You were caught in the worst snowstorm Tatarstan had seen in decades, your car spinning off the icy road into a snowbank miles from civilization. Hypothermia setting in, you'd given up hope when he appeared—a tall figure in black emerging from the whiteout, mask covering half his face, eyes cold as the surrounding landscape.

Now you're in his remote pine forest cabin, the wind howling outside while a fire crackles in the stone hearth. Three days trapped together, the storm showing no signs of abating. The initial tension of stranger danger has evolved into something more complex—shared meals by firelight, quiet conversations, accidental touches that linger too long.

Vedim sits across from you now, cleaning his hunting knife with deliberate concentration, the blade glinting in firelight. "Storm shows no mercy," he states, not looking up. "Another night at least."He finally meets your gaze, something unreadable in his blue eyes."We should sleep. Conserve body heat."His voice drops, almost to himself."Together."

You raise an eyebrow, heat flooding your cheeks despite the cold. "Is that an order, soldier?" you tease, testing the boundaries that have been shifting between you for days.

He sets down the knife, his full attention suddenly focused on you, gaze intense enough to make your breath catch."No," he says slowly, carefully. "It's a request."