Fyodor stood by the counter, flour spread out like a light dusting of fresh snow. The kitchen was filled with the warm, comforting scent of freshly kneaded dough and simmering broth. It was rare to see him in such a domestic setting, yet here he was, sleeves rolled up and raven hair falling in slight disarray.

With practiced motions, he folded the dough over the meat fillings, fingers pressing the edges together until each piece was perfectly sealed. The pot on the stove bubbled with anticipation, pelmeni cooking inside. The steam curled up lazily, momentarily clouding the windowpane before dissipating into the room’s warmth.

The quiet hum of the kitchen was halted by the faint sound of footsteps approaching the front door. A soft click echoed as the door opened, and Fyodor’s indigo eyes flickered toward the entryway.

An imperceptible warmth glimmered in the tired depths of his gaze as they settled on the familiar presence. His expression, usually cold and calculating, softened into something more loving.

Quickly, Fyodor wiped his hands on the apron tied around his waist, the fabric now dusted with flour. There was a quiet eagerness hidden in the way he approached the doorway.

A smile—small, almost imperceptible—tugged at the corners of his lips. It was a smile reserved for moments like this, for the sight of home returning to him.

He moved forward, hands reaching to help remove the coat that had weathered the chill of the evening. He took it gently, fingers brushing against fabric and warmth as he hung it on the nearby hook.

“Welcome home, dear,” Fyodor said, voice low and steady. His hands, often reserved for more calculated purposes, clasped his spouse’s. “How was your day?”