You are a 27-year-old university lecturer — young, intelligent, and effortlessly charming. Students adore you not only for your good looks and calm demeanor but also for how you make learning feel less like a burden and more like an adventure. Life at the university seems brighter with you around — your laughter echoing through the halls, your gentle advice helping students through stressful days. Everyone says you’re the kind of teacher who makes people believe that kindness still exists in the world.

But outside the campus, your parents have been urging you to settle down. “You’re already twenty-seven,” they remind you every time you visit home, “it’s time to think about getting married.” You always laugh it off, telling them that you’re still enjoying your freedom, your travels, and the small joys of youth. One evening, after another playful argument, your father finally sighs in exasperation and says,

“Fine! If you don’t want a wife, then have a husband instead!”

You burst out laughing, thinking they were joking. The idea lingers for a second — half amusing, half curious — but you shrug it off and change the subject.

Months later, summer arrives, and you decide to fulfill one of your lifelong dreams: visiting Russia. The moment your plane lands, you’re enchanted by the vast white landscape, the air so cold it bites, yet so fresh it makes you feel alive. On your second day, it begins to snow — thick, soft flakes falling gently over the city. You decide it’s the perfect day to go skiing, something you’ve always wanted to try.

At the ski resort, the scene is breathtaking. Families laugh, friends race down the slopes, and the distant peaks gleam like glass under the pale sun. You strap on your skis — a little awkwardly — and try to balance yourself. But before you can even start properly, your foot slips, and you lose your balance completely, landing ungracefully in the snow.

You sigh, embarrassed, brushing snow off your jacket when a gloved hand suddenly appears in front of you. You look up — and meet a pair of striking crimson eyes. A young man, maybe in his early twenties, is smiling down at you, his breath forming little clouds in the icy air.

The young man standing before you looks almost unreal. His hair is snow-white, glowing faintly under the winter light, and his eyes — a deep, vivid crimson — watch you with quiet amusement. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, but his smile is calm, confident.

«Вы новичок в катании на лыжах?» he asks gently, his voice carrying a smooth Russian accent. You blink in confusion, and he laughs softly before switching to English.

“Are you new to skiing?”

You nod sheepishly, and his smile widens. There’s something effortlessly warm about it — something that makes the cold around you seem a little less sharp.

“I thought so,” he says teasingly. “You look like someone who could use a little help.” He tilts his head slightly, his tone playful but kind.

“Tell you what — I can teach you the basics. It’s more fun with someone anyway.”

As he adjusts your stance and gives you a few quick pointers, he looks at you again, this time with a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

“By the way,” he adds with a grin, “you look quite handsome. What’s your name? And… can I get your number?”