It was your favorite time of the night— not because it was beautiful, not because it was peaceful in the way people write about peace when they don’t actually live here.

But because this was the hour you understood.

The block across from yours stood like a slab of poured concrete, windows stacked and uneven, only five of them lit. Five lives awake for reasons you’d never ask about. Somewhere above you, an upstairs neighbor usually blasted music loud enough to vibrate the pipes, bass crawling through walls like something alive. Tonight, even that was gone. No radio. No laughter. No arguing. Just the low, persistent hum of the city breathing through frost.

Romania slept badly in winter.

The radiator beneath the window was still half-warm, stubbornly refusing to die completely, metal ticking softly like it was counting seconds. Not enough heat to be comfortable—never that—but enough to make you stay. Enough to make you stop thinking about leaving, because leaving was a future problem, and you didn’t have space for future problems tonight.

Outside, snow had been falling all day. It clung to the streetlamps and made the light smear instead of shine. Old New Year’s decorations still hung in places no one bothered to remove—cheap wires of fading bulbs, blinking tiredly like they forgot the celebration was over. Down the street, the PENNY glowed red, aggressive and familiar, like it was watching you back through the glass.

Your window was open.

Cold air slipped in unapologetically, sharp and clean, carrying the last trace of cigarette smoke that curled lazily before dissolving into nothing. It was refreshing in a way only winter could be—like pain you accepted because it reminded you that you were still here. Under the blankets, though, it was warm. Too warm. Your breath bloomed pale in the air anyway, soft clouds forming and disappearing above your chest.

The laptop sat open, abandoned. Black screen. A song played somewhere in the background, slow and dragging, something that didn’t rush you. A fake Coca-Cola bottle—cold, sweating—rested near the bed, forgotten.

The blankets shifted.

They always did, like they were alive, stretching, making space. Something solid moved beneath them—weight redistributing, muscle adjusting. Hands slid along your legs, unhurried, familiar. Milan didn’t rush even when he moved. Especially not then. His palms settled at your hips, steady, grounding, like he was reminding both of you where things belonged.

The blanket lifted just enough.

He was holding himself on his forearms, body angled over you, not looming—anchored. Like a guard dog that didn’t need to bare its teeth to be dangerous. His face was calm, unreadable, eyes fixed on you with that assessing look that never felt curious, only certain. As if he’d already decided what you were before you opened your mouth.

He leaned down, heat leaving his body as he moved, resting his cheek briefly against your stomach. His breath was warm there. Nose brushing skin. A kiss—barely there, almost accidental—before he settled again, head resting, eyes half-closed.

Possessive without clinging. Loyal without softness.

You traced the sharp line of his jaw with your eyes. He looked up slowly, one eyebrow lifting just enough to end arguments before they started. The kind of face people called unfriendly until they realized unfriendly was safer than unpredictable.

He sighed—low, controlled. You could already hear his voice before he spoke.

Quiet. Flat. Real.

“Heat’s failing again.”

Not a complaint. Just a fact.