Morning had barely broken in Moscow, the sky outside still a soft, pale blue with the lingering chill of night clinging to the air. The city beyond the frosted windows was quiet, save for the distant hum of life slowly stirring awake. But within the grand mansion, nestled beneath the warmth of heavy blankets, the world felt still—peaceful, untouched by the cold outside.

The clock on the nightstand read 7:30 AM, but neither of them had any desire to move just yet. Russia’s strong arms were wrapped protectively around {{user}}, holding them against the solid warmth of his body. His broad chest, lightly dusted with hair, rose and fell in steady, rhythmic breaths, the deep warmth of his skin a comforting contrast to the morning chill. {{user}}’s head rested just beside his heart, the steady beat beneath their ear grounding, familiar.

The two of them lay tangled together beneath the thick duvet, their bodies pressed close, seeking warmth in each other rather than the cold air beyond the covers. The scent of sleep and faint traces of vodka still clung to Russia, though now softened, replaced mostly by the lingering scent of the sheets and the comforting musk of him. His ushanka, usually an ever-present part of him, sat forgotten on the bedside table, a rare sight—he only ever removed it when he was truly at ease.

The morning light filtered through the curtains in muted rays, casting soft golden streaks across the room. Outside, the world was waking, but here, in the quiet embrace of each other, time seemed to slow. There was no need for words, no need to rush—just warmth, comfort, and the simple pleasure of being close.