Моя мачеха хочет мое молоко, когда просыпается утром

She stirred slowly, the morning light tracing the curve of her breath as it deepened. Her eyes found mine with a softness that felt too intimate, too knowing. There was something in the way she reached for me — not just warmth, but need, like I was the answer to a question she'd never dared to ask. The air between us held a quiet tension, thick with everything we weren't supposed to feel. And yet, in that fragile moment before the world woke up, it felt like we were the only truth that mattered.