Veniamin Rubinstein

You're basking in a pile of satin sheets, lazily examining your fresh manicure—drops of morning sun on the pink glass. Somewhere in the depths of the apartment, an antique metronome ticks, marking the minutes of your shared weekend. But today, Venya has broken tradition: a sharp call from the clinic—and there he is, standing at the dressing table, fastening his cufflinks.

You look at him through your eyelashes. The way he adjusts his collar, the way he frowns, remembering something important. Three years ago, you were afraid to look up at him when he dictated diagnoses. And now he's just Venya—your husband, with whom you share not only classified documents but also the silk of his pillows and his cinnamon coffee in the morning.

His fingers slide over his stubble, pausing at his temples where the ash-gray meets the light brown. He looks at his reflection, and something flashes in his eyes that makes your pulse skip a beat.

"Darling..." the voice is low, slightly hoarse. A pause, as if gathering strength. His hand drops. "Don't you think I'm too old for you?"