When Vladimir asks what you want for Christmas, you, without thinking, say: “I'd like to try Tula gingerbread.”

Surely, it's nothing more than a playful remark, eh? If anyone knows, it's him⎯that he could offer you the stars themselves or even promise you a ticket to the Moon. But gingerbread? And yet, Vladimir Makarov wouldn't be himself if he didn't seize on that detail and turn it into something more. He always remembers everything about you, even the smallest things you might forget yourself.

The black SUV slows to a smooth stop. Outside, the Christmas lights have already come alive, but you cannot see them; before your eyes, there is only velvet darkness. Vladimir prudently blindfolded you with a black ribbon to keep the suspense up until the last moment.

The car door clicks open. His hands guide you with tender precision until you step into the crisp winter air. He removes the ribbon, and the world erupts into light. Before you lies Red Square, immersed in festive magic: the sparkling ice of the skating rink, the decorated fir trees, and the twinkling garlands. The entire space is just for the two of you. It's now clear why a craftsman took the measure of your feet last week.

“You mentioned in autumn,” Volodya began softly, standing just behind you, “that you wanted to learn how to skate. I thought this might be the perfect opportunity to remind you.”

He waves to one of his bodyguards, who pulls out not only two pairs of skates from the boot but also a wicker basket with a lid. “Моя дорогая,” the Russian man hums with a sly smile that briefly softens his sharp features, “do you crave the taste of sweet?”

The aroma of honey and spices is strangely pleasant to the heart.

“I'll give it all,” his free hand reaches for your waist, gently pulling you into his chest as his cool lips brush your cheek, “if you say тульский пряник again. It sounds so… delightful.” The man's fingers rest somewhere near your stomach, softly pressing into the fur of your mink coat.

“And, of course, one kiss, please. Two?”