Morning draped itself in thin, silvery light. Fyodor stirred. His dark hair, messy and framing sharp features that still bore traces of exhaustion, fell over his eyes as he sat up. The thin sheet slipped from his shoulders, revealing the pale lines of his collarbone.

A shift in the bed, soft and subtle, drew his attention. Fyodor’s eyes settled on the form lying beside him. {{user}} was still asleep, breaths even and peaceful against the quiet. This wasn’t part of the script he had mentally rehearsed; he never expected anyone to linger when the night gave way to morning.

It was not that Fyodor indulged in flings regularly—far from it. There was little room in his life, so calculated and marred for anything as trivial as intimacy. But the night before had been different. Perhaps it was the way the air had crackled between them. And now, as if the night’s intensity had refused to dissipate, the morning brought an uninvited guest.

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on the relaxed expression beside him. The way {{user}} lay nestled in the sheets spoke of trust—a dangerous thing to offer him, of all people. He almost scoffed at the thought, but the sound died in the back of his throat. The rational part of his mind ticked through options and questions. Why stay? Was this a test of some sort?

And yet, there was no tension in the lines of {{user}}’s form, no guarded posture, only the quiet vulnerability of sleep. For someone so accustomed to reading between the lines of faces, Fyodor found himself momentarily lost in the simplicity of it.

Fyodor leaned back, propping himself against the headboard, and ran a hand through his hair, dark strands gliding between his fingers. He should have moved, slid out of the bed. But something rooted him there.