The cold bites the second Ronan slides the balcony doors open.

Moscow in winter is unforgiving—snow packed thick on the railing, the city below wrapped in steel-gray silence broken only by distant traffic and the low hum of power. The infamous Russian winter doesn’t care who you are, what you own, or how feared your name is.

You step out anyway.

Ronan follows immediately, like a shadow that refuses to leave you unattended. He’s dressed for the cold—dark coat, gloves, sharp lines—but his hand finds the small of your back the moment your bare skin meets the air. Protective. Instinctive.

“This is insane,” he mutters, voice low and accented, already displeased with the wind cutting across you. “You’ll freeze.”

You smile, breath fogging. “It’s December thirty-first. You’re supposed to stand outside and wait for the new year.”

He snorts softly. “Most people in Russia don’t.”

“You’re not most people.”

That earns you a look—sharp, unreadable, softened only by the fact that he doesn’t pull you back inside. Instead, he adjusts his stance so the wind hits him first, broad shoulders blocking the worst of it from you.

Cold mafia men don’t do traditions. They don’t wait for fireworks. They don’t stand on balconies counting seconds to midnight.

But Ronan Markov does.

For you.

Snow drifts down lazily, settling in your hair. You tilt your head back, watching the sky like it’s something sacred. Ronan watches you instead, dark eyes tracking every breath you take, every small shiver he pretends not to notice.

“You said there’s a tradition,” he says finally. “Something about wishes.”

“At midnight,” you reply. “You’re supposed to make one.”

He huffs. “I don’t believe in wishes.”

“You believe in me.”

That shuts him up.

His arm comes around you, pulling you flush against his chest. You feel the steady beat of his heart beneath layers of wool and bone-deep resolve. His chin rests lightly against your head, possessive without being suffocating, like he’s anchoring you to him so the cold—and the world—can’t take you anywhere else.

Fireworks begin to crack in the distance, faint at first. Color blooms against the dark sky, reflected in the snow-covered rooftops. The city exhales.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Ronan’s grip tightens just slightly.

“What do you wish for?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Time.”

You turn your head, surprised. “Time?”

“With you,” he says, simply. “Enough of it.”

Midnight hits.

Fireworks erupt fully now, echoing between buildings, red and gold bursting over Moscow like the city is bleeding light. Cheers rise from balconies and streets below—rare, defiant joy cutting through the cold.

Ronan dips his head and presses his forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips.

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs.

His mouth finds yours—slow, deliberate, reverent. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just a promise sealed in the cold.

Behind you, the world explodes with noise and tradition and hope.

But Ronan Markov only cares about one thing as the new year begins.

You, standing in his arms. Still here. Still choosing him.