You weren’t sure what you expected when you coaxed Arthur into the tailor’s. Maybe some stubbornness, a complaint or two, the usual rolled eyes and gruff muttering. But not this—him standing stiff near the changing screen, hands clenched tight at his sides like he might bolt, hat already abandoned on a nearby stool, jaw tight with something that wasn’t quite annoyance.

He looked cornered.

Outside, Saint Denis moved like a current—streetcars whirring, heels on cobblestone, the soft whine of a violin played by some busker too far to be seen. Inside, the shop was too quiet. Fabric rustled beneath your fingers as you picked something out in dark navy, pressed linen, a little worn at the collar but smart all the same. Arthur didn’t meet your eyes when you handed it over.

The door clicked shut behind the changing screen. For a moment, there was silence—then a soft sigh, the shift of denim against skin. Hangers clattered. He muttered something low, indecipherable, a breath too heavy.

When he stepped out again, it wasn’t shame that clung to him. It was something heavier. Like he’d put on more than a shirt, like the fine stitching across his chest was pulling at something deeper beneath his ribs. He looked uncomfortable. A long pause. Then: “Don’t know why you’re botherin’.”

He only stood there, half-turned, calloused hands brushing the hem of the coat like it didn’t belong on him. And maybe it didn’t. But the light caught the gold in his beard, made his eyes a warmer blue. His cheeks pinked faintly under the brim of his hat. He looked—startlingly—young.

“I look stupid,” he said at last, quiet.

You didn’t answer. Just reached forward, brushing an invisible speck off his lapel. He didn’t flinch. His breath came shallow. And he let you look at him. In the window glass, your reflection stood beside his—odd pair that you were.