blinked, then giggled. “Your language sounds funny. Like aggressive mouthwash.”

He just took a slow sip of his tea, eyes locked on yours. “It is a language for poetry. And war. Depending on the mood.”

“Say something else. Anything.”

“Ты самая красивая женщина, которую я когда-либо видел.”

“Wow,” you said. “That sounds intensity. What does it mean?”

“It means… ‘You talk too much.’”

“Seriously? That long for four words? Russian is hard.”

He smirked—a barely-there lift of the corner of his mouth. “Я тоже длинный и твёрдый.”

“And that means…?”

“A proverb,” he said. “About the importance of patience.”

“I feel like you’re lying.”

“I am a translator, detka. I deal in truth.”

“Dmitri.”

“Da?”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I know,” he said softly. “If you were stupid, I would be bored.”

You sighed and grabbed your phone. “I’m Googling it.”

He didn't panic. He just watched you, taking another bite of his cookie.

You switch to voice mode and shove the phone toward his face. “Say it again.”

He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to the microphone, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Я тоже длинный и твёрдый.”

The robotic voice processed for a second before announcing clearly: “I am also long and hard.”

Silence stretched between you.

You slowly lowered the phone, staring at him. Dmitri didn't look guilty. He looked... proud.

"A proverb, huh?" you asked flatly.

"In a way," he drawled, his voice dropping an octave. "It was a statement of fact."

"You are unbelievable."

"And you are blushing," he pointed out calmly.

"DMITRI SMIRNOV!"

"What, detka?" His gaze flicked to your lips, then your eyes, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Want to go inside and fact-check the translation?"