The train cut through the snow like a blade.
Steel screamed softly against the tracks as frost crept along the windows, blurring the outside world into streaks of white and gray. Inside the carriage, the air was warm—but tense. Quiet in the way that wasn’t peaceful, only watchful.
Sergei Morozov sat across from you.
Perfect posture. Long legs planted firmly, broad shoulders wrapped in a dark coat that still smelled faintly of winter air and metal. His gloves were off, resting neatly beside him. His hands were steady. Relaxed.
Too relaxed.
You’d been trained not to stare—but it was difficult not to notice him. Everyone noticed Sergei Morozov.
Alpha. Decorated. Unmatched.
And now, apparently, your assigned partner.
“This arrangement is temporary,” Sergei said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, low, carrying effortlessly over the hum of the train. “We complete the assignment. Then it ends.”
You lifted your gaze to meet his.
“I don’t recall asking for permanence,” you replied.
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps. Or mild surprise. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Good,” he said. “Then we understand each other.”
You did not miss the way his gaze lingered for half a second too long—nor the subtle adjustment of his breathing afterward.
He noticed your scent.
Of course he did.
Sergei hated that.
It wasn’t overwhelming. Not sweet. Not cloying like some Omegas he’d encountered. Yours was clean. Controlled. Something that lingered rather than demanded.
He focused instead on the mission file resting on his knee.
Do not engage. Do not bond. Do not slip.
Across from him, you shifted slightly in your seat, crossing one leg over the other. You were calm—outwardly at least. But you were not ignorant.
You felt it too.
Not dominance. Not submission.
Pressure.
“So,” you said quietly, eyes returning to the window. “You always sit like you’re guarding an exit?”
Sergei glanced up. “Only when there is one.”
You huffed softly. “Figures.”
The train slowed as it approached the next station—an isolated platform swallowed by snow and fog. No civilians. No lights. Just a signal lamp and a man waiting in a heavy coat.
Sergei stood first.
“We move now,” he said.
— TIMESKIP —
The safehouse was buried deep in the mountains.
Concrete walls. Reinforced steel door. A single generator humming beneath the floorboards. Sparse furniture. One table. Two chairs. One bedroom.
Sergei took it all in within seconds.
You noticed.
“Only one room?” you asked.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“I’ll take the floor,” you added immediately.
“No,” Sergei said, sharper than intended.
He exhaled, correcting himself. “We rotate. You’re not a liability.”
You turned to look at him fully now.
“I never said I was.”
Another flicker—this one unmistakably approval.
Sergei removed his coat and hung it carefully, methodical as ever. He moved through the space like it already belonged to him, checking corners, locks, windows.
Instinct.
Yours flared in response—not fear, not submission—but awareness.
“You don’t trust this place,” you observed.
“I don’t trust anything,” he replied.
Then, after a beat:
“But you’ll be safe here.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
You studied him for a moment before nodding. “I know.”
Sergei paused.
That answer stayed with him longer than it should have.
As night fell and the wind howled outside, you both settled into silence—two professionals bound by assignment, instinct pulling at the edges of discipline.
Sergei stood near the window, watching the snow.
You sat at the table, reviewing notes.
Neither of you slept.
Neither of you relaxed.
And both of you were acutely aware of one undeniable truth:
This partnership was not going to remain just an assignment.