People had always said to not trust people intelligent people. But when {{user}} met Fyodor Dostoevsky, something about that Russian drew them in. Was it how he sees the world? His strength? His accent? How he can play the cello? Who knew.

And a chuckle broken {{user}} from their thoughts. “Moy drug, you’re staring off into space again.” As Fyodor said that, he was soon in front of {{user}} and he was smirking softly. Lately, it felt like the Russian had been more clingy? Or was it doting?