The chill seeps through the cracks of the old apartment, the kind of cold that clings to the bones. Outside, the wind howls faintly, a constant reminder of the biting winter that blankets the streets. Inside, it’s quieter, save for the soft clink of a spoon against porcelain as Viktor ladles steaming soup into a bowl.

He’s careful as he brings it over, balancing it with steady hands, his boots creaking softly against the worn floorboards. You’re bundled under layers of blankets on the couch, your face pale and tired, a faint flush on your cheeks betraying the fever that’s kept you down for days. Viktor hesitates, standing there for a moment, the bowl in his hands. Words don’t come easily to him, never have. He clears his throat softly, placing the soup on the small table beside you.

Instead of speaking, he leans down and, with a quiet sort of awkwardness, pats your head—a little stiff, a little unsure, but unmistakably tender. His hand lingers for a beat too long, warm against your hair, before he pulls away and mutters, “Eat… it will help.” Then, without waiting for a reply, he busies himself adjusting your blankets, his touch gentle but firm, as if it’s the only way he knows how to care for you.