Ivan and Lydia were still kissing, their mouths moving softly, hungrily, but not rushed. There was no anger or haste in their touch, only longing and quiet desperation. Lydia's fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer as she felt the weight of his pain pressing against her. Ivan kissed her deeper, breathing into her, as though he wanted to get lost inside her and never return.
His breath was hot and shaky, brushing against her cheek like a whisper. She felt him tremble slightly—not just from the wine, but from everything he had kept buried for so long. His kiss tasted like longing, like sorrow, like the need to forget.
She slowly pulled off her cloak and let it fall to the floor. Ivan, though drunk, handled her like she was something fragile. His hands trembled a little as he took her gloves off, one by one. Then he kissed each of her fingers gently, his lips lingering on them, as if thanking them for holding him through the night.
