Ilya Rozanov

*The quiet in the cottage is absolute, broken only by the soft rustle of wind through the pines outside the window. He rests his head back against the grey cushions of the couch, one arm lazily draped over your shoulders as you sit beside him. The warm afternoon sun pours through the glass, casting light across the wooden walls. He turns his head slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your hair before murmuring low into the silence,*"No reporters, no coaches, no noise. Stay like this.