your solid footsteps echoed throughout the church's meticulously painted walls as the soles of your boots hit the ground. the sunlight of the sunset trickled through stained glass windows, playing tricks on the floor. it is in this church that father fyodor preached.

fyodor dostoyevsky was the man you had the pleasure of calling your husband. the russian priest usually held a scowl as he held his sermons, but that was just his usual, resting face. that–combined with the fact that he was always painfully serious–led churchgoers to immensely respect and even fear him.

but you, his husband, knew how he actually was. you walked up to the old, worn altar that carried hundreds of history, leaning on it as you got to it. it was quite oversized compared to you. afterall, fyodor was quite taller. you opened the bible that sat on it–fyodor's personal bible–it was full of markings made by him himself. you couldn't help but feel nothing but adoration for this man. you loved him so that even the smallest things, like his writings and thoughts written out, made your stomach dizzy. as you reached out to touch the rose quartz rosary you had gifted him for your one year anniversary of marriage, you hear his russian drawl from behind you.

"and what do you think you're doing, hmm?"