Not just seeing.
Actually looking.
"You can't admire your enemy like that," I say, the words coming out breathier than intended.
His lips curve.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
"Turn around."
I comply—facing away from him, presenting my back. The costume hangs open, fabric pooling against my spine, waiting to be secured.
His fingers find the first tie.
Warm.
Careful.
"How do you even know how to do this?" I ask, watching his reflection in the mirror as he works.
"My mother enjoyed dance."
The words are quiet.
Weighted.
Something about the way he says it—enjoyed, past tense—makes my stomach clench.
"You speak as if she's gone," I say softly.
He doesn't respond immediately.
His fingers continue working—threading fabric, adjusting tension, securing the ties with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this before.
The silence stretches.
Too long.
I pushed too far.
Crossed a line I shouldn't have crossed.
"I'm sorry," I start, "I didn't mean to?—"
"She killed herself."
The words are flat.
Final.
Empty of the emotion they should contain.
My head turns—I can't help it—finding his face in the mirror. His expression is carefully blank, that mask of control he wears like armor, but his eyes...
His eyes are ancient.
