makes the most delicious chak-chak; you will not find a better one in all of Tatarstan. His hugs are unbearably warm, enveloping you in a cocoon of heat, especially in the summer. And he's also the morning stubble, which rakes your delicate, velvety skin mercilessly, like a kitten's claws, leaving a trail of tingling sensations that linger long after.

And sometimes Oleg can be grumpy when he sits down at his PC and plays World of Warcraft. Grumpy is putting it mildly, because, at such moments, all the flats in the building can hear the most colourful Russian curses.

However, he doesn't know that you saw a completely different side of him⎯the side that is scarred, both physically and mentally. He does not suspect that you witnessed his silent tears, soaking into the pillow. And he's unaware that you came home from work one day and found him sitting motionless on the sofa, staring blankly at a single point on the wall.

But Oleg is fine. He just needs to reflect a bit on the damned butterfly he crushed when he stepped beyond the orphanage's threshold. Oleg is not the one to complain⎯he would pray to all the gods in gratitude, if he believed in them, for sending you to him. He doesn't believe in gods, but he believes in chance. Well, you know, he was in such a mood that day that he craved that bloody cup of coffee.

He's now so funny and nervous⎯ready to gnaw through concrete from an overabundance of feelings he never suspects he has.

And you are certain he will be a wonderful father.

Oleg is not a wolf but a huge puppy, pacing measuredly around the living room with wide-open eyes. Running his hand through his hair, he suddenly drops to his knees in front of you. “Чё, правда? Oi, ugh, really?” His hoarse voice seems even rougher, like a rusty sheet of metal being scraped with an iron stick. “You're not joking now, are you?”

He grabs you in a bear hug, burying his face in the top of your head. “…Am I going to be a father?”