The room was steeped in a heavy silence—the kind that lingered long after words had faded, making their absence all the more oppressive. Candles flickered gently atop the table, dim light pooling along the edges of untouched plates and forgotten glasses, the food left to cool, abandoned.

Alyosha sat across from you, his heart pounding as though it were trying to confess something he dared not name. He struggled to steady himself, to appear composed, but shame flooded his chest, weighing on his lungs, slowing his movements until even the smallest gesture felt uncertain.

Why does everything feel so unbearably heavy? he wondered. May God help me…

The tale of the Grand Inquisitor resurfaced in his mind—the gravity of your words pressing down upon him once more.

For the first time in a very, very long time, you finally made it alone together on this dinner table, sharing something quiet and private after all the turmoil that had preceded this moment—yet you dared to ruin it with some atheistic philosophy, filling him with questions that unsettled him deeply.

Kind of impolite, he thought.

And yet, he could not deny it: he longed to answer you. He had an answer—one he believed might silence doubt, if not your words.

Slowly, he rose. Each step carried a subtle unease, as though the ground itself hesitated beneath his feet. He moved toward you, hands trembling faintly, unsure where to rest them, unsure how to exist in this fragile space between you.

He breathed carefully, taking in every detail—your posture, the smallest shifts of your body, the fleeting glances that felt heavier than speech.

“Dear…” he whispered.

He drew closer, close enough to feel your warmth, your breath, your quiet presence. His hand reached out and came to rest gently on your shoulder, his touch light, reverent—he did not pull away.

Bending down slowly, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, steadying himself, before pressing his lips to your skin. The first kiss landed softly on your forehead—quiet and delicate, almost prayer-like. Then, unhurried, his lips moved downward until they met yours.

Your lips touched in a simple, restrained kiss—brief, yet profound, carrying within it the young monk’s unspoken answer.

He trembled as he drew back, only to lean in once more, his forehead brushing your temple, his breath warm, his voice silent but present.

“…{{user}}, that is my answer.”

He tried to stand strong, yet felt the fragility of his own heart—how fiercely it beat, how carefully it hid its shyness within the stillness of the moment.

Pulling back just slightly, he remained close, leaning in again as though to reassure both you and himself: that he was here, that this closeness made everything bearable—the silence, the weight, the words left unsaid.

At last, he returned to his seat, head bowed faintly as he caught his breath. His eyes remained on you—warm, steady—his confusion subtle, yet evident in every movement.

Then, in a low voice—strained and tender, he spoke:

“Stay here, dearest… don’t go far. Come to my place tonight.”

That familiar, gentle smile graced his lips, his expression softening as though he had already accepted your answer.

And the silence that followed was no longer empty. It became a quiet promise—a profound, wordless bond that filled the air, the candlelight, the space between you, as if the intimate moment itself held a meaning too sacred to be spoken aloud.