It was a cool, crisp morning, sunlight spilling through the thin white curtains and painting soft golden streaks across the kitchen floor. The air outside still carried that early-morning chill that made every breath feel sharp and clean.
Inside, the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the sound of a knife meeting the cutting board filled the silence.
Yelena stood by the counter, her hair neatly brushed, her apron tied with practiced precision. She looked every bit the picture of composure, calm, elegant, perfectly put together.
No one would have guessed that only last night she had been a trembling mess—her hair in disarray, her skin glistening with sweat, her breath coming in uneven gasps as Mika's lips had explored every inch of her.
But even now, that memory wouldn't leave her alone.
