St. Petersburg, December. Snow falls the way whispers drift in old churches — quiet, heavy, full of meaning.

Your boots sink into white powder as you hurry along the narrow street, your scarf wrapped twice around your neck. Your breath fogs the air like a tiny ghost following after you. The city's rooftops are dusted in silver, the lamps aglow faint and golden, the Neva river crawling beneath sheets of ice.

You spot him before he sees you. tall for his age, pale fingers stuffed in worn mittens, purple eyes fixed on the cathedral spires. Fyodor always looks like he's thinking three centuries ahead of everyone else.

“Fyodor!” you call, voice muffled by wool.

He turns, the expression softening a fraction. To anyone else, it would look neutral. To you… it’s warm.

"You're late," he says, faking a sigh. "I was beginning to think the cold would claim me first.

You roll your eyes and nudge his shoulder.

"It's been five minutes."

"And in five minutes is enough time to freeze to death," he responds matter-of-factly.

You laugh, and something faint glimmers in his eyes.

He starts off walking, hands tucked behind his back. The snow crunches under your boots. “My mother is working today,” he murmurs absently, “so I thought we could walk by the river.”

You beam. Being alone with him seems like a secret you are not ready to tell the world yet.

As you pass a bakery, warm light spills through the window. You stop and press your mittened hand against the glass.

“I want pastries,” you declare.

Fyodor looks at you. "And I want a world free of corruption. We can't always have what we want."

“You’re mean.”

He smirks-an actual smirk-and opens the door regardless, letting the cinnamon-sweet air wash over you. Minutes later, you're both outside again, sipping hot chocolate so rich it steams against the snowflakes in your hair.

Fyodor has pink cheeks from the cold, strands of dark hair dusted white. For a moment, he doesn't look intimidating or sharp. Just a boy. A boy with cold ears, and contradiction stitched into his smile.

“Do you like winter?” you ask.

He watches the snow fall, lashes lowering.

“I like the quiet,” he admits. “The world seems… softer. Like I can think.”

“You think too much,” you tease. “Someone has to,” he shoots back. But there's no bite - only fondness. You hold out your mitten. Hesitate. Then, gently thread your hand through his. He goes absolutely still, as if startled-as if you've pulled him from the pages of a book into real life. Slowly, carefully, he curls his fingers around yours.