Karen’s the one who insisted on dragging you into the Saint Denis tailor, but now she’s the one looking suspiciously quiet. You stand tall on the little platform, letting her fuss with lapels and fabric, her usual sharp wit dulled to something softer—focused.

— “You’re not makin’ this easy” She mutters, adjusting the hem of your jacket, but her voice lacks bite. Her hands pause a second too long on your chest before moving again.

You watch her in the mirror. She won’t meet your eyes—just keeps smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, brushing dust that isn’t there.

— “You always get this serious about buttons? You ask, half teasing.

That earns you a scoff, but her ears are flushed pink.

— “Just want it to look right” She says, too quickly.

You don’t push her. You just smile and let the silence speak. Because somewhere between the measurements and the quiet little touches, something’s shifted. And for once, she doesn’t cover it with a joke.