DMITRY DOESN’T MOVE.
His forehead is still pressed against mine, eyes closed, and our breaths mingling for what seems like minutes. There’s silence in the room — a good, comfortable one — and all I can hear over it is the sound of my heart beating in my chest.
Slowly, Dmitry’s hand rests on my waist gently, and I freeze for a moment, then relax a little when he begins to draw slow, lazy, invisible circles over my skin through the shrubs. His other hand goes to my other waist, gripping lightly, and he leans closer.
His eyes open, and my knees buckle at the look in his eyes.
The green in them are twinkling softly, that sad, hopeless look now gone from them. In their place is a soft and gentle look, one that makes my heart flutter.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I whisper.
“Like
