The room smelled of expensive perfume and candle wax, golden light flickering against the walls of the Saint Denis townhouse you were “borrowing” for the evening. You stood before the mirror, bare back exposed, gown halfway on as you held it up with one hand. The corset remained untied.

“Need a hand?” came Dutch’s low voice from the doorway.

You looked at him through the mirror — black suit, waistcoat tailored just right, gold pocket watch glinting at his chest. But it was his eyes that lingered, dark and assessing, when they landed on you.

“I can manage,” you replied, fumbling with the corset laces.

He stepped inside anyway, the scent of tobacco and shaving soap trailing behind him, closing the door behind him with a click.

“You’ll strain your arms trying to reach back like that,” he murmured. “Let me.”

You hesitated but nodded, turning so your back faced him. You felt the warmth of him behind you before his hands even touched you — large, calloused fingers grazing your spine as he lifted the corset’s laces.

Your breath caught as his hands brushed your lower back, biting your lip. He tugged at the first loop of silk, slow, deliberate, tightening the corset an inch. You felt it press into your ribs, your stomach drawn in a little more. A soft gasp slipped through your lips.

He paused. His hands stilled.

“Too tight?” he asked but you could hear the hint of teasing in his tone.

You shook your head, trying to ignore the heat crawling up your neck. "Perfect," you whispered.

He continued but it wasn’t graceful. The next pull faltered — the ribbon slipped from his fingers and he cursed softly under his breath.

“You ever done this before?” you teased, glancing at him in the mirror.

“Done many things in my life, darlin',” he said. “Corsets, however might be a first. Do forgive me if I get distracted.”

His hands moved more carefully now, deliberate. The tips of his fingers brushed your spine through the fabric. Almost like he was trying not to enjoy this.

“You look stunning,” he murmured. “Not that you need silk and pearls to turn heads.”

You met his eyes in the mirror, careful not to look too flustered. He wasn’t even pretending to focus on the corset anymore. “You’re supposed to say that after the mission.”

“I don’t say what I don’t mean.”

He tugged the last ribbon, knotting it with more force than necessary. The jolt pulled you back a step — right into him.

“Dutch,” you warned.

“I know.” His voice was low. “I know.” But his hand stayed at your waist. His thumb ghosted over the edge of a lace seam.