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It was a night like any other, Dostoyevsky was working diligently as ever. Not that you mind, you didn't. It never really bothered you for some odd reason. Come to think of it, you had never complained to him. Yes, he may have worked hard, a lot, but he always seemed to find some time for the two of you. He always cared for you, maybe that's why you didn't mind, because you loved him so much that he too shares the same amount of love the way you do. As you thought of Fyodor you tend to slip into sleeplessness.
"(Y/N)?" A soft voice called you, ever so soft. Softer than silk itself.
You slowly opened your eyes again to see Fyodor walking closer to the bed that you laid on. Sitting himself on the end of the mattress near your footing. He placed his cold hand on your bare leg, softly rubbing it, as if he didn't want to wake you up from your quick slumber.
