Fyodor’s soft knuckles brush against your skin as he assists you with dressing, the touch tender and delicate — gone just as quick as it came. Despite his cold hands, your skin burns like an inferno beneath his subtle touch.

“Quit moving, {{user}},” Fyodor says, his grip on the fabric temporarily tightening before he relaxes again; he takes a deep breath, the air ghosting along your neck. “You’re only making my job harder.” . His eyes start to roam over your body, stray and shameless, before he forcibly pulls them back to the fabric instead. He was suddenly diffident now, and he was doing an unusually poor job at hiding it from you.