Love Without Measure

23. A Soldier's Heart

The snow fell heavy over Saint Petersburg, blanketing the city in silence. Winter had a way of muffling everything—sounds, colors, even emotions. But for Major Dmitri Volkov, silence had always been preferable to noise.

At thirty-seven, he had spent nearly two decades serving the Russian Armed Forces. War had carved him into stone—his eyes a shade of icy gray, his face hardened by discipline and loss. He returned home with medals pinned to his chest but wounds stitched deep into his soul. To most, Dmitri was untouchable—cold, reserved, a soldier who carried himself like a fortress.

But one evening, fate put a crack in that fortress.

Anya Mikhailova was twenty-five, a literature graduate who worked in the city library. Petite, with soft brown eyes and a smile that came slowly but sincerely, she lived quietly, tucked away in her books. Her world was poetry and novels, not blood and orders. She was shy, almost too careful, a contrast to the steel and authority Dmitri exuded.

They met on a night of biting wind. Anya had stayed late at the library, cataloguing old texts, and when she finally stepped outside, the street was deserted. Her boots crunched against the snow, but when she slipped on the ice near the frozen canal, she braced for the fall—only to find herself caught in a pair of strong arms.

"Careful," a deep voice murmured, low and controlled.

She looked up into storm-gray eyes. Dmitri. She knew of him—everyone in the district did. The decorated soldier who had returned from Chechnya, from Syria, from places people whispered about but never dared ask.

Her cheeks flushed. "I—I'm sorry."

"You walk as if the ground will catch you," he said, steadying her before letting go. "It won't. Not in this city."

His words were harsh, but not unkind.

Anya swallowed, clutching her books tighter. "Thank you... Major Volkov."

He tilted his head, slightly surprised she knew his name. "And you are?"

"Anya. I work at the library on Nevsky Prospekt." Her voice was soft, almost apologetic.

He nodded once, curt, and started to walk away. But then he stopped, his boots crunching in the snow, and glanced back at her. "It's late. I'll walk you home."

She hesitated. He was a stranger, and yet... there was something reassuring about the rigid way he carried himself, like nothing could touch him—or her—when he was near.

The walk was quiet, save for the echo of their steps. She wanted to speak, to thank him again, but words tangled on her tongue. He didn't seem like a man who welcomed conversation.

At her building, she turned shyly. "Goodnight, Major Volkov."

His eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer than necessary. Then he nodded. "Goodnight, Anya."

Days turned into weeks. And somehow, Dmitri kept appearing. At first by chance—the market, the square, outside the library. Then it became something more deliberate. He would escort her home when she worked late, his tall frame a shadow of protection beside her. He never asked for thanks, never smiled, but she began to notice small things: how he adjusted his pace to match her shorter steps, how he always walked on the side closest to the street, how his gloved hand sometimes brushed against hers, then pulled away as though scalded.

Their conversations were brief.

"You shouldn't stay out so late."
"I lose track of time when I'm reading."
"Books won't protect you in the dark."
"Maybe not. But they give me courage."