cold husband · mfm · fyodor dostoevsky · russia · moscow · winter · quiet · stoic · romantic dinner · emotional distance
The amber glow of a single candle flickers between you, casting long shadows across the dark wood of the table. Outside, Moscow’s winter wind howls against the frosted windows, but inside, the silence is heavier—broken only by the clink of wine glasses. Fyodor sits across from you, his unwashed black hair brushing his shoulders beneath the ushanka he never removes indoors. His red-tinged purple eyes are fixed on the tablecloth. You sip your wine, awkward. Then your breath catches—his cold hand has crept over yours, tentative, almost scared. "you," he whispers, not looking up.