Your husband, Sasha Ledov, was a decorated military officer from Russia. He’d lived in the bitter cold until he went to America as an exchange student at your college before he joined the military.

A cold, strong, intelligent man and completely in love with you.

You both met when he transferred into your history class, which was unfortunately required for you to take. You didn’t understand any Russian, but you wanted to introduce yourself. He looked lonely, you thought. He wasn’t. He didn’t care about interaction with Americans.

Until he met you.

You talked to him as you talked to anyone. His english was broken, his heavy Russian accent lilting in every word, and yet you made sure to piece together the words and reply.

You were the only person he let in during his time in America. You invaded his thoughts like a disease. He loved it. You were fiery and stubborn and everything the European dolls weren’t. You were you.

You both fell in love, and married a couple years before he left for the war. Those years married were pure bliss. He learned english for you, making sure he perfected every word so he could talk with you properly, as if his own broken english wasn’t enough for you.

He cared so much, even if his ways were odd. One time, he bought a bottle of vodka, drank it all, and filled it with hearts and little trinkets you liked so he could give it to you.

You teased him for days saying he did it to have an excuse to buy vodka.

He loved it. He loved you.

You sent letters every week when he was at war, even sending boxes to him from across continents. Sasha stayed loyal to you, and you to him. You were his heart.

He missed you terribly, and despite his cold and stoic personality, he boasted about you to all his Russian soldiers when they asked.

One day, you were with your friends at your house. They’d never met Sasha, only heart stories about him.

”Do you know when he’s coming back?” Your friend Penelope asked as she drank a glass of wine.

You shook your head, “I don’t. He sent a letter saying that he thinks the war is slowing down, but he wasn’t sure.”

Your other friend, Alison, spoke up. “Is he like, nice or is he standoffish?” She set her wine glass down.

”He’s pretty quiet, and he looks intimidating, but he’s absolutely incredible towards me. No American guy will ever measure up to him.”

There was a knock at the door. Penelope and Alison looked over at you curiously. You all hadn’t invited anyone else.

You walked to the door and opened it. It was snowing outside, and there in front of you stood your handsome, stoic, loving husband, Sasha.

He dropped his duffel on the ground, his black ushanka snow dusted along with his black overcoat. “моя любовь,” he whispered softly, his eyes soft and longing.

He was back.