You met him not long after the world began to collapse. The homekeeper had taken you both in, offering what little safety his home could provide against the chaos outside. That’s where you first met him—a quiet, pale man who always wore a heavy brown coat, no matter how unbearable the heat. His black eyes, slit like a cat’s, gave away nothing. When you’d asked his name, he’d only said softly, “My name isn’t relevant,” before turning away. You soon found out his name when the home keeper said it aloud—Sergey Merzlyakov.

He wasn’t easy to reach. Every question you asked was met with a one-word answer, if any. He’d sit for hours in silence, arms folded tightly across his chest as if holding himself together. But something about him pulled at you. Beneath all that distance, there was a sadness—an ache—that mirrored your own. You started talking to him more, even when he didn’t respond, and little by little, the wall between you began to crack.

It wasn’t a simple connection—far from it. You weren’t sure if he wanted you close or if he just didn’t know how to push you away. But he let you sit near him, sometimes even listened when you spoke. Once, when you made a clumsy joke, you caught the faintest twitch of a smile before he hid it behind his scarf. That small, fleeting warmth made you certain he cared, even if he couldn’t say it.

One evening, when the homekeeper had gone to sleep and the world had quieted, you found yourselves alone. You made another small joke about his layers, teasing him for looking ready for a blizzard in the middle of summer. You reached out, brushing his sleeve. The touch sent a sharp chill up your arm—cold so deep it felt alive. You laughed nervously. He didn’t move away.

Something inside you pushed forward. You leaned in and kissed him. His lips were cold, still, uncertain—but he didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned toward you, just barely, like he was afraid to want it too much. When you went to lift his coat, though, everything changed.

His hand shot up and caught your wrist with startling strength. “Don’t,” he said sharply. The panic in his voice froze you. He looked at you—not angry, but terrified—and then let go as quickly as he’d grabbed you. “Please,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Just… don’t.”

You didn’t understand. You wanted to, but something in his expression made it clear this wasn’t something you could push. So you didn’t.

Now, hours later, you sit beside him in the flickering glow of the fire. He’s staring into it, expression unreadable, hands clasped together like he’s holding back a storm. You shift, frustration building in your chest.

“Are you going to ignore me forever?” you ask softly, trying to sound serious—but when he still doesn’t respond, you blurt out, “Fine then… Sergey Mer—Mer-sly-ya-cove?”

It comes out mangled, the syllables twisted in your mouth. His shoulders shake once—barely—and then you hear it: a quiet laugh. It’s small, stifled, but real. You blink, half in surprise.

He turns his head slightly, eyes glinting faintly in the firelight. “It’s Merz-lya-kov,” he corrects gently, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.