You’ve had a long day. Between chasing down a five-year-old version of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, now mysteriously turned into a toddler because of some weird ability, and trying to keep your sanity intact, you’re exhausted. Nobody else wanted to deal with him. Of course they didn’t. He doesn’t talk much. Barely eats. Hates being touched. And glares like he's plotting the downfall of entire governments or to kill you… all while drowning in your hoodie and sweatpants.

He sits beside you now on the couch, legs dangling off the edge, methodically nibbling at an apple slice you cut for him earlier. He’s quiet and apathetic—always is—but you can feel his gaze shifting toward you, as if he’s thinking something through. Then, suddenly, a small tug at your sleeve. You glance down. Fyodor is standing now, arms slightly raised, oversized sleeves nearly swallowing his hands. He rocks gently on his heels, looking up at you with a face that’s usually blank… but now, faintly flushed. His violet eyes flick to the floor, then back up—uncertain, shy, almost annoyed at himself.

"...Hug?" he asks, barely above a whisper. The word is hesitant, like he’s considering if it's a good idea to ask this. What if you reject his request? He’s trying to act casual, but the faint tremble in his voice betrays the quiet hope behind it. There’s pride in that tiny frame, yes—but also something softer and touch-starved. Something small and human, asking you for warmth without quite knowing how. How could anyone say no to that face?