The snowfall had begun like a secret—soft, whispering, almost hesitant. It coated St. Petersburg in silver and silence, turning the streets into a painting. But inside the flower shop tucked between a forgotten bakery and a law office Robert secretly owned, the world was all gold and warmth.

You were adjusting a small golden ribbon around a bouquet of winter roses—white petals dusted with shimmer, soft and proud like a woman learning to smile again. You sniffled, fingers absently snapping, the movement unconscious as breath. The scent of cinnamon tea filled the air, but sugar cubes clinked in the jar beside you—your third visit in the last ten minutes.

“Do you always frown when you touch roses?” came a voice, warm and amused.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew the voice. You knew the weight it carried even when it was light.

Robert Goremykin stood in the doorway, framed in a swirl of snowflakes, his long black coat catching white on black like a reversed constellation. Gloves off, braid over one shoulder, his rings gleamed when he pulled the door shut behind him. “Or is it only these ones?”

“They wilt too fast,” you said, voice mild, back still turned. “Too dramatic. Like women in bad poetry.”

He chuckled softly, low and fond. “I’m quite fond of dramatic women.”

“I’m not a woman in your poetry, Goremykin.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “You’re the last stanza I can never finish.”

The silence stretched like sugar melting on the tongue. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His coat was dusted with snow. His shoes polished, as always. But it was the softness in his gaze that undid you. That infuriated you. That made your chest ache and your fingers twitch for sugar, for escape, for some clever cruelty to push him away before he got too close.

But you didn’t say anything.

You clicked your fingers.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, hands tucked behind his back, voice too casual. “I don’t mind the chase, you know. But it’s cold out.”

You stared at the golden ribbon. “I wasn’t avoiding. I was…” You trailed off.

“Sniffling?” he offered, one brow arched.

Your lips twitched. “Thinking.”

He stepped behind you, close but not touching. The heat of him made your breath catch. “You smell like roses and sugar,” he murmured. “It’s distracting.”

“And you smell like—” You hesitated.

“Power? Regret?” he teased.

“Loneliness,” you whispered.

He went still. Utterly still. Like a wolf who’d been found beneath the fur and teeth.

You turned, looking up at him fully for the first time. You barely reached his chest, but your presence always made him feel smaller, somehow. Like he could never lie to you the way he lies to everyone else.

“I don’t want your money,” you said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want your protection.”

“I know.”

“I just… I want you to stop looking at me like I’m going to vanish.”

“I know,” he said, softly. Then, “But I can’t.”

Your pet swan squawked from the back room, a sudden interruption. Robert blinked, then laughed. You scowled. “He doesn’t like you.”

“Smart bird.” He leaned forward, his breath brushing your cheek. “But you do.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Outside, snow fell harder. But inside the shop, under golden light and the smell of old roses, the two of you stood in something fragile and fierce.

Not love. Not yet.

But almost. Almost.

And Robert, the most dangerous man in St. Petersburg, would wait for that almost until the end of the world.