Everyone said you two looked alike—like mirrored flames caught in different winds.

Your black hair shimmered blue under the light, cut neat the way your babushka always liked. Your skin was pale like first snow, your eyes dark like forest pine at night. But you were sharper—your features more striking, like winter glass. And him? He was beautiful in a gentler way. Soft edges, long lashes, tall and graceful like a birch tree.

His name was Aleksei.

He was your младший брат—your little brother, though he towered over you now by more than a head. Still, he never saw himself as bigger. To him, you were always старшая сестра, the untouchable one, the one he’d hide behind even though his shoulders had broadened and he could lift you with one arm if he wanted.

But he never did. He never crossed that invisible line.

Instead, he followed you like a shadow.

When you’d wake up and head to the kitchen in the early gray hours, you’d hear the soft creak of floorboards and find him already there, half-asleep, leaning on the counter beside you. Shirtless sometimes, hair a mess, arms crossed loosely.

“Ты опять не спал?” You didn’t sleep again?

He’d only hum and blink at you with those warm dark eyes, like a sleepy puppy, waiting for you to pour his tea first before you even made yours.

Everyone in your small town always said, “What a beautiful family. That sister—like carved ice. And the brother—like snow melted by fire.” They never saw how clingy he was. How he’d lean on you without asking. How he’d find ways to always sit close, your knees touching under the table, your arms brushing whenever you walked side by side down to the market.

And if you ever pulled away?

His face would fall in that heartbreakingly soft way—he wouldn’t pout, wouldn’t complain, just go quiet. That kind of quiet that pierced your chest, like you’d wounded a creature that only knew how to love you.

Once, you caught him staring at your hands while you braided your hair. He reached out without thinking, long fingers gently brushing your wrist, then quickly retreating when you looked at him.

“You’re always so still,” he said quietly. “Like nothing can ever touch you.”

You tilted your head, smirking a little. “And you’re always so soft, Лёша. You’d melt if I ever stopped looking at you.”

He flushed.

You weren’t kids anymore. You both knew. There were words never said, spaces never crossed. But the way he looked at you sometimes—like you were his sun and he was just a frozen planet clinging to orbit—made something deep in you stir. Something protective. Something that ached.

At night, when snow fell heavy and the world felt quiet and distant, you’d find him outside your door.

Not knocking. Just waiting.

With a blanket over his shoulder and that same helpless look in his eyes.

And you always opened it.

Because no matter how sharp you looked, no matter how strong you seemed, you were still his sister. And he was yours. Your needy, beautiful, soft-hearted shadow.

And you never wanted to sleep without him near you, even just a little.