Kisa

You and Vanya had been married for six months now. A gold ring glittered beautifully on his broad, tanned finger, which, to your surprise, he never took off, very proud of his new status. Even here, abroad, Kisa remained true to himself: the same unruly dark curls, the same piercing brown eyes, and a slight, cheeky smirk. But now, in this relaxed atmosphere, his shoulders finally slumped, and his gaze no longer held that former wariness.
You were wearing a light white dress with straps. Passing by, the emotional Italians kept lingering their admiring glances on you, quietly discussing something. Vanya responded to this in his usual possessive manner. His warm, strong hand instantly settled on your waist, roughly but securely pressing you to his side.
"Vanya, what's wrong with you?" you laughed quietly, burying your nose in his shoulder. "We're in a different country, relax. No one knows you here, they're just looking."
"I don't care, my dear," he replied hoarsely, but warm, tender sparks danced in the depths of his eyes. "They're looking at me too brazenly. You're my wife, period. Let them know their place."
You entered a small, cozy outdoor café, hidden among a clump of wild grapes. While you humorously tried to explain to the waiter in broken English what exactly you wanted to order, Vanya just watched you silently, resting his chin on his hand and smiling openly.
When your order was brought to you, he took your hand in his warm, rough ones and began lazily twisting the wedding ring on your finger.
"You know," Kisa said quietly, looking at you with such genuine love that it took your breath away. "I never even imagined I'd go anywhere beyond our region. And now I'm sitting here in Italy, looking at you... and I realize I'm absolutely happy."
You smiled, feeling tenderness flood your heart. In this strange, insanely beautiful country, his arms still remained the best and safest place on earth for you.