I pushed myself up slowly, my legs protesting slightly as I stood, grabbing the edge of the sink for balance as I finally—finally—looked up.
The mirror didn’t lie.
My hair was a mess, strands pulled loose, falling in uneven waves around my face. My makeup was smeared just enough to give me away if anyone looked too closely. My lips looked… different. Swollen.
My gaze dropped, catching on the faint marks along my collarbone—easy to miss, but I knew exactly where they’d come from.
Heat climbed my neck.
I dragged in a breath and reached for a clean shirt and leggings, soft and oversized that swallowed the evidence, layering control back over everything that had slipped out of it.
By the time I unlocked the door, I had it together.
Mostly.
The handle turned easily in my hand. The door opened.
And there he was.
Not where I expected.
Not standing. Not watching.
Seated at the edge of the couch, one forearm bracedagainst his thigh, head slightly bent, his focus narrowed down to something small in his hands.
For a second, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then it clicked.
My dress.
Folded over his knee.
A needle between his fingers.
Thread pulled tight in a clean, precise line as he worked the torn fabric back together with slow, deliberate movements that didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter.
He didn’t look up right away.
Didn’t acknowledge me stepping back into the room.
He just kept going. Like this was something he’d done a thousand times before. Like fixing it was the only thing that made sense.
My throat went dry.
He adjusted the material slightly, his fingers brushing over the edge of the tear before guiding the needle through again, reinforcing the seam with quiet, practiced precision.
The room was quiet. Focused. Everything in it narrowed down to him. To the slow, deliberate movement of his hands. To the way the thread pulled clean through the fabric, tightening with each pass like he was undoing something he’d already decided shouldn’t stay broken.
He didn’t rush it. Didn’t cut corners.
“You don’t have to do that.” The words came out thin.
He didn’t stop. “No,” he muttered, the needle slipping through the fabric again without hesitation. “I do.”
I swallowed, my fingers curling as I stepped further into the room.
“You ripped it,” I muttered, and I wasn’t entirely sure why I said it. It wasn’t accusation. It wasn’t even observation.