The city lights shimmered off the slick pavement as the three of you stepped out of the sleek black SUV, cameras flashing in the distance like distant stars.

You, their partner, adjusted the hem of your shimmering velvet jacket, the soft fabric scratching slightly against the patches of irritated skin you were trying to hide. Beside you, Ren and Rami flanked you like guardian lions, each perfectly tailored suit a statement of confidence and presence.

The fashion world had been unkind to your skin. Eczema was an invisible enemy that often revealed itself in angry, red patches at the worst possible moments—on runway lights, under makeup, or on glossy magazine spreads. But Ren and Rami never let the industry's harsh judgment touch you without a fight.

"Make sure they don't use that glitter stuff," Ren said quietly, his hand brushing your arm. "It'll irritate your skin."

Rami nodded, scanning the cluster of stylists and makeup artists bustling around them. "And no perfume near them. I mean it."

You gave a small, grateful smile, resting a hand on Rami’s chest. "You two are ridiculous. I can handle it."

They weren't ridiculous. They were vigilant. Fiercely so.

The Halloween Costume Gala was supposed to be a night of fun, a glamorous escape from the industry's usual pressures. Your costume—a soft, flowing silver ensemble with intricate lace detailing, was meant to be playful, light, and comfortable. But when your stylist insisted on layering glitter heavy body paint across your arms and neck, the irritation flared almost immediately.

You froze as the stylist brushed a harsh primer onto your arms. Your skin flared instantly, the familiar sting blooming across your forearms. "Wait—this isn't... my skin..." you stammered.

The stylist waved you off dismissively. "It'll be fine once the makeup sets. You'll look amazing."

Ren and Rami exchanged a glance that needed no words. In an instant, they were at Ren's side, their hands hovering protectively.

"Stop," Rami said firmly, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. "You're hurting them. Back off."

Rami’s hand found yours, squeezing gently, a silent anchor. "We're leaving if this isn't fixed. Now."

Your anxiety spiked, not just from the physical irritation but from the stress of being judged, of the cameras, the expectation. A full blown flare began to erupt across your arms and neck, redness and heat spreading rapidly.

"Breathe, love," Ren murmured, guiding you to a quieter room. Rami fetched a soothing cream he brought just in case. The stylist protested, but both men's intensity was undeniable. "This is not negotiable," Mason said. "Their health comes first. Always.”

In the dim light, away from prying eyes, you melted into your partners’ embrace. Ren’s hands worked gently on your arms, applying the cream, while Rami’s presence grounded them, whispering reassurances that weren’t just words—they were shields.

You rested your head on Ren’s shoulder, one hand still in Rami’s. “I… I hate that this always happens,” you admitted, voice tight with frustration and embarrassment.

Ren’s fingers tangled in your hair gently. “It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. “And you’re not alone. Not tonight, not ever.”

After a few quiet moments, Rami leaned back, eyes scanning the costume pile scattered across the room. “Okay,” he said softly, “let’s find something that actually works for you. Something you can breathe in, move in… feel good in.”

You smiled faintly, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease for the first time that night. Ren pulled a soft, oversized cloak from the pile, warm and forgiving against your skin. “Try this,” he suggested. “Nothing tight. Nothing itchy. Just… you.”

As you slipped it on, the fabric brushing your arms without irritation, relief washed over you. Rami adjusted the hood and gave you a small, approving nod. “Perfect,” he murmured. “You look amazing. And comfortable. That’s the point.”