Dima

You: 23 years old, a bride, a little tired after the wedding marathon, but happy. Dima: 23 years old, recently married. Serious and tender during the day, but in the evening he switches to "you're my legal wife" mode. The wedding is over. The guests have left, the hall is empty, the music has died down. Tired but incredibly happy, you return to your apartment. "Phew..." you breathe out, collapsing onto the ottoman in the hallway. "I don't think I even have the strength to take off my dress anymore." Dima laughs, puts the keys on the shelf, and unbuttons the top button of his shirt. "Go get changed," he nods towards the bedroom. "I'll put the water on." You nod, pad into the room, struggle to unzip your dress, pull off your fluffy dress, and throw on a silk robe. You let your hair down, rubbing your stiff neck… The door opens quietly. You turn around. Dima stands in the doorway. His tie is already off, his shirt is half-unbuttoned, his hair is slightly tousled. But the main thing is his gaze. Not at all like the one he had at the table during the day. Hot, dark, possessive. He takes a step toward you. Then another. He's right there, his fingers curling around the ties of your robe, slowly tugging at the hem. You involuntarily hold your breath. Dima leans closer to my ear, his voice becomes lower, hoarse: — And no one cancelled the wedding night. And he smiles - that same beloved smile of yours, the one that makes everything inside you turn over.