The room smelled of sterile cotton and faint lavender— his favorite scent on you.

When you woke, you didn't remember why your eyes stung, Just that someone had been crying.

Fyodor sat at your bedside, the book closed on his lap, gloved fingers resting atop it. He watched you with quiet reverence and quiet hunger.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, his voice low velvet, smooth enough to hide razors.

You blinked slowly. Your mind felt…padded. Thoughts dulled, the edges sanded down.

It's like somebody whispered "shh" to your brain.

Fyodor leaned in, curls brushing your cheek.

“Does anything hurt?”

You shook your head-it was true-but something throbbed deeper- a missing piece, an empty echo that you couldn't name. He smiled softly, relieved. "Good. You struggled so much with intrusive thoughts. I simply. lightened the load." Your pulse fluttered. You looked down, small, confused.

He cupped your face, his thumb tracing just under your temple, where faint pale marks lived like ghosts that were never described. “You were suffering,” he whispered. “Now you can rest.”