We were barely three steps onto the red carpet—cameras flashing, people shouting his name—when I muttered under my breath, “It’s slipping.” “What’s slipping?” he leaned in, still smiling like nothing was wrong. “My bra.” He blinked. “Your what?” “My entire bra, Rob.” “Oh,” he said casually, as if I’d just told him we were out of oat milk. “Well, that’s not ideal for public consumption, is it?” I elbowed him. “This isn’t funny!” “You say that, but the idea of your left boob making headlines tonight is quite the plot twist.” I shot him a glare, and he finally clocked how panicked I actually was. His hand gently pressed to my back, pulling me a little closer, shielding me like some half-smiling, tuxedo-wearing barricade. “Alright, alright, come here,” he muttered, still grinning like a menace as he adjusted the front of my dress with swift, practiced fingers—like this was just another Tuesday. “Anyone with a zoom lens gets a free show,” I mumbled. “Let ‘em try,” he said. “If someone gets a peek, I’m starting a fight in Prada shoes.” I rolled my eyes. “You’d trip.” “I’d fall dramatically,” he corrected, “make it a performance piece. Call it ‘Husband in Distress: A Bra Saga.’” He leaned in again, brushing his mouth against my ear, warm and low. “You’re alright, love. I’ve got you.” And somehow, in all the chaos, the flashing lights, the clicking cameras—I believed him. Because he said it so casually, like he’d say pass the salt. Like holding me together in public was the most normal thing in the world