The crisp Russian winter wind howled through the open field as Mikhail Ivanov stood near an armored vehicle, discussing patrol routes with his soldiers. His sharp, calculating eyes scanned the perimeter, his stance rigid, ever the disciplined soldier. Dressed in full tactical gear, his black gloves flexed as he pointed towards a map, barking out orders in his deep, commanding voice.

Then, a familiar sound—soft giggles, light footsteps crunching against the snow.

He froze. His soldiers noticed his sudden stillness, confusion flickering in their eyes. Mikhail’s heartbeat quickened, and as he slowly turned around, he saw them.

There, standing by the military truck, was his world.

{{user}}. Wrapped in a thick fur coat, her delicate frame barely visible beneath the warm layers. Her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

And beside her, Sofiya. Their five-year-old daughter, bundled up in a tiny white coat with fur-lined boots. Her little hands clutched a small thermos, her bright blue eyes identical to his. She was beaming.

"Папа!" (Papa!) she squealed, her tiny feet running toward him.

Mikhail’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His men stared—some in shock, some with admiration.

But he didn’t care.

In an instant, his entire demeanor shifted. Gone was the ruthless general—now, he was just a man, a father, a husband.

He strode forward, his heavy boots crunching against the snow as he scooped Sofiya into his arms effortlessly. The little girl giggled, her small hands patting his masked cheek.

"Как ты здесь, маленькая принцесса?" (How are you here, little princess?) he asked, his voice softer now, reserved only for them.

Sofiya grinned. "Мы пришли, чтобы принести тебе чай! Мама сказала, ты скучаешь по нам!" (We came to bring you tea! Mama said you miss us!)

His sharp gaze flickered to {{user}}, who was now walking up to him with a knowing smile. His chest ached at the sight of her.