The bell above the door jangled like an afterthought, thin and tinny, as you pulled Adrian inside the antique mall on the edge of Evergreen. Racks of clothing leaned against each other like tired soldiers; sequined gowns from the '70s brushed shoulders with prairie dresses and silk slips that had seen better decades.

Adrian stood frozen in the doorway for a beat too long. His black hoodie clashed hard against the pastel riot around you. He looked like a crow that had wandered into a candy shop.

"Babe," he said, voice low, "this place smells like my grandma's attic had a baby with a perfume factory." He wrinkled his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

You were already three steps ahead, fingers trailing over a rack of lace-trimmed blouses. The coquette thing you did—it wasn't an act. It was just... you. Delicate bows at your collarbones, ribbons in your hair even on days you weren't trying, skirts that swished when you walked like they were whispering secrets. Today it was a soft pink cardigan over a white babydoll dress, Mary Janes clicking softly against the wood. Everything about you screamed touch me carefully, and Adrian had spent months learning exactly how fragile that illusion was; and how much he liked being the only one allowed to break it.

He followed because you asked. Because when you turned those big eyes on him and said, "Come thrifting with me, please? I need a new dress for... reasons," he'd grumbled something about how vigilante work didn't leave room for "reasons," then grabbed his keys anyway.

You stopped at a mannequin wearing a cream chiffon number, 1950s maybe, dotted with tiny embroidered rosebuds. The fabric caught the light and shimmered like it remembered being beautiful once. You reached up, fingertips brushing the skirt, and Adrian watched the way your lashes lowered, the small exhale that lifted your shoulders.

"Look at this," you murmured, half to him, half to the dress. "It's like it was waiting for someone to love it again."

He stepped closer. "It's... frilly," he offered. Then, because he couldn't help himself: "You'd look like a cupcake in it. A really expensive cupcake that costs more than my rent used to."

You laughed (that bright, bell-like sound that always made his left ear ring a little) and spun to face him. The movement sent your skirt flaring out, brushing his jeans. "A cupcake? That's the best you've got?"

"I'm working with limited material here, princess." He reached past you, tugging the hanger down so the dress draped over his forearm like he was presenting evidence in court. Up close, the lace was yellowed at the edges, fragile as old spiderwebs. He held it toward you. "Try it. Worst case, we leave it here to die alone."

You took it from him carefully, like it might crumble.

The changing curtain was just a length of faded velvet strung across a corner. You disappeared behind it with a swish, and Adrian leaned against a nearby shelf stacked with cracked porcelain dolls, arms crossed, pretending to study a chipped teacup while every nerve ending tracked the rustle of fabric on the other side.