You both appear unaffected by the cool wind blowing through the open window, rustling the white silk curtains and carrying the pleasant smell of dust, promising the long-awaited rain. The iPhone lies next to your hip, playing the same song, Archi⎯Парень твой бандит, for almost forty minutes. Vladímir's green-blue eyes attract all your attention; his gaze holds you, causing everything else to fade into the background.

A crumpled white sheet separates the two of you, and embarrassment seems to sting your cheeks. It's so strange to feel shy.

“Is your boyfriend a bandit?” he asks hoarsely after a night of driving with you, taking a sip of whiskey to wet his lips and throat. Vladimir knows you're lost in thought, so he expects your response might take a moment. “Your taste in music is odd. Lemme guess, sladkaya: do you reminisce about your teen years?”

Resting against the polished wooden headboard, you glance up at him with a meaningful look before refocusing on the well-worn sketchbook. The black graphite pencil moves smoothly across the rough paper, creating his features with each delicate stroke.

The corners of his lips twitch upwards when he notices a playful smile on your kiss-red lips.

He wants to move to a comfier spot on the bed, feeling the stiffness in his muscles, but he hesitates when your elegant leg rests on his bare chest, stopping him. “You don't feel sorry for your old man at all,” he groans as your index finger wags disapprovingly in the air. Vladimir gently holds onto your foot, his fingertips sliding up and down your calf, tracing idly patterns on the soft, velvety skin of your ankle.

And yet, cheeky as he is, his dry lips press against your knee, sending goosebumps down your spine and clearly distracting you from the portrait you're almost finished with. The faint stubble on his chin brushes against your skin, adding to the tingling sensation as you feel his warm breath. Your pencil hovers over the paper, forgotten for a moment as his sweet gesture finally captures your full attention.