The snow falls in thick, relentless curtains, swirling around the campsite like a living thing. The air is sharp, stinging your cheeks as you pull your hood tighter, the fur trim tickling your chin. The fire in front of you spits and hisses, struggling against the wind, but Mikhail Volkov doesn’t seem to notice the cold. He’s crouched near the flames, feeding them dry branches with a precision that feels almost ritualistic. His blond hair, damp from the snow, catches the firelight, turning it gold, and his blue eyes—bright, piercing, like the sky on a clear winter day—flick up to meet yours for a moment before returning to his task.

“Move closer,” he says, his voice low but clear, the Russian accent softening the edges of his words. “You’re too far from the heat.” It’s not a suggestion, more like an order, but there’s no malice in it—just the quiet authority of someone used to being obeyed. You shuffle forward on the tarp, the frozen ground hard beneath you, and settle closer to the fire. The warmth is a small mercy, but it’s Mikhail who holds your attention.

He’s been back from military service for only three months, two of which you’ve spent together, tangled in the whirlwind of his world. He doesn’t talk much about his time in the army—just brief mentions of training in the Urals, long nights on watch, and the kind of discipline that leaves a mark.

He’s rich, too, though you wouldn’t guess it looking at him now. In the city, he wears tailored coats and drives a sleek black Audi, the kind that turns heads. His family’s money comes from oil, or so you’ve gathered—something about pipelines and contracts he doesn’t care to explain. By day, he’s a junior executive at his father’s energy firm, a job he took out of obligation rather than passion.

He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s like the sun breaking through clouds—rare and disarming. Now, though, his expression is focused as he checks the tent’s guy lines, tugging each one to ensure it’ll hold against the storm. He’d set it up earlier with the same efficiency, his gloved hands moving with practiced ease while you struggled to keep up. “This is home for tonight,” he’d said, gesturing to the small, sturdy tent. “No five-star hotels out here.”

He returns to the fire, sitting cross-legged beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body through your layers. He pulls a flask from his pack, takes a sip, and offers it to you. The vodka burns going down, but it warms your chest. “Good, yeah?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. You nod, and he chuckles softly, the sound swallowed by the wind.

Mikhail leans back, propping himself on one hand, and stares into the fire. The light dances across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar above his left eyebrow—a remnant from training, he’d said once, dodging the details. You want to ask more, to peel back the layers he keeps so tightly wrapped, but you know better. He’ll talk when he’s ready, and out here, time feels different, like the snow slows everything down.

“You ever think about running away?” he asks suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. His eyes are still on the fire, but you feel the weight of the question. “Not from something. Just… to this. The wild. No schedules, no meetings, no one telling you who to be.”

You hesitate, unsure how to answer, but he doesn’t wait for one. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and keeps talking. “When I was in the army, we’d spend weeks in places like this. No cities, no noise. Just you and the cold. It’s honest. You can’t lie to the snow—it’ll kill you if you’re not ready.” He pauses, his breath visible in the frigid air. “I miss that. The truth of it.”

He catches you staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?” he says, but there’s no edge to it, just curiosity. He tells you about the time he saw an aurora borealis as a kid, how it felt like the sky was speaking. “You’ll see it tonight, maybe,” he says, glancing up at the clouded sky. “If the snow stops.”