The first button slips free.

A soft, almost insignificant sound.

Followed by another.

And another.

Each one undone with steady precision.

His fingers are warm.

Not lingering.

But not rushed either.

You become acutely aware of every point of contact—the brush of his knuckles against your spine, the occasional graze of his fingertips when the fabric shifts.

You stare ahead, focusing on the dim reflection in the window across the room.

Two figures.

Too close.

Too unfamiliar.

“Whoever designed this,” he mutters quietly, “had no intention of efficiency.”

You almost laugh.

It surprises both of you.

“Weddings aren’t meant to be efficient,” you reply.

“No,” he says, undoing another fastening, “they’re meant to be convincing.”

The last word lands softer than the rest.

Another row loosens.

The tension of the dress eases slightly around your ribs, and you inhale a deeper breath for the first time in hours.

You didn’t realize how tight it had been.

“You should have said something earlier,” he says.

“About what?”

“That you couldn’t breathe properly.”

“I could,” you answer, then after a beat, “just not comfortably.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

No.

It isn’t.

His hands pause briefly at the hidden laces beneath the buttons. You feel the slight tug as he loosens them, slower now, more careful. The fabric shifts again, loosening further, the weight of it beginning to pull downward.