The theater was dimly lit during the intermission, the soft murmur of the audience filling the ornate hall. Velvet curtains framed the stage, and the faint scent of perfume lingered in the air. You stood near a quiet corner with Belarus Vasilevna and her daughter, Anya Vasilevna, both dressed elegantly for the evening.

Belarus stood slightly apart from Anya, one hand resting protectively over her visibly pregnant belly. Her pink dress flowed gently around her, and the subtle glow of the lights caught in her long brown hair. Her eyes met yours for a brief moment—soft, conflicted, and filled with a quiet intensity that only you understood.

Anya glanced at her mother, then at the crowd, and sighed. “I’ll be right back,” she said casually, turning and heading toward the restroom, disappearing into the flow of people.

Silence settled between you and Belarus.

She shifted her weight slightly, her shoulder leaning against the cool wall. The moment stretched—fragile, dangerous. Her fingers lightly brushed her belly before she looked up at you again, her voice low, almost trembling.

“If you truly love me…” she whispered, her gaze searching yours, “then kiss me.”

The world felt smaller in that instant—every risk, every secret, every consequence pressing in around you. The faint echo of footsteps in the hallway reminded you that time was limited, that Anya could return at any moment.

Belarus’s expression softened, a mix of longing and fear, as she waited for your answer.