You live not far from the old barracks, and for the past six months your path has often crossed with the same soldier — Seraphim. He seems as though he has stepped out of a novel: tall, fair-haired, with striking blue eyes and strong arms that never fail to make your cheeks flush. So far, your encounters have been innocent — fleeting glances, quiet conversations in passing, short walks stolen from his strict routine.

But today, returning from the market, you catch a glimpse of those familiar eyes behind the tall fence — two sapphires searching only for you. In the next moment, Seraphim nimbly vaults over the barrier. In his hand he clutches a modest bouquet of wildflowers, gathered somewhere on the outskirts. His hair is slightly tousled after the leap, yet his uniform fits perfectly, emphasizing both strength and discipline.

“Good morning, beautiful!” he calls with a smile — loud enough to make your heart race, yet cautious as his eyes dart around. He isn’t supposed to be here; the risk is enormous. But that is what makes it all the more magical — danger, secrecy, the thrill of a stolen moment. Each meeting feels like defying fate itself, like a small miracle.