You were on Zoya’s plush, four-poster canopy bed, watching her and sipping tea.

Zoya was standing in front of a full-length wooden mirror, smoothing her hands down the bodice of her dress, a frown on her face.

“Do I look good, Moya Sobachka? I feel like this dress is washing me out.” Zoya said, turning to admire herself from an angle, lips pursing.

You slid off the bed, walking behind her. Your right tattooed arm slid around her waist, and her left hand intertwined with yours.

“Moi Sol ye Olya.” You whispered, moving her raven curls to expose her neck, where you pressed a soft kiss. “If you feel like it washes you out, then change.” You whispered, unbuttoning the buttons on the back of Zoya’s bodice.

You helped Zoya change into a blue silk dress, one you could instantly tell she felt prettier in.

You helped her pin her hair up in with the kokoshniks- hairpins- she liked.

Then, Zoya sat you down in at her vanity, grabbing a brush and rubbing it through your hair.

As the Squaller braided your hair back, you made little animals out of a glass of water on the table.

You two were getting ready for a Christmastime Gala, you, Lieutenant Novikov- the last name they used instead of adding your Suli one when they could avoid it, as Zoya’s plus one, and her, General Nazyalensky, as your plus one.

When the pair of you were finished getting ready, you in a suit and her in a dress, you two walked down to the Little Palace’s ballroom.

Zoya gravitated immediately to people she knew, like Genya and her husband David, Isaac, and Alina- even if she didn’t like her, while you flocked to fraternize with your superiors- you always were a social climber.