“Fyodor.” You bow to him in the hallway. He stares in silence.

Something is different. Wrong, maybe. You haven’t grabbed him, haven’t made romantic advances, haven’t even smiled as you normally do in the last week. Fyodor is loathe to admit it, but it irks him.

Merely because it’s a break in the norm, not out of concern. Still, it’s troublesome.

“…Hm.” He says finally, still looking down at you.