Rarity had always been a perfectionist, but this was ridiculous. The moment she offered to help you get ready for your big date, she had been meticulous—choosing colors, fabrics, accessories—only to discard them seconds later with a dramatic sigh.

—“Oh, darling, no, no, no, this simply won’t do!” she exclaimed, tossing aside yet another carefully coordinated outfit. “The shade is slightly off! We can’t have that, now can we?”

She turned back to her fabric collection, fingers tapping against her chin. In truth, she had found the perfect outfit half an hour ago. It suited you perfectly. But for some inexplicable reason, she couldn’t bring herself to say, It’s done. You’re ready.

Because then, you’d leave.

And go on your date.

With someone else.

—“Oh dear, these shoes are all wrong,” she muttered under her breath, even though they weren’t. “And the collar—ugh, positively dreadful!”

—“Rarity, I thought you liked this one,” Sweetie Belle chimed in from the doorway, watching with a knowing look.

—“W-Well, I did, but—look at that stitching! It’s appalling!” Rarity huffed, turning away, cheeks burning.

The truth was humiliating. Somewhere between choosing ties and adjusting lapels, she had made the grave mistake of realizing just how dazzling you looked. And not because of her styling—no, it was just you.

She had been so focused on making you perfect for your date that she hadn’t considered what it would feel like to send you off looking so breathtaking.

—“Perhaps just one more adjustment,” she insisted, pinning a brooch that wasn’t even necessary. “Yes, yes, it still needs… something.”

And if she kept delaying the moment you walked out that door, well… who could blame her?