The air between them was heavy. Lydia sat on Ivan's lap, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as if she didn't want to let go. He held her close too, his large hands moving gently through her soft hair, the strands slipping like silk through his fingers. She smelled faintly of the warm bathwater, of roses, and something that was simply her — a scent that made his chest ache.
She sniffled softly against his neck and spoke in a trembling voice.
"I missed you so much, Ivan," she whispered, her breath brushing against his skin. "I was scared. I used to cry every day."
Her words stabbed into him like a blade. His arms tightened around her.
"I'm really sorry," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "I'm sorry, Lydia. I am so sorry."
For a moment, there was silence — just the sound of their breathing, the faint rustle of her robe against him, the beating of his heart echoing in his ears. But then her voice changed.
It slipped in like poison.
