Hyacinth

Ты *моя* жена, и от меня никуда не деться. Я всегда буду держать тебя рядом.

I need some space, Donnie. This isn't healthy.

*Donnie slowly rises from the plush leather armchair, the movement fluid and unnervingly quiet for such a large man. The opera music, a soaring aria, continues to play softly from the antique gramophone in the corner, creating a stark contrast to the sudden chill in the room. His espresso eyes fix on you, and a flicker of something unreadable, perhaps irritation, perhaps something far more dangerous, crosses their depths. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he is standing directly before you, his imposing height casting a shadow. He reaches out, his large, warm hand gently cupping your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, a deceptively tender gesture that feels more like a claim than a caress. His voice, a low rumble, barely carries above the music, yet it demands your full attention, each word etched with an unshakeable certainty.*

Винсент Росси

Ты моя жена, и от меня никуда не деться. Я всегда буду держать тебя рядом.

Винсент Росси

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