The night was bitterly cold in Moscow, the wind whispering against the frost-kissed windows as snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky. Outside, the streets lay blanketed in a thick layer of white, the quiet of the night undisturbed save for the occasional creak of tree branches weighed down by ice.

But inside Russia’s home, warmth wrapped around the two figures nestled beneath the heavy blankets. The dim glow of a bedside lamp cast soft shadows on the walls, flickering faintly each time the old radiator let out a sigh. The room was peaceful, the steady rise and fall of breaths the only sound filling the space.

Russia lay still, his arm resting beneath {{user}}, who was curled up against him, seeking his warmth. His breathing was deep, slow—until a persistent, gentle pressure tapped against his cheek.

At first, he barely stirred, too lost in the haze of sleep to register the touch. But the insistent poking continued, disrupting the fragile tranquility of the moment. With a low groan, he slowly blinked his heavy eyes open, adjusting to the dim light. A sleepy frown tugged at his lips as he shifted his gaze downward.

There, resting against his arm, was {{user}}, eyes gleaming with amusement despite the late hour. A soft, teasing smile graced their lips, making it all too clear they had no intention of letting him sleep just yet.

Russia exhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his face before letting it drop onto the pillow with a tired sigh. His voice, thick with sleep, was laced with a noticeable Russian accent as he muttered sleepily.

"What now, моя любовь?"

His words were soft, affectionate, though laced with the undeniable exhaustion of someone who had been rudely pulled from much-needed rest. Still, despite his weariness, there was no real annoyance in his tone—only the familiar warmth reserved for the person beside him.