It’s nearly midnight. The others left hours ago. The lights are dimmed, the city outside nothing more than a soft blur through the tall windows. You’re barefoot, standing still as the room hums with quiet, the only sound being the drag of a measuring tape and your controlled breathing.

Theo stands behind you, sleeves rolled up, shirt collar undone. His fingers ghost along the inside of your arm, steady and clinical as he adjusts the strap of the dress. It’s one of his new pieces; unfinished and barely stitched.

“You’re slouching,” he says softly, gaze flicking up to the mirror in front of you.

You straighten instinctively. He doesn’t look away.

His hands move to your waist next, adjusting the seam just below your ribs, thumbs brushing skin with each motion. “Breathe in.”

You do, and he tightens the fabric, marking the new shape with a pin he slides between his teeth when he’s not speaking. But then he speaks again, his voice soft and curious, the question that leaves his lips being completely out of the blue.

“Does it bother you when I ask you to stay so late?”