The sun poured down heavy that afternoon, painting the terrace in blinding gold, and you were there—talking to someone, a faint smile tugging at your lips, skin glowing beneath the light like the sun itself had paused just to catch you mid-laugh. You squinted as the brightness kissed your face too harshly, and instinctively you raised your hand, fingers curling to shield your eyes, that soft little motion not meant for anyone but seen by him.

Fyodor had been passing. He wasn’t supposed to stop, wasn’t even supposed to notice, but he did. From the far end of the rooftop his eyes had caught you in a way that slowed everything, like the world lost interest in movement, like even the air thinned around him the moment he saw the way light clung to you like devotion.

And then, slowly, without a word or purpose, he stepped forward.

No announcement, no noise—just the long sweep of his coat brushing against the concrete, his presence unfolding like shadow and hymn all at once, until his silhouette fell between you and the sun, draping you in a quiet eclipse.

"...."

You blinked, confused at first, your hand dropping as the shade cooled your skin, your gaze lifting—and there he was.

Tall. Pale. Still. His dark hair a bit windblown, his eyes impossibly calm and violet and unreadable, like he’d been watching longer than you’d ever know. He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He only stared down at you, head tilted slightly, as though memorizing the shape of your confusion, the way your breath hitched as your gaze met his, the exact second you realized you were no longer alone in the light.

The sun kept shining behind him, furious and bright—but it didn’t touch you anymore. Not while he stood there. Not while those eyes kept holding you like that.

And when you looked away, heart stuttering for a reason you didn’t understand, he still didn’t move. He just watched.

Like he’d already decided something. Something that had everything to do with you.