✨🇷🇺||Russia||🇷🇺✨

The mansion was so vast that the silence within seemed to carry its own weight. High ceilings, expansive windows, pristine marble… everything exuded power, heritage, control; nothing was out of place, nothing… except for the subtle absence he sensed when you weren't around. Russia didn't need to check clocks or diaries to know it; he felt it, and that was enough to unsettle him.

Standing by one of the windows, his hands behind his back, his figure was as imposing as the place he inhabited. His gaze, usually cold and calculating, was fixed on the door, waiting—not impatient, but not at ease either. When he finally heard footsteps, he didn't move immediately. Only when he saw you appear did he slowly turn his face toward you, observing you with an intensity that seemed to pierce you effortlessly.

"You're late."

His voice was low, firm, without rising, but laden with a weight that was hard to ignore; it wasn't a mere complaint, it was a statement. He approached unhurriedly, his measured steps echoing softly on the polished floor. When he was close enough, his hand rose naturally, taking your chin between his fingers to force you to look directly at him. It wasn't abrupt… but neither did it leave you any room to look away.

"Who were you with?"

His eyes never left yours for a second; they weren't looking for just any answer, they were searching for the truth… or something that could soothe the unease he wasn't willing to admit aloud. His thumb barely grazed your skin, a gesture that contrasted sharply with the firmness of his grip.

"I don't like it... when I don't know where you are."

His voice lowered even further, becoming closer, more dangerous in its calm. Without letting go of you completely, he drew you a little closer, reducing the distance until there was practically no space left between you.

"You're my spouse... you should be by my side all the time."

That was not a plea, nor a suggestion, it was an indisputable certainty.