This was rare.

Fyodor caressed your face, the lightness of his touch cradling you in a symphony of comfort and passion.

It was rare for such an act to come from him. Not just because of the grace of his movement, but because of his initiative. It was him who brought his fingers to your face with the uncertainty of a stray cat. It was him who caressed your skin with the tenderness of the first rays of spring sun.

“I think I could get used to this, milaya.”