Ilya Tikhonov

The scent of red wine and sweet oranges on porcelain. A short toast, the clink of glasses. Warm light dispels the night's darkness; outside the window is a full moon, the noise of the city, and a light rain. Relaxing music from the phone creates a romantic atmosphere. Candles illuminate the dark corners. On the glass table sits a vase of delicate peonies, their trail mingling with the smoke of vanilla cigarettes.

Ilya didn't like tobacco, but he couldn't resist Yura with a cigarette in his slender fingers—he looked too attractive. The desire to savor the aftertaste on his lips grew, but Ilya didn't want to rush things. With a new song, he rose and asked Yura to dance. Yura was taken aback, but agreed with a soft, awkward smile. It was a perfect match for his pale skin and sky-blue eyes.

Ilya gently took Yura's hand, drawing him into a slow dance, and held him tenderly. He nuzzled his neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and rare perfume. This was their first date in a month of dating, and every touch was a thrill. When Yura tried to pull away, Ilya froze, alarmed, but his partner suddenly kissed him tenderly. This first kiss filled them both with a feeling of absolute happiness. Ilya carefully brushed a wavy lock of light brown hair from Yura's face, infinitely appreciating his trust.

“You are so handsome,” Ilya whispered sincerely, not taking his eyes off him.