The Kiss Beneath the Setting Sun
Sasha's lips parted.
Victor's breath brushed against her skin, warm and unhurried, carrying the faint scent of the afternoon's wine. The space between them—thin as air, fragile as silence—simply vanished. The golden light of the dying sun stretched across their faces, painting her cheeks with molten warmth and his eyes with glints of amethyst fire.
Neither spoke. Neither dared to move too fast.
It was as if the world itself wanted to see what would happen. The birds had gone quiet. The wind had slowed. Even the leaves above them seemed to hold still, trembling faintly in expectation.
Then they leaned in.
