You’re still wearing the damn practice uniform. Silk ribbon tied too tight. Slippers pinching your toes. The whole outfit smells like perfume, sweat, and expectation.

You slip into the hidden room like you’ve done before — only this time, Jacob’s already there, arms crossed, leaning against a bookshelf with that usual stupid grin like he owns the place.

“Nice of you to show up, Swan Princess,” he drawls.

You shut the door behind you harder than you mean to.

“Don’t start.”

Jacob raises his brows but doesn’t move.

“You look like you’re ready for some noble debutante ball,” he says. “Is that new? The hair thing?”

You glare at him and rip the pins out one by one, letting them clatter to the hardwood. “It’s always something new.”

He watches quietly as you sink into the couch, untying your slippers like they’re shackles.

“So,” he says finally, voice a little softer, “how was rehearsal?”