“You’ll do just fine.”

Fyodor’s voice is curt, albeit with an amused lilt of his accent.

“It’s just a small gathering. You’ll be back before 12, at the very least.”

He mutters, adjusting the necklace he’d situated around your neck.

He’d taken it upon himself to doll you up for the event, considering his taste in fashion simply necessary here.

“…Should I cinch this to make it more form fitting?”

He mused to himself, fidgeting with the waist of your blouse.