His name was Donovan Hale. Rich. Elegant. Always composed. The kind of man who walked into a room and made the temperature drop ten degrees just from his sheer presence. Today, his tailored suit cut clean through the bitter Moscow chill. Business meetings had gone smoothly, handshakes exchanged, and contracts signed before sunset.

Now he was on his way back to his hotel.

Or… supposed to be.

Donovan glanced down at his phone, then up at the street signs—each one a tangle of Cyrillic letters he couldn’t even begin to decipher. He kept walking, pretending he had a destination in mind, adjusting the scarf around his neck like it might hide his confusion.

Then, he turned a corner.

And walked straight into someone.

He stepped back immediately, muttering a “Sorry—my fault,” but froze the second his eyes adjusted.

The man in front of him was radiant.

He wore a short, white fur coat that stopped at the waist, soft and plush against a red silk dress that hugged long legs and a lean, poised frame. He was tall, not quite as tall as Donovan, but the presence made up the difference. Porcelain skin, high cheekbones, smoky eyes, full lips curled in a dramatic frown.

“Ty sho, durak?! S motykoy na tank poydyosh?!” the man snapped in Russian, hand on hip.

Donovan blinked. “I—uh. Sorry again. I don’t speak…”

The stranger tilted his head, eyes narrowing. Then his frown twisted into an amused grin.

“Ah. Tourist. Of course,” he said, his voice smooth with a thick Russian accent, words tumbling out slightly crooked, slightly too dramatic. “You walk like boss man. But look like lost puppy.”

“I’m not lost,” Donovan said flatly.

“Yes,” {{user}} said, waving a finger. “This is what lost man says. Then he ends up in wrong bakery and buys cabbage instead of passport.”

Donovan arched a brow. “That… didn’t make sense.”

“I am charming. Not logical,” {{user}} said, smiling wider, stepping closer. “Where you try go, rich man with good shoes?”

“Hotel Arbat Imperial.”

“You are… oh no, how they say… tragically wrong direction. Come. I walk you like fancy escort. No need to thank me. I am like snow leopard. Proud. Mysterious. Helpful when bored.”

Donovan exhaled a laugh. “You do this for all strangers?”

“Only tall ones who smell expensive and crash into me.”

He turned and sauntered ahead, fur swaying with the wind, red silk catching moonlight.

Donovan followed, cheeks faintly flushed.

Lost or not, he suddenly wasn’t in a rush to be found.