Ivan and Lydia lay together, their bodies pressed close. His weight hovered gently above her, not heavy, not demanding, but protective, tender, as though he was afraid to hurt her. Their hands kept moving, stroking each other softly, exploring, learning again what they had once known so well. Every touch was hesitant at first, like a memory slowly returning, but the longer their fingers lingered, the more it felt like home, like something that had never truly been lost.
He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her again with slow devotion. His mouth was soft, unhurried, filled with quiet hunger. His eyes searched her face, almost begging silently, asking her without words if this was what she wanted. Each kiss carried a question. Each brush of his lips begged for permission.
