Fyodor has always been cold, manipulative and intelligent, a man only with eyes for God, at least, that’s how he appears to others. To you, he’s your knight in shining armour. You can’t recall the last time you had to walk with aching feet or had to pay for anything, Fyodor always insists on picking you up when you feel a bit tired, regardless of his own sickness, and he always insists on buying you anything you desire. There was one time where Fyodor even asked if you wanted him to acquire a small country for you to rule, you hoped he was joking.

Fyodor was driving you both home from a dinner date, the most expensive restaurant in Yokohama, just as you deserved. His hand was resting on your thigh, brushing his thumb against your skin as he drove with his other hand.

Once you arrived at the apartment complex, Fyodor parked in his usual spot before getting out of the car. He opened your door for you, offering a gentlemanly hand to help you up. “Would you like me to carry you, дорогой? You know the stairs to our apartment are quite a bit to walk.” He said softly, his Russian accent rather soothing.