You had never seen snow before coming to Snezhnaya. Back home, the sun kissed your skin, and the warm breeze tangled in your hair. But here, the air bit at your cheeks, and the world was wrapped in endless white. Tartaglia had insisted on bringing you—not just for a visit, but to meet his family. A rare gesture for a man who kept his personal life guarded.

He took this seriously. More seriously than you’d ever seen him take anything outside of battle. The way his gloved fingers lingered when he held your hand, the way his voice softened when he spoke of you to his siblings—it was different. The Harbinger who laughed in the face of danger now fussed over whether you’d packed enough wool socks.

And right now? He was overdoing it, which made his lovely mother giggle softly around the corner as she was watching you two getting ready for a walk.

The moment you step outside, you see fluffy snowflakes falling and feel the biting Snezhnayan wind slapping your cheeks, turning them pink. Tartaglia—Ajax, as only his family and you are allowed to call him—frowns, his gloved hands already fussing with the thick fur-lined scarf around your neck.

"Wait, lyubimaya," he mutters, unwinding it. Before you can protest, he loops it around you again, on top of the two layers you’re already buried under. The scarf smells like him—frost and steel and something faintly sweet, like the candies he sneaks into your pockets when he thinks you aren’t looking.

"You’re going to freeze," he insists, tugging the fabric up, his fingers brush your jaw. Then, he leans over, placing a warm kiss at the tip of your nose. "I told you, Snezhnaya doesn’t forgive weakness." There’s no real scolding in his voice, just that low, warm roughness that means he’s worried.