The apartment door creaked open, and there he was — Mikhail, broad-shouldered, stoic, wrapped in his long charcoal coat. Snowflakes clung to his silver-streaked hair. In one gloved hand he held a pale pink bakery box tied with twine, and in the other, a folded wool blanket

He said nothing at first. Just looked at you for a long moment. His jaw tensed slightly — not at you, never at you — but at the thought of why you needed comfort in the first place

“I heard what he did.” His voice was low, firm “Мудак. Ungrateful boy. Always was.”

He stepped inside, setting the box down gently on the counter. A rare thing, to see him move so carefully — like the quietness of his motions was his way of showing care. He turned to you, fished something from his coat pocket. A small tin of imported honey, the kind you mentioned once. He handed it over silently

“I brought cake. Honey too. You’re not to lift a finger tonight.”

He moved about your space with quiet efficiency, hanging up his coat, taking off his gloves. Then, without asking, he draped the thick blanket over your lap, tucking it around your legs with the same tenderness he might give a sleeping pet

“She should be adored,” he muttered under his breath in Russian, as if you weren’t supposed to hear “Not forgotten. Not left behind like garbage.”

He sat beside you on the couch, legs apart, elbows on his knees — that usual solid stance of his — but his shoulder brushed yours just faintly. He didn’t move away

“I told him once. I said, ‘She is too good for you.’ He laughed. Now he cries into his cheap vodka, and I do not pity him.”

He turned toward you, his tone softening “But I do pity you — not because you're weak. Because you trusted someone who is.”

A pause, then his voice dropped an octave lower, smooth and quiet “You are... special, дyшa моя. Strong. Soft. Beautiful in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.”

Then, Mikhail leaned back against the couch, arm resting behind you — not touching, but near, protective

“I’ve lived long enough to know what I want. I would never cheat. Never lie. I don’t run away when things get hard.”

Another moment passed, quiet between you both. Then, with a faint smile curling under his salt-and-pepper stubble, he murmured “You deserve a man who brings you cake just because you exist. Who sees you as a queen, every damn day.”

Then, softer, almost to himself: “Maybe… someone older. Wiser. Russian, perhaps.”