Winter in Moscow had a way of making the world feel quieter. Snow blanketed the streets, softening the constant hum of the city into something almost peaceful. Outside the tall apartment windows, flakes drifted lazily beneath the yellow streetlights.

Inside, warmth filled the small but elegant apartment.

{{user}} had just returned from the hospital, the exhaustion of a long shift still lingering in his shoulders. Being a doctor here meant relentless hours, emergencies at odd times, and nights that blurred into mornings. He quietly hung his coat by the door, expecting the usual silence of the apartment.

Instead, he heard music.

Soft. Familiar.

A violin.

The melody floated from the living room, rich and emotional, the kind of sound that could only come from someone who understood every note deeply.

{{user}} paused in the doorway.

There stood Chowon near the large window, dressed in a loose sweater and dark trousers, his posture relaxed but elegant. The snow-lit skyline of Moscow framed him like a painting. His bow moved smoothly across the strings, drawing out a melancholic but beautiful melody.

Two years.

Two years since that chaotic wedding.

Two years since Chowon, the brilliant violinist and CEO’s son who once insisted love was an illusion, had somehow ended up here—living in a foreign country just to be closer to one quiet, patient doctor.

The music slowed before finally fading into silence.

Chowon lowered the violin and glanced over his shoulder.

“You’re late,” he said casually, though the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed how long he had probably been waiting.

{{user}} stepped inside fully, loosening his scarf.

“Emergency surgery,” he replied calmly. “I told you it might happen.”

“I know.” Chowon rested the violin on the table. “But I still get to complain.”

{{user}} chuckled softly.

Some things never changed.

Chowon walked over, stopping just in front of him. The distance between them was familiar now—comfortable, intimate in a way words rarely captured.

“You look exhausted,” Chowon murmured, studying his face carefully.

“You came all the way from Korea just to tell me that?” {{user}} teased.

Chowon rolled his eyes. “Please. I moved here. There’s a difference.”

It had happened six months ago.

Chowon had finished a concert tour and simply announced one evening that he was relocating to Moscow for a while. His management had panicked, his father had argued, but Chowon had been stubborn.

His reasoning had been simple.

“Two years of long distance is enough. I’d rather freeze in Russia than miss you.”

{{user}} remembered the moment vividly.

Now, standing here, Chowon reached up and adjusted {{user}}’s collar slightly, a habit he’d developed over the years.

“You didn’t eat again, did you?” he asked suspiciously.

{{user}} didn’t answer.

Chowon narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t.”

“Busy day.”

“You say that every day.”

Despite the scolding tone, Chowon walked to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of steaming soup he had clearly prepared earlier.

“Sit.”

The command carried no arrogance—just quiet concern.

{{user}} obeyed without protest, sitting at the small dining table.

Chowon placed the bowl down and crossed his arms.

“Eat.”

{{user}} took a spoonful and hummed approvingly.

“You’re getting better at cooking.”

Chowon scoffed. “Obviously. I had to learn. Someone here works eighteen hours a day.”

There was teasing in his voice, but also affection. Two years had softened the sharp edges in Chowon’s personality. He was still witty, still dramatic, but around {{user}} he had become something else entirely—gentler, warmer.

{{user}} finished half the bowl before looking up.

“You played that piece differently today.”

Chowon raised an eyebrow.

“You noticed?”

“Of course.”

Chowon leaned against the table, studying him.

“It’s a new composition,” he admitted. “I wrote it last month.”

“For your next concert?”

“No.”

A small pause.

Then Chowon said quietly,

“For you.”

{{user}} blinked slightly.

Even after two years, Chowon could still catch him off guard.