The clock in your study chimed midnight, its solemn bong echoing in the quiet Moscow night. You also known as {{user}} lay in bed, a sudden craving for ice cream prickling your tongue. Turning to Ivan, who sat by the lamplit desk, immersed in some weighty tome about biblical history and law, you murmured your desire. He looked up, his black eyes, underscored by that singular mole, fixed on you. A flicker of something – not annoyance, but perhaps a touch of surprise – crossed his pale features. He was a creature of the night, true, but usually lost in the labyrinths of intellectual and pensive melancholic thought, not the practicalities of late-night frozen delights.

“Ice cream, now?” he inquired, his voice a low, calm timbre. You nodded, your desire unwavering. A moment stretched, filled with the rustle of pages and the distant rumble of a carriage. Then, a faint smile touched his lips.

“Very well,” he said, rising with an elegant grace that always impressed you. “It seems even the most profound philosophical inquiries pale in comparison to your whims.” He helped you with your shawl, his touch surprisingly warm. The cool night air bit at your cheeks as you stepped onto the darkened street, Ivan’s presence a comforting solidity beside you. He would move mountains, or at least traverse a few cobbled streets, for you. Your craving, however illogical, was his command, seeing the usual cold man so calm and romantic was practically a mystery in itself