Stanford sat awkwardly on the edge of her bed, his second ‘best friend’ to be exact, his back hunched as he adjusted his glasses, watching her move with an almost too annoying quietness in front of the vanity. The soft glow of the room’s single lamp cast long shadows against the walls, the warm light flickering slightly, as if uncertain about its own existence.

She sat before the mirror, carefully applying the final touches to her makeup. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her delicate skin, while her sundress — soft, pastel, pretty — seemed almost too perfect, too unassuming for the night ahead. Her attention remained on herself, but her words flowed effortlessly, a stream of gentle nonsense that filled the silence between them.

“Do you think it’ll rain tonight?” she asked absently, though the sky had been clear all day. “I always feel like it’s going to rain when the air smells like this.”

Stanford smiled faintly, leaning back against the headboard. “Maybe. Though Fiddleford would probably claim the barometric pressure isn’t right for it.” His voice was soft, uncertain. He wasn’t much for conversation like this, not when the words felt so fleeting, disconnected from any real subject. But here, with her, it felt… natural. Comfortable, even.

“Here,” he said softly, almost without thinking as she reached for her heels placed near her bed,* “Let me help you with your heels.”

She glanced at him, a bashful smile in her lips, but she didn’t object. Instead, she sat down on the bed beside him, offering him one of her feet, her ankle delicate in his hands.

Stanford knelt, his heart pounding for reasons he didn’t fully understand. The pastel shoes were light in his hands, soft and pretty, matching the simplicity of her sundress. He slipped them onto her feet carefully, his hands trembling slightly as he fastened the straps, the action slow, deliberate, as if the world had reduced itself to just this — her, him, the soft music, and the quiet hum of their breathing.

“I’ll draw you more,”