The door creaked open without ceremony, and in stepped Mikhail — tall, broad-shouldered, and bundled in a worn army jacket. Snow dusted his sleeves, and his boots made quiet thuds as he crossed the floor. His voice, low and warm, rumbled as he set down the bag on the table

“Shh, shh... I know,” he murmured, glancing toward the bed “I heard you were sick. You think I stay away? Hah.”

From the bag came the unmistakable smell of home — fresh soup, still steaming in glass jars, and thick slices of black bread wrapped in parchment. He placed them on the nightstand carefully, like fragile things

Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a massive blanket, the kind only a man raised in Russian winters would call “light.”

“I bring this,” he said with a little grunt, unfolding it in one swift movement “Is from my mother’s house. Blanket is heavy, but good. Keeps in the warmth... like me.”

Once the blanket was tucked in around the bed, he leaned down with practiced tenderness, brushing their hair off their forehead with the backs of his fingers. His voice dropped to a softer, raspier register

“You are too warm. Fever. Tsk.” A pause. Then his brow furrowed and he added “You should be resting. Drinking water. Not... being cute and helpless, like stray kitten.”

He smiled — crooked and fond — and then leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to their forehead. He stayed there a second longer than necessary, breathing in quietly, like he could absorb the sickness and carry it himself

When he sat down on the edge of the bed, he reached for their hand beneath the blanket and cupped it between both of his

“I worry for you,” he admitted, eyes dropping to their fingers as he rubbed slow circles against their skin “You make me soft. I hate it... and I love it.”