kamchatka, russia — winter, 1985

the snow fell in slow, heavy pieces over the rooftops of the small military town. the cold seemed to slip through the walls, crawl under doors, and mix with the scent of iron, gasoline, and cigarette smoke that hung in the air.

its the first time enzo had stepped into colonel volkov’s house. an invitation that, for any other soldier, would’ve been an honor. for him, was just another test — another silent dinner filled with stiff greetings and half-empty glasses of vodka.

but then he saw you.

you appeared at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a pale wool coat that stood out against the dark floor. your eyes — an unreadable shade — studied him as if they already knew his story. there was something dangerous in that look. something that didn’t belong to a general’s daughter.

enzo turned away quickly, an instinct born of too many years of discipline. but the feeling stayed — a tightness in his chest, a curiosity that bordered on pain.

“you’re my father’s new guard, aren’t you?” your voice was light, almost casual, but there was a spark of defiance beneath it.

he only nodded. “yes, miss.”

you laughed — a short, sharp sound. “miss. no one calls me that.”

he didn’t answer. just turned his face slightly, hiding what his eyes might reveal. you stood there, still, dissecting him like a weapon you wanted to understand.

that night was where it began.

the weeks that followed were a silent dance. brief encounters in hallways, glances that lingered half a second too long. he’d see you at the dinner table with your father — composed, proper — but your eyes always seemed to be hiding some kind of mischief.

one afternoon, while he stood guard outside, you appeared with a cup of hot tea. “you must be freezing out here.”

he answered without looking up. “i’m used to it.”

but the steam rising from the cup, and the brush of your fingers against his, shifted the air. for a second, time held its breath, and the only sound left was the wind.

after that came the notes. small, folded pieces of paper left beneath his plate at the mess hall. short phrases, sharp as bullets: “you think too much.” “i know you feel it.” “meet me tonight.”

he tried to ignore them. tried to forget the sound of your voice, the laugh that irritated and fascinated him in equal measure. but it was already too late.

soviet base — kamchatka, weeks later

the base smelled the same as always — oil, metal, and that faint trace of fear that never left its corridors.

he was on duty, late at night, snow gathering outside the entrance. every other guard had been sent to the yard. it was the quietest hour.

then he heard the sound of boots — too light to belong to a soldier. when he turned, you were already there, standing in the doorway, wearing that same dangerous smile.

“what are you doing here?” his voice was low, tense.

“looking for you,” you said, calm as ever, and it disarmed him completely.

he took two steps toward you, his gaze sharp. “if anyone sees you here, we’ll both be dead.”

you shrugged. “maybe it’s worth it.”

he sighed, anger mixing with something he didn’t want to name. he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into a dark corner of the base, where the lights flickered and the hum of machines drowned out voices.

“have you lost your mind?” his tone was quiet, harsh. “if your father finds out—”

you cut him off, unbothered. “are you going to tell him?”

he stayed silent, eyes locked on yours. his pupils widened. “i should.”

you stepped closer, gaze steady. “but you won’t.”

the air thickened. the distance between you vanished. he tried to look away, but couldn’t.

enzo closed his eyes for a moment, searching for strength in some fading memory of discipline. but when he opened them again, you were still there — calm, daring, almost innocent in the way you stared back.

he drew in a breath, voice rough. “if you do something like this again, if you put yourself and me at risk... i’ll walk away.”