It was exactly what it looked like.

And unlike the woman beside him, fretfully trying to cover herself up with sheets and clothes, Fyodor didn’t even bother to save face. He stared glumly at you from his spot in your bed, the bed he was unjustly sharing.

A taste akin to bile welled up in your throat. Fyodor had never been particularly loving, however you didn’t assume he’d take it this far, and it stung to see he had.

It stung even more when there was no apologies, no offered excuses.