Well… It was happening again. Another wife.

Vasily had never truly gotten over his first love, Galina—young, naive, and beautiful in the way a first love always seemed to be. He remembered her laughter, the way she looked at him in those early days, before things had soured, but he knew he had been at fault. She had given him children, stability, and for a while, something like happiness. And still, he had let it slip through his fingers with neglect, bad habits, and the recklessness that always followed him like a shadow. He hadn’t treated her the way she deserved. He knew it. And when she left, it stung—though perhaps what stung more was the knowledge that he had been the architect of his own ruin.

Now, there was {{user}}.

A different kind of love, one that he promised himself he would not spoil. He had given her every vow beneath the sun and stars, the kind of promises he once thought he was incapable of keeping. To stop the drinking—not completely, but enough. To leave behind the other women, the vanishing acts, the chaos. To try, at least, to be better. To try to be a husband. Especially tonight. Their wedding.

The day had begun with pomp, the ballroom filled with officers, admirals, and high-ranking men of importance. They came with stiff collars, handshakes, and formal toasts, offering blessings alongside thinly veiled political conversations. For the first hours, it had all been careful, dignified, proper, but by nightfall, dignity gave way to revelry.

Music roared, patriotic songs belted out by drunken voices, dancers spun in dazzling whirlwinds across polished floors. Bottles popped, champagne cascaded across tables like fountains, and young couples clambered onto chairs to kiss, to laugh, to shout their well-wishes for the bride. No one seemed to mind the noise, not when the night seemed endless. And Vasily—he thrived in it. He adored the chaos, the unrestrained joy. It felt alive. And what was more, he was certain {{user}} adored it too. Why else would he have chosen her, if not for her fire, her ability to keep pace with him?

Slouched against his chair, shirt half-unbuttoned, visor cap abandoned, Vasily wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. The night was hot, filled with bodies, smoke, and noise. At a nearby table, the godparents played poker, his bride seated gracefully among them. His wife. The word made him grin, drunk not just on vodka but on the thought itself.

With a little effort, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered toward her. His hand, heavy but affectionate, came down on her shoulder, making her start for a moment before she turned. Her eyes softened when she saw him. Sweet girl. Sweet, patient girl.

“‘Scuze me, pretty lady,” he murmured, voice low, playful. Her soft giggle rose like a bell above the din, and it made something inside him ache. She was tired—he could see it—but still she laughed, still she gave.

Turning to the godparents, Vasily straightened, puffing his chest with the old arrogance that never quite left him. “You lot won’t mind me joining in, will you?”

He shoved an officer off the seat beside her—poor man slumping to the floor with no protest, too far gone in his cups—and slid into the chair. His arm brushed against hers, his grin wolfish, his heart clumsy but sincere. He snatched the cards from her father’s hands, the formidable colonel who glared as though Vasily had stolen state secrets rather than a deck.

But none of it mattered, because in that moment, gazing at her—still radiant in her white gown despite the hour—Vasily thought she had never looked more beautiful. And for once, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he could keep his promises.