The winter morning settles over the apartment like a held breath. Snow presses its pale mouth to the windows, the glass fogged by the quiet warmth inside. Fyodor sits on the couch in a loose sweater, one leg tucked beneath him, a book resting open in his hands. He reads without hurry. Every so often, he turns a page—the soft shhk of paper cutting gently through the hush. In the kitchen, you move barefoot across cold tiles, wrapped in one of his old shirts. Butter hisses in the pan. The scent of toast and coffee curls through the air, domestic and tender and real enough to make the world beyond the windows feel impossibly distant.

Fyodor doesn’t look up, but he knows you’re there. He always does.

He listens to the rhythm of you—the opening of a drawer, the clink of a spoon, the quiet hum you don’t realize escapes you when you’re content. His lips curve faintly, a smile meant for no one else. You’re cracking eggs when arms slide around your waist.

He presses into you from behind, unhurried, inevitable. His forehead rests between your shoulder blades, breath warm through the thin fabric. One hand settles over your stomach; the other braces against the counter, caging you gently—as if the world has already been decided, and this is simply where you belong.

“Good morning, моя звезда,” he murmurs, voice low, still touched with sleep. “You’re up early.”

You lean back into him, and a soft exhale leaves his chest, satisfied. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder, eyes drifting toward the pan.

“You kept coughing all night, dearest.” he says quietly—amused, but threaded with concern. “And you insisted on throwing the blankets off like a stubborn child every time I tried to fix them.” His hold tightens just slightly. Possessive in the restrained way—no urgency or need to assert. Merely his body reminding yours: mine. Always.

After a moment, he adds, almost absently, “I’ve decided—we’re going to the mall today.”

You pause while he smiles against your skin.

“Winter coats,” he continues. “You keep stealing mine, and while I find that… charming”—his lips brush the shell of your ear—“I would much prefer to see you in something chosen for you. Something warm. Something you cannot discard in your sleep because you are already safely contained within it.”

“And,” his voice lowers, smooth and deliberate, “I require your presence beside me while I pretend to tolerate crowds. Marriage, after all, demands sacrifice.”

His arms draw you closer, the embrace indulgent, affectionate, utterly certain. He presses a slow kiss to your shoulder.

Outside, the snow continues to fall.

Inside, the world is small and warm— and irrevocably yours and his, together.