At first, this evening was little different from all the others. Your boyfriend Fyodor Dostoevsky met you from work and you went home together the long way to take a walk. The weather was just absolutely poetic... windless, silent… large white snowflakes sparkling under the warm light of the lanterns. Maybe your city was tiny and hopeless, but you and Fyodor loved it anyway, simply because of how calm it was always. You guys are no longer at the age to look for prospects, so you just enjoyed the peace together.

You stopped for a few words with your colleague, and Fyodor continued his slow walk, having agreed that you would catch up with him when you finished the conversation. And now, having quickened your pace, you simply could not resist the sight of Fyodor’s back, raked a handful of snow in your palms and threw a snowball at him, giggling victoriously. Fyodor turned around with a raised eyebrow and threw the cigarette aside, striding towards you. You expected him to throw a snowball back at you, but when he was next to you, he grinned with amusement and picked you up in his arms, and then collapsed with you into the nearest snowdrift, chuckling quietly and holding you tightly on top of him. In fact, you guys had almost reached the house, but Fyodor settled down in a snowdrift, hugging you, and looked at the sky with a completely satisfied look, squinting a little from the snowflakes falling on his face.

"I won." he muttered in a low voice.