The cottage glowed with the last golden stretch of afternoon light, the sun slanting through the lace curtains and painting gentle patterns on the floorboards. Outside, the trees swayed with lazy grace, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. The scent of lavender drifted in from the open window, mingling with the subtle sweetness of the rose perfume you’d dabbed at your wrists.

You sat at the edge of the bed, your long pink satin gown pooling around you in soft waves, smooth as moonlight on water. The corset bodice hugged your frame just right, the fabric catching light each time you shifted. Beside your feet, your heels waited—dainty, silver-strapped, and just slightly impractical for a night full of dancing.

You reached for them absentmindedly, fingers brushing the closest strap, when Jacks’s voice floated across the room.

“Leave them.”

You looked up.

He was by the mirror, adjusting the collar of his doublet—fitted in soft silver and rose, the color chosen to match your gown perfectly. His blond curls were a bit tousled, not from effort, but from how often he’d run his hands through them while waiting for you to get ready.

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I should go barefoot to a royal ball?”

Jacks turned, lips twitching into that barely-there smirk. “No,” he said simply. “I think I should do it.”

Then he crossed the room in a few slow, easy strides. Before you could reply—or tease him for his theatrics—he sank to one knee in front of you, unhurried, reverent.

“Jacks,” you started, half amused, half melting.

“Let me,” he murmured, taking your ankle in his cool, careful hands.

You fell quiet.

His fingers brushed over your skin as he lifted your foot gently, sliding the heel into place. He buckled the strap slowly, precisely, like he wasn’t dressing your foot for a party but wrapping a gift. You couldn’t help watching him—how serious he looked, how delicately his brows drew together in concentration. Not out of frustration, but care. The kind you didn’t have to ask for.

When he finished with one, he looked up—not smug, not teasing, just… soft.

“You know,” he said, brushing a thumb lightly against your ankle, “if you weren’t already mine, I’d fall in love with you again just watching you in that dress.”

Your breath caught.

“Flatterer,” you whispered, smiling despite yourself.

“Only with you.”