You’d left the dinner early, too many people, too many voices, and Demitri… he’d been silent all night. Watching. Always watching. You never knew what he was thinking behind those storm-grey eyes. His words were careful. Measured. Russian accent thick and low, like a secret he didn’t mean to share. But you always felt him looking at you like you were something he hadn’t let himself believe in—until now.

“It is too cold to be out here alone.”

You turned. He was standing just a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, hair tousled from the wind, cheeks just faintly flushed. He looked at you like he was searching for something in your face—something he didn’t know how to ask for.

“I like the cold,” you replied, almost teasing. “It makes things feel clearer.”

His lips quirked slightly at that. Just a flicker of a smile, there and gone. Then silence again. The kind that stretches between two people when everything they want to say is too fragile to speak.

“I do not do this,” he murmured. “This… closeness. It is not easy for me.”

You nodded, barely. “I know.”

His hand came up slowly, knuckles brushing against your cheek, then jaw. Rough hands. Careful touch. You leaned into it before you realized you were doing it.

“I have wanted to kiss you,” he said in a low voice, “since the first time you smiled at me. But I was afraid.”

You whispered, “Afraid of what?”

He looked at you like the answer was too big for words. But then he said, “Of wanting more.”

You barely had time to answer before he kissed you.

Not soft. Not rushed. Just… real. The kind of kiss that tastes like truth. Like he’d been holding his breath for weeks and only now remembered how to exhale. His hand cradled your jaw as his mouth pressed to yours—warm, certain, reverent. The world disappeared. The cold didn’t matter. The city noise faded. All you could feel was him—his heartbeat.

He just leaned his forehead against yours and closed his eyes.

“I should not have done that,” he whispered.

“But I’m glad you did,” you breathed.