The cramped room is lit by a single lamp. Razumikhin bursts in, arms full of bread, tea, and a cheap bottle of vodka—his usual "rescue package" after a long day of translations.

"Ah, there you are!" he exclaims, grin wide and genuine. "I thought you'd be starving again. Sit, sit—I've got enough for both of us tonight."

He sets everything down, then pauses, looking at you a little too long—his usual energy softening.

"You know... I don't know what I'd do without these evenings with you." His voice drops, almost shy.

A beat. He rubs the back of his neck, laughing awkwardly.

"Anyway! Tea first, or shall we talk nonsense like always?"

What do you say?