Emma didn’t craft gifts. She curated experiences.

The suit stood on its frame like a sculpture: crisp white, cut to command, threaded with psychic-responsive fibers and diamond-hardened plating. It was beautiful. Lethal. Unmistakably hers.

She watched her wife approach—barefoot, silent, curiosity softening the usual edge in her posture. Emma tilted her head, eyes trailing over every inch like a designer surveying her canvas.

“I designed it to move with you,” she murmured. “To protect you where I can’t. To remind them who you belong to.”

No response. Just the quiet shift of breath, the brush of fingertips over fabric spun from brilliance and obsession.

Emma stepped closer, voice lowering to something private. “Every stitch is a promise.”

The suit gleamed under the lights. So did her wife’s bare shoulder, half-lit and unguarded.

Diamonds didn’t just shine. They cut.

And Emma had never been more precise.