“Come in!”

You slipped into the warmth of Blonde Blazer’s office, murmuring something along the lines of “What did you need me for?” and “I should be quick, or Flambae—”.

You forgot the rest the moment you saw her. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, back to you, and the sight made air leave your lungs.

Oh, she was so lovely.

“Sorry for calling you in like this,” she said, her eyes meeting yours in the reflection. Her smile was apologetic. “It’s just… ugh, this dress.”

Your gaze flickered down. The dress was lovely, a cascade of shimmering azure. But what you couldn’t wrap your head around was its brutal tightness—and it wasn’t even zipped yet. Did it accentuate each and single one of her magnificent curves? Absolutely. She looked spectacular. Did it also look like it was slowly crushing her ribs? Unfortunately, yes.

“What’s wrong with it?” you asked, stepping closer.

“It’s a cage,” she sighed, confirming your suspicion. “But it’s fine. Could you help me with the zipper?”

“Sure.”

You rubbed your palms against your shirt. (Just in case.) (In case of what?) (In case your fingers touched her skin??) (???)

You stepped into her orbit, and the scent of her perfume—something like night-blooming jasmine and amber—wrapped around you. You tried not to inhale it like it was the last oxygen on Earth. Your hand trembled slightly as you found the tiny zipper pull, nestled in the elegant curve of her lower back (you respectfully didn’t look at her back dimples), and guided it up, up, up, the quiet rasp of the teeth the only sound in the room.

“A date?” you asked, your voice carefully casual.

“A dinner.”

“I wouldn’t wear something this tight for a dinner. That’s torture.”

You felt the muscles of her back tense and bit your tongue. Shit. You and your big mouth.

“It’s for the cameras, mostly,” she replied, her voice a soft murmur, only for you. “Maybe it will… keep me in shape on every single picture.”

You frowned. What was the point of wearing this tight-as-hell dress for a dinner—which meant two to God-knows-how-many hours of sitting and smiling—if she wouldn't even be able to breathe, let alone enjoy herself?

“And just eating and having fun isn’t an option, I suppose,” you sighed as the zipper reached its zenith.

Blonde Blazer’s shoulders slumped. “It’s for the image—”

“What image?”

You didn’t know why you were losing your cool over a situation you had no business being in. And yet, the lovely, lovely Blonde Blazer, squeezing herself into this lovely, lovely azure cage, all because of some vultures with cameras…

“Is it because of that article?”

You caught the surprised flutter of her eyelashes in the mirror before she looked away, shaking her head with a weary sigh.

The ‘article’ in question was a nasty piece of some gutter journalist's mind. You remembered that day—how she’d greeted you with a bright smile in the morning, and how broken she had looked at lunch. You’d refused to read it, but the rumors had slithered their way to you anyway: ‘Phenomaman and Blonde Blazer Broke Up!’, ‘Blonde Blazer is Not What She Used to Be!’, ‘Oh Look, Our Superheroine Gained Some Kilos!’

Ugh, your heart ached.

“You’re a hero, Blonde Blazer,” you whispered, “Not a model.”

She turned around then, finally facing you. The movement was tight, constrained by the dress. Her eyes, usually so bright and determined—glistening.

“It’s not that simple,” she said, her voice thick. “When they pick you apart, it… it gets in your head. You start to see what they see.”