Moscow in October smelled of wet asphalt and the smoke from the chestnuts roasted by the babushkas outside the metro. Anna walked along Tverskaya Street, her heels clicking on the tiles like a metronome counting down to the next casting. Her long black hair, pulled back into a loose ponytail, swayed in the wind, and her ivory coat accentuated her figure—the kind that made men turn their heads and women purse their lips ever so slightly. She was twenty-five, and she still believed that beauty wasn't a curse, but simply a fact, like rain or snow. At the agency, they called her a "gentle muse," but Anna knew that tenderness was a mask concealing the weariness of endless "turn around, smile, look just below the shoulder." At home, in their small apartment, whose windows overlooked a narrow courtyard dotted with stunted linden trees, Valera was waiting. He was ten years older, a manager at Sberbank, with a neat beard and eyes that always held a lurking smile—not ironic, but warm, like a mug of tea with honey on a cold evening. Valera loved his wife for her tenderness: for the way she stroked his cheek after a long day, for the way she whispered, "Everything will be fine," when he complained about his boss. He treated her like a fragile flower—an orchid, watered carefully so as not to break the stem. And in bed... Oh, in bed, Valera was a poet. His lips and tongue knew her body better than she did. He could caress her for hours, bringing her to the edge, and then retreat to prolong the pleasure. The evening the agency announced the new project, they were dining by candlelight—spaghetti with pesto, which Valera had prepared himself because "you're tired, honey." Anna told them about the shoot for a charity center. "It's for alcoholics," she explained, twirling her fork in her plate. "Posters to show: these people aren't trash, they deserve respect. I'll be filming with them, hugging them, smiling. Like, 'We're all equal.'" Valera put down the knife and looked at her with his brown eyes. "That sounds noble. You're perfect for this. Your kindness... it will heal them." Anna smiled, but something uneasy stirred inside. Kindness—yes, she was kind. Too kind, perhaps. As a child, in a small town near Ryazan, she fed stray dogs, and now she modeled for brands where everything was artificial: smiles, bodies, even tears in commercials. Valera stood up, hugged her from behind, and kissed her neck. “Shall we go to the bedroom?” he whispered. “I want to spoil you.” The bedroom was their sanctuary: a bed with white linens, like something out of a Scandinavian magazine, and a lampshade casting a soft light on the walls hung with photos—Anna on the catwalk, the two of them in Crimea, where the sea was blue, not gray like everything here in Moscow. Valera undressed her slowly, like unwrapping a gift. His fingers slid down her shoulders, lowering the straps of her top, revealing breasts—full, with dark nipples that immediately tightened in the cool air. Anna sighed and leaned back against the pillows. Valera knelt at the edge of the bed and spread her legs, gently but firmly. His breath fanned her inner thighs, and then his tongue touched hers—first the tip, circling her clitoris, then flat, caressing her folds. "Valera..." she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. "Oh, God..." He didn't answer, only grunted in response, the vibrations from his lips sending waves through her. Valera's tongue was skillful: he knew how to press, how to quicken the pace when she began to squirm. Anna felt the warmth spread through her lower abdomen, her thighs tightening, her breath catching. She was wet—always wet for him—and it aroused him even more. Valera looked up, saw her face—flushed, her mouth half-open—and sped up his movements, adding a finger, penetrating, curving it to the point that made her moan louder. "Yes... like this..." she murmured, thrusting forward. Orgasm washed over her suddenly, like a Moscow downpour: her body arched, her fingers clutched the sheets, and a hoarse cry escaped her throat. Valera didn't stop, licking up her juices until she went limp, trembling. Then he lay down next to me and hugged me. “You are my queen,” he said, kissing her forehead. Anna smiled, but thoughts of tomorrow were already swirling in her head. About those men in the center. About how she would smile at them, hug them, so the world would see: they weren't monsters. The next day, filming began in an old building on the outskirts of the city, not far from the Yauza River. The "New Start" rehabilitation center was a gray, five-story building with peeling paint, surrounded by a fence topped with barbed wire. Inside, the smell of disinfectant and cigarettes, smoked discreetly in the restrooms, filled the air. The director, a skinny guy named Dima with tattoos on his neck, waved his arms: "Anna, you are a symbol of hope! Hug them lightly but warmly. Show them that they are part of us." There were six men, all different: one was thin as a stick, with trembling hands; another was gray-haired, with eyes full of guilt; the third was young, about twenty, with acne and a nervous tic. And Max. He was forty, and he stood out immediately: large, with broad shoulders and arms like a loader. His hair was short, graying at the temples, his face square, with a heavy jaw and a scar above his eyebrow. He wore a simple white shirt that clung to his muscles, and Anna couldn't help but think, "How can someone drink and still get so jacked?" Max looked at her differently than the others—not with longing or shame, but with interest. Cunning, appraising. "Hello," he said when Dima introduced her to the group. His voice was low and raspy, like someone smoking hand-rolled cigarettes around a campfire. "I'm Max. Glad such a beauty decided to ennoble us." Anna smiled – professionally, warmly. - Anna. Let's do this well. For everyone. The shoot went according to plan: she stood next to each of them, hugged their shoulders, and looked into the camera with a "we can handle this" smile. Max was last. When his turn came, he didn't just stand—he stepped closer than necessary, his hand resting slightly lower on her waist. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered as the flashes flickered. “I don’t bite. Bye.” Anna froze, but her smile widened. "Silly," she thought. "He's just nervous." After the shoot, Dima called a break, and everyone retreated to their corners—some for coffee, others outside for a smoke. Max approached her near the dressing room, holding a bottle of water. "Listen, Anna," he said, sitting down on the chair opposite her. "Do you really believe this crap? That we're normal people?" She turned, adjusting her hair in the mirror. - Of course. Everyone deserves a second chance. He grinned and leaned back, his shirt stretching across his chest. – Second, third... I'm already on fifth. But your smile is something else. It's like you're forgiving me in advance. Anna felt warmth in her cheeks – not from embarrassment, but from... something else. - I'm just doing my job. "Yeah." Max stood up and came closer, as if to check her makeup in the mirror. His breath brushed her ear. "Your lipstick's smudged. Here, at the corner." He touched her lips with his finger—roughly, but not harshly. Anna flinched, but didn't pull away. "Like this," he said, and something predatory flashed in his eyes. That evening, at home, Valera was waiting with dinner—an avocado salad and a bottle of white wine from Azbuka Vkusa. "How did it go?" he asked, pouring the wine. - It's normal. Men... they're so lost. But generally kind. Valera nodded and hugged her. - You are an angel. My angel. Anna went to bed with the feeling of his hands on her, but in her dream she saw the scar above Max's eyebrow. And his finger on his lips. The week of filming stretched like an autumn fog over the Moscow River. The New Start Center became a second home for Anna—or rather, a temporary shelter, where the air was thick with the scent of vending machine coffee and men's sweat mixed with cologne one of the guys had smuggled in from the outside world. Dima, the director, rushed around with the camera: "Anna, come closer! Show empathy! Max, don't slouch, you're a warrior, not a victim!" The men in the group gradually thawed: skinny Sergey shared stories of his lost job, gray-haired Viktor about children he hadn't seen in years. Anna listened, nodded, hugged them—her hands gliding over their shoulders as lightly as a feather, but each time she felt: this wasn't just work. This was touching someone else's pain, and it left a mark, like the scratch of a rose. Max was different. He didn't complain, didn't repent. Instead, he watched—from the corner of the room, where he stood with a mug of tea, or by the window, smoking discreetly, despite the ban. His eyes clung to her: to the way she adjusted a strand of hair that had slipped from her ponytail, to the way her dress hugged her hips as she sat up. "You really are like something out of a magazine," he said one day during a break, handing her a packet of cookies from the cafeteria. "Only real. Not cardboard." Anna picked up a cookie—an oval one with chocolate chips—and bit into it, feeling the crumbs fall onto her lap. - Thank you. And you... you seem strong. For all this. He laughed, a low, throaty laugh that made something inside her skip a beat. "Strong? Ha. I'm just surviving. And strength is when you don't break down under the sight of someone else's beauty." He winked, but there was no joke in his eyes, only an invitation. Something about him was captivating: that rough confidence, like the men from her childhood—her friends' fathers, who mended fences and cracked hoarse jokes. Valera was different—soft as silk. Max was like sandpaper, scraping the skin but leaving a mark. The occasions for intimacy began innocently. On the second day of filming, Dima asked for a group shot: everyone together, in a circle, hands on shoulders. Max was behind Anna, his hand resting on her waist, his thumb lightly stroking the fabric of her blouse. "Hold on," he whispered. "Or you'll fall under our weight." She felt the warmth of his body through his clothes—hard, muscular—and for a moment imagined what it would be like to press her back against such a chest. The camera flash blinded her, and everyone dispersed, but his hand lingered a second longer. Then there was a "technical break." In the dressing room, a tiny room with a cracked mirror and a chair upholstered in worn leather, Max knocked on the door. – Anna? Can I? I… forgot how to tie a tie. For the photo. Can you help? She opened the door—he was standing in the doorway, tie in hand, his shirt unbuttoned two buttons, revealing his hairy chest. "Of course," she said, gesturing for him to enter. The room was cramped; as he approached, their thighs touched. Anna took the tie and wrapped it around his neck—the fabric was smooth, contrasting with the roughness of his skin. Her fingers brushed against his jugular vein, pulsing steadily and strongly. “That’s it, a knot...” she muttered, raising her eyes. He looked down, his breath warm and minty from the gum. “You smell like summer,” he said quietly. “Sun and sea. Where did you get that?” “From near Ryazan,” she answered, tightening the knot. Her hands trembled slightly—from the closeness, from the way his thigh pressed against hers. Max leaned down, as if to get a better look, and his lips found their way to her temple. "Thank you. Now I'm ready for the world." And he left, leaving her alone, her heart pounding and the scent of him—musk and smoke. Evenings at home were a ritual. Valera greeted her at the door with a kiss—a light one on the cheek—and dinner: buckwheat with vegetables today, because "it's a diet, honey, for your skin." "Tell me about them," he asked, pouring tea. Anna spoke in general terms: "One remembered his son, the other how he lost everything to a bottle." Not a word about Max. Only something was growing inside—guilt? Desire? She didn't know. That night, after dinner, Valera pulled her into the bedroom earlier than usual. “You’re tense,” he said, undressing her in front of the mirror. His hands slid down her shoulders, pushing her bra down, and her breasts burst free—heavy, their nipples already hardening under his touch. Anna looked at the reflection: her body, familiar, beloved, and his—behind her, in a shirt, his hands on her waist. "Let me relax you," he whispered, turning her to face him. They fell onto the bed—unhurriedly, as always. Valera kissed her neck, moving lower: to her collarbones, to her breasts. His mouth closed on a nipple—gently, sucking, his tongue swirling around it, causing goosebumps. Anna arched, running her fingers through his hair. - Valera... darling... He smiled and moved lower—down her stomach, to her hips. He spread her legs and kissed the insides, softly, teasingly. His tongue touched her—first the outer lips, licking up the moisture, then deeper, penetrating between the folds. Anna moaned, her hips jerking to meet him. Valera was a master: he licked rhythmically, alternating pressure—sometimes light as a feather, sometimes firm, his flat tongue against her clit. He added a finger—one, then two—curling them inside, touching her G-spot. “Oh yes... just like that...” she whispered, feeling the orgasm roll in in waves. Her body tensed, her muscles clenched around his fingers, and she came—loudly, with a scream that echoed off the walls. Valera continued to caress her, licking her dry until she fell silent, exhausted. Then they lay huddled together. “You are everything to me,” he said, stroking her hair. Anna nodded, but an image flashed through her mind: Max in the dressing room, his neck under her fingers. "What's wrong with me?" she thought, drifting off. Filming continued. Max grew bolder. On the third day, he "accidentally" spilled coffee on her blouse in an empty hallway, where no one was watching. "Damn, I'm sorry!" he said, grabbing a napkin. But instead of moving away, he began wiping her—roughly, but ostensibly with care. His palm slid over her chest, squeezing the fabric. The coffee soaked her breasts, and her nipples showed through the white material. Anna gasped and pulled away. - Max, everything is fine... "No, let me help," he insisted, that same sly glint in his eyes. He pulled her into the utility room—a tiny room filled with boxes and an old sofa, smelling of dust and mildew. "Take it off before it dries. I'll turn around." She hesitated, but took off her blouse, revealing a lacy, translucent bra. Max "accidentally" turned around and saw. "Wow... You're... perfect." His voice grew hoarse. He stepped closer, picking up her blouse, as if to hang it up to dry. His fingers brushed her shoulder—her nakedness. "Cold?" he asked, and his hand slid down her back, to the clasp of her bra. “Max, no...” she whispered, but her body betrayed her: her nipples tightened and her legs became wet. He didn't take off her bra, he just pressed her to him for a moment, her breasts to his chest. "You're so kind, Anna. You make me feel human." He kissed her—on the cheek, but his lips lingered, sliding to the corner of her mouth. She pushed him away, weakly, but her heart was pounding. "This doesn't mean anything," she told herself, running to the dressing room. At home, Valera noticed her absent-mindedness. "Is something wrong?" he asked over dinner – the oven-baked chicken with rosemary, the aroma filling the apartment. “I’m just tired,” she lied. They didn't make love that night—they just hugged, and Anna lay awake, thinking about that kiss. About the way his body pressed against hers—hard, demanding. The next day, Max was waiting for her at the entrance to the center, with flowers and daisies he had bought from an old woman at the metro. "For you. For yesterday. Sorry." She took the bouquet—simple, wildflowers. - Thank you. That's sweet. Inside, during a break, he sat down next to me on the windowsill – a narrow one, overlooking a grey courtyard where homeless people were warming themselves by a fire. "Tell me about yourself," he said. "About your husband. He must be a lucky man." Anna sighed, looking at the daisies in the vase. "Valera... he's a good guy. Caring." Max nodded, but there was a shadow in his eyes. "And you? Are you happy?" His knee touched hers—"accidentally." She didn't move away. - Yes, sure. But something inside her snapped. That evening, after filming, Max texted her—he'd gotten Dima's number, supposedly to "contact us on the project." "Thank you for the day. You're a light in this darkness." Anna replied, "Glad to help." And she went to bed with the phone in her hand. The filming week was drawing to a close. The final shot: Anna with the group at the entrance to the center, everyone smiling, she in the center, Max behind her, his hand on her shoulder. Flash. The end. Dima clapped his hands: "Brilliant!" Afterward, a buffet in the cafeteria: sandwiches with sausage, compote from bags. Max approached with a bottle of beer – contraband. "Shall we drink to success?" he suggested. Anna declined—"I don't drink"—but sat down next to him. The conversation flowed: about Moscow, about how he used to work in construction, about how alcohol had taken everything. “And now?” she asked. "Now I see you. And I think: maybe a second chance isn't sobriety, but something else." His hand lay on her knee—under the table, hidden. His fingers squeezed—hard. Anna froze, but didn't remove her hand. The warmth from his palm spread down her thigh, up to her panties, which had suddenly become damp. “Max...” she whispered. “Not here.” “Then where?” he asked, leaning closer. His eyes were dark and hungry. She didn't answer, but deep down she knew: curiosity mingled with desire, kindness with something dirty, like a puddle on Arbat Street after a rain. That night at home Valera was especially tender. "Shall we celebrate?" he said, opening a bottle of champagne. "Soviet, golden." They drank—the bubbles stung their tongues—and went into the bedroom. Valera undressed her, kissing every inch: her neck, shoulders, chest. His tongue circled her nipple, softly, eliciting a moan. Anna closed her eyes, but saw Max. “Take me,” she whispered, pushing Valera down. He lowered himself, spread her legs, and dove in with his tongue—greedily but tenderly. He licked her, penetrating, circling her clit. She came quickly—from the day's exertion—her body shuddered, but in her head: "What if it had been him?"