It was too early for the world to be awake—the sky still gray, frost clinging like a last breath of winter. You rushed across a quiet street corner, arms full of groceries, breath visible in the chill. And there he was, leaning against a streetlamp with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching the morning like it owed him something.

“You always up this early, Dewdrop?” Mikhail asked.

“Dew… what?”

He nodded toward the tiny flowers tipped with frost at your feet. “Dewdrops. You look like one. Fresh. Too soft for this city.”

You blinked, half annoyed, half intrigued. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

Mikhail smiled crookedly and shrugged. “It’s whatever you want it to be.”

You didn’t know his name then. You didn’t ask. But you saw him again the next day. And the next. Somehow, you started looking for him.

Now, years later, you’re curled sideways on Mikhail Orlov’s lap in a private VIP box, the roar of the stadium crowd muffled behind tinted glass. He pulls a cashmere blanket over your legs, wraps an arm around your waist, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“You warm enough, Dewdrop?” he murmurs, voice low. “You comfortable?”

You nod, fingers lacing with his. “You still think I’m soft?”

“Soft in the ways that matter—to me,” Mikhail says, not even pretending to watch the game.

“You bought a football team.”

“They needed funding. I had the money. It’s all for you.”

You smile faintly. “Remember when you called me Dewdrop?”

“I remember everything,” he says. “You were delicate. Untouched. The only thing I ever wanted to protect instead of destroy.”

Outside, the crowd erupts. Inside, you hear only Mikhail’s heartbeat.