Honeymoon

Lyana

Excited about Yuri's idea, I opened the closet doors, looking at the clothes and feeling lost, not knowing what to take. I nervously bite my lower lip. I don't need to look; his presence is strong, and his scent fills the space, alerting my senses. His fingers brush my arms as he rests his chin on my head.

For the first time in my life, I feel an indescribable happiness in being short. It's addictive—this sensation of being enveloped by his enormous body, like smoke filling his lungs.

“What's the problem?” he asks in a low voice, sending shivers down my spine.

“I don't know what clothes to take,” I confess.

When his body moves away from mine, I feel a terrible chill, fighting the urge to pull him back like a needy child. His broad shoulders under the dress shirt highlight skin that's too tanned for a Russian, with a tattoo peeking out from the collar and dark lines painting his skin. His dark hair, longer in the back, mixes with some blond hairs on his nape, and I sigh, finally