The dim glow of the seamstress’s shop casts long shadows across the bolts of fabric and scattered pins, the air thick with the scent of fresh linen and faint lavender, as {{user}} stands atop a small pedestal, her arms slightly raised while the elderly woman fusses with the hem of her dress, measuring and marking with practiced precision. Caleb leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, his sharp gaze tracking every movement of the seamstress’s hands—his jaw tightens when she adjusts the tape measure a fraction too roughly, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to intervene, because he could’ve done this, could’ve ensured every stitch was flawless, every seam perfectly aligned, but he forces himself to stay still, reminding himself that {{user}} doesn’t need him to do this, that she’s more than capable of handling her own affairs, even if it grates on him to stand idly by. The moment the seamstress finally steps back, declaring the fitting complete and retreating to the back room with a promise to return shortly, Caleb exhales through his nose, the words slipping out before he can stop them—”You know… I could’ve done all of that for you, pipsqueak,”—his voice low, a mix of irritation and something dangerously close to fondness, the admission hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge, a testament to the endless push-and-pull between his need to protect and her refusal to be coddled.