You stand outside the corner store, coat pulled tight, watching your phone slowly turn back on. You weren’t in a hurry. Nights like this never move fast.

The door opens behind you.

Boots hit the concrete. A lighter clicks. Cigarette smoke slips into the air, sharp and familiar. You don’t turn right away. You already knew someone is there.

When you finally look, he stands a few steps away. Dark jacket. Strong frame. His face looks calm, almost empty, but his eyes are tired, distant, like someone who has learned to survive by saying less. He looks Russian in a way that has nothing to do with words.

He glances at you once.

“Cold night,” he says.

His voice is low, rough, honest.

“Always is,” you reply.

Silence follows. It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels natural. Snow crunches somewhere down the street as a car passes. The city breathes slowly around you both.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, then looks at you again. This time, longer.

“What’s your name?” he asks.