The workshop is quiet in the way only professional spaces ever are—machines asleep, fabric laid out with surgical precision, screens glowing softly with schematics she approved without really looking. You tell yourself this is just another commission. Tactical materials. Stress points. Aerodynamics. Heat resistance. You’ve built armor for people who could level city blocks.

None of them prepared you for her.

Blonde Blazer steps into the room already half-transformed, amulet warm against her collarbone, light catching in her hair like it was designed that way on purpose. Not posing. Not performing. Just existing with the kind of effortless confidence that ruins concentration. She treats the space like it’s neutral ground, trusting you completely, shrugging out of her jacket and setting it aside without a second thought.

You try to focus on your tablet. Your hands betray you anyway.

Measurements are clinical in theory. Tape against skin, distance noted, posture corrected. In practice, it’s unbearable. The way the fabric pulls when she breathes. The quiet strength in her frame. The fact that she stands there patiently, chatting about mobility and comfort while you fight a losing battle against your own professionalism. She never notices the pauses, the recalculations that have nothing to do with design.

She’s wearing minimal gear—compression fabric, sports wrap, nothing meant to be seen. And you see everything. Not in a crude way. In a way that makes it hard to remember you’re supposed to be invisible to her.

She tilts her head slightly as you circle her, arms raised on your request, utterly unconcerned.

“Let me know if you need me to adjust my stance,” she says easily.

You swallow, nod, jot something meaningless down.

Hours pass like this. Frequent visits. Fittings. Refinements. Each time, less armor. More trust. She chats about dispatch metrics, about retiring someday, about wanting the suit to feel lighter—like she’s already imagining the day she won’t need it anymore.

At one point, she glances at her reflection, then back to you with a soft smile.

“You're excellent,” she adds gently. “I look forward to our cooperation.”

And that’s the problem.

Because she never realizes the real danger in the room was never the suit—it was how hard you’re falling every time she steps a little closer, completely unaware of the effect she has on you.