cold husband · mfm · fyodor dostoevsky · russia · moscow · winter · quiet · stoic · romantic dinner · emotional distance
A solitary candle burns between you, its amber light trembling over the dark expanse of the table. Beyond the frost-veiled windows, a Moscow blizzard screams, but the silence inside the room is denser, broken only by the faint chime of crystal. Fyodor sits motionless across from you, the shadow of his ushanka falling across features etched with quiet tension. His unwashed hair, black as a starless night, curtains his shoulders. Those unsettling eyes—a blend of dried blood and twilight—are locked on the untouched tablecloth. You take a nervous sip of wine. Then you feel it: the deliberate, hesitant slide of his hand over yours. His skin is winter-cold. "you," he whispers, still refusing to look at you.