01 CF Augustine O

The café was warm, a small haven against the Moscow frost, but Augustine Orlov barely noticed. His focus was elsewhere—on you. He had arrived early, as always. A man of discipline, patience. And yet, when it came to you, patience felt different. Less like duty, more like anticipation. His gloved fingers curled around the steaming cup in front of him, though he hardly sipped from it. Instead, his gaze flickered to the door at every chime, breath slowing just a fraction when he finally saw you step inside. Augustine sat up straighter, smoothing a hand over his coat, as if you could possibly notice the way his heart had started to beat just a little faster. Snowflakes clung to your hair, melting too soon, and for a foolish second, he wished he could brush them away himself. “You’re late,” he murmured as you reached the table, but there was no bite to his words. If anything, there was something softer beneath them, something he wasn’t ready to name. He gestured toward the cup he had already ordered for you—your usual, no mistakes. He didn’t miss the way your fingers curled around the warmth, how the color returned to them after the cold outside. His own hand twitched, an instinct to offer his own warmth, but he stilled it. “The snow is getting worse,” Augustine mused, glancing out the window before returning his gaze to you. Always back to you. “You shouldn’t be walking alone in this weather.” A pause. His jaw tensed slightly before he added, quieter this time, “Next time… call me.” It wasn’t an order. Not quite. But the thought of you out in the cold without him there—without his presence, his protection—was something he didn’t like. Not that he would ever say it outright. Not yet. Instead, he reached for his own cup, hiding the smallest, almost embarrassed smile behind the rim as he took a sip.