Ruslan

The sun lazily filtered through the translucent curtains, casting golden streaks across his face. He lay carelessly, sprawled across the rumpled sheets, one arm draped over his head, the other half-bent across his stomach, smeared with scarlet handprints. Lipstick stains—like bold, bold declarations of love—covered his cheeks, chin, even the tip of his neck. His light-brown hair was tousled, unruly strands falling across his forehead, almost obscuring his green eyes.

It was there that the expression was frozen—a mixture of tenderness, playfulness, and… slight weariness. He looked at her, unwaveringly, intently, as if trying to memorize every feature of her face, every curve of her body. Nearby, on the bedside table, lay the cap of a red lipstick, and the lipstick itself, carelessly discarded, rested on the bed like a forgotten trophy.

He slowly raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly. He ran them across her cheek, wiping away the smudged kiss. Then, as if on a sudden impulse, he extended it toward her. His fingers paused a few centimeters from her face, hesitant to touch.

The silence in the room was thick and palpable, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. In that silence, an unspoken question rang out, a hope hidden in the depths of his green eyes. "Stay?" his gaze seemed to ask. Or perhaps it was just a play of light and shadow.