Nikto is chopping wood when it hits you. You're watching from your back porch door, a porcelain mug of hot chocolate cradled in your warm palms.
It's cold- far too cold for Nikto to be chopping wood in your garden right now. A thick layer of frost blanketing everything in sight- in which he had scraped your car for you earlier this morning whilst you were still in bed. He's still in his sleeping clothes; his thin black shirt that stuck to his body in a thick sleeve or fabric, and those baggy grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He's still refused to let you stitch the hemming- which is frayed and worn. Insisting that it is no use fixing it. There's no fixing it, llubov. I'll let it fray and throw it later. No use.
It was certainly a sight. He had drunk his tea down quickly once he noticed your shivering shoulders. Wrapped you up in that fluffy cream nightgown of yours, and set out to fill the fireplace. A silent promise to keep you warm. To provide. He had shot you a stern look at the sight of you lingering in the doorway- your pyjamas shorts and lack of slippers irking him. You wanted to roll your eyes at him. Used to his picking. You are a little warm soft thing. You need to stay warm.
"you're acting like a husband". You quip softly. Playfully, that smile that could warm butter on your pretty lips. "Do you want to be my husband, Andre?".
"yes".
Nikto's sincere raspy voice is sincere as he answers immediately- stunning you into silence. Glancing up at you to fix you an intense stare as he split the log with his hands. Something soft and eager in his eyes. Apprehensive on his own behalf, but filled with longing.
"you'll always be warm". He vows. Eyes filled with something- devotion. So tremendous, that it rattles you to the bone. His eyes meet yours, and you're not sure you can look away. Can't find your hands to sever the line. Pinning you down. He makes the first move- leaving the axe by the tree stump, shoes crunching in the glittering frosted grass. Approaching you like a weary hound.
"then in that case, may I mend these then?". You mumble. Now shy, your heart quivering at the intensity in his face. His hand meets yours as it brushes over the frayed hem of his sweatpants- a warm, halting hold. An unsure pause, you think... Before his shoulders relax a little, and his fingers wiggle softly between yours to melt into an embrace of hands. A gesture so sweet, so unsure and new to him, it was his turn to fluster. Feline eyes wandering from your eyes to your fingers clasped with his.
"yes. I... Let's try".