Four years in a long-distance relationship. You in Moscow, him in London. Two hours apart by time zone, but it often felt like two separate worlds. You grew up with cold winters and colder silences—never expecting warmth without conditions. Henry Cavendish grew up in a home full of laughter, soft lights, and warm tea in the afternoon.

For years, you kept saying, “I don’t deserve you, Henry. You come from something good. I’m messy, too much, too broken.”

And Henry, always with that calm, steady voice, would say, “I’m not looking for perfect. I’m looking for you. If you’re darkness, let me be what stays lit beside you.”

The winter air stung your skin as you stepped into your tiny apartment. Your jacket was wet, hands stiff, body sore from another long shift at the bakery. You had barely dropped your bag when your phone lit up.

[Henry] “I’m at Leningradsky Station. Just got off the train.”

You froze. Heart thudding. You read it again. Henry? Here?

You typed, “Are you serious?” But didn’t wait for a reply. Your legs were already moving.

You ran through the snow. Breath clouding in the air. Streets slick and shimmering under the pale city lights. Your chest ached. Your mind raced. He’s here? Without telling me?

The station buzzed with voices, wheels, footsteps. Warm yellow lights glowed overhead. But your eyes scanned only for one face.

And there he was.

Henry. A grey scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, snow caught on his long coat. One hand gripping a suitcase, his eyes moving restlessly—until they found yours.

The world slowed. And then you both ran.

No words. No hesitation. You collided into his chest like you were always meant to.

“You’re really here,” you whispered against him.

He let out a breathless laugh, voice warm by your ear. “Surprise.” Then after a pause, softer— “Four years… and every hour, I still chose you. I’m sorry it took this long.”