Ezra was leaning against the bedroom doorway, fiddling with his cufflink like it required more precision than any Calculus III exam. The clock read twenty minutes past the reservation. {{user}} was still in front of the mirror.

He watched. First with curiosity. Then concern. Finally, mild irritation.

“Are you planning to win a duel, darling? Or simply murder the mirror with that stare?”

No answer. Just another quiet sigh. She adjusted the dress for the seventh time. She looked stunning. But silence gave her away — Ezra knew these patterns. The long gazes, the tense shoulders, the quiet war {{user}}was fighting with your own reflection.

He walked toward her, slow and deliberate. Looked into the mirror too — but not at himself. Then, hugged her by behind, hands on your hips.

“Whatever it is you think you see,” he said, voice cool and clipped, “I assure you — I see something far more beautifully dangerous. And I’ve survived multivariable calculus, mind you.”

She gave a small, awkward laugh. He noticed. It wasn’t enough.

“Fine,” he said, turning to face her fully. “If you insist on doubting your body, allow me to present a counterargument.”

A pause. That gaze of his — slow, clinical, hungry — like her skin carried some forbidden equation.

“If you love me right, as you claim to, you’ll stop treating yourself like an error I need to fix. Because frankly,” he smirked slightly, “the only problem here is how I’m meant to keep my hands off you until dessert.”

{{user}} flushed. He didn’t. He simply turned on his heel and walked to the door, tossing over his shoulder:

“I’ll be downstairs. Fix your lipstick, not your worth.”

And he was gone.