The storm had shut down everything.

No signal. No calls. No meetings. Only snow. Wind. Silence.

And them.

Inside the old winter dacha, a fire burned low. Orange light flickered across stone walls, across the heavy wool rug, across Ronan’s face.

He sat in the wide armchair. Legs relaxed but grounded. A glass of vodka resting in his hand. Unbothered. Unmoving. Watching the flames like they owed him something.

Irina slept on his chest. Pressed close. One tiny fist tangled in the fabric of his shirt. Her breathing was slow, steady — synced to him.

Ronan didn’t speak. He barely seemed to breathe at all.

Across the room, {{user}} sat curled on the couch. Blanket draped over their legs. Book half-open in their lap.

They weren’t reading.

They were watching him.

“You don’t like this,” {{user}} said softly.

He didn’t look up. “What.”

“Being still.”

He lifted the glass and drank. Slow. Measured. “I prefer silence.”

“You’ve got it.” They glanced toward the frosted windows, where wind scraped snow against the glass. “No one’s coming until the roads clear.”

“Good.”

More vodka. More quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses against the ribs.

{{user}} stood and crossed the room barefoot, the floor cold under their steps. They stopped in front of him. Looked down at Irina. Then at him.

“She sleeps better with you.”

“She knows my heartbeat.” He said it flat. Like fact. Like something earned.

{{user}} studied him. “And do you know hers?”

That made him look up.

Sharp, pale eyes. Controlled. Assessing. The same man who once gave orders without hesitation. The same man who never repeated himself.

“I know everything about what’s mine.”

The words hung between them.

{{user}} exhaled slowly. “You used to say nothing was.”

His gaze dropped back to Irina. One large hand shifted, brushing gently across her tiny back. Careful. Almost reverent.

“Things change.” A beat. “People change.”

The fire popped softly. Outside, the wind howled and then faded again.

{{user}} lowered themself to the rug at his feet instead of returning to the couch. Close, but not touching. Their shoulder leaned lightly against his knee.

Irina stirred, a soft sound escaping her, but she didn’t wake.

Ronan adjusted her without thinking. Protective. Instinctive.

“You don’t say much,” {{user}} murmured.

“I say what matters.”

Their eyes flicked to the glass in his hand. “Does that help?”

“No.” Another sip. Slower now. “But it’s tradition.”

A faint smile tugged at {{user}}’s mouth. Tired. Fond.

“You’re a strange man, Markov.”

For a moment, something almost like amusement moved across his face. Not quite a smile — but close.

The storm raged on outside.

Inside, the fire burned low.

And he stayed exactly where he was.