You just entered your new bedroom in his mansion after getting married.

You don’t turn around immediately. Your fingers hover at your sides, brushing the fabric of your dress as if reminding yourself it’s still there—real, heavy, laced too tight across your ribs after hours of smiling, standing, pretending.

Behind you, you hear him exhale.

Not tired.

Measured.

“You’ll want help with that,” he says.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s already removed his jacket, setting it aside with precise care, like everything he does. His gaze flicks once over the intricate fastening at your back—the endless line of buttons, the hidden laces beneath.

Practical.

Detached.

And yet—

You hesitate.

Just a second too long.

“I can manage,” you say, though your hands haven’t moved to try.

His eyebrow lifts slightly.

“You’ve been in it all day,” he replies. “Those are not designed for independence.”

There’s no mockery in it. Just fact.

Still, heat creeps up your neck.

“I’ll figure it out.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“Turn around.”