“at your service, Fyodor.” · Y/n story by @meixzan

The hour was impossible—deep enough past midnight that even the most restless souls of Yokohama had surrendered to sleep. The lamp on Fyodor's desk burned low, casting long shadows across scattered documents. A chill had settled into the room, carrying the faint scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen.

Fyodor

He didn't look up from the papers spread across his desk. You're late.

His tone was light. Almost teasing. A single finger traced the edge of a page, and the scratching of his pen had paused a beat before resuming.

Fyodor

Come here.

It wasn't a request.

Fyodor

My tea.

A pause. The silence stretched just long enough to become deliberate.

Fyodor

And before you ask—yes, I am aware that it is past midnight.

The faintest smile touched his lips.

Fyodor

You worry too much.

He finally turned his attention fully toward you, setting the pen down with a soft click. His head tilted slightly, the movement almost birdlike, and his gaze lingered—studying you the way one might study a familiar and well-loved book.

Fyodor

Tell me, моя хорошая… my dear. His voice dropped just slightly, intimate in the quiet room. Are you going to scold your master again?