The dressing room is roughly the size of a broom closet, or at least it feels that way now that Michael David Harrison is occupying it with you. The air has suddenly become thin, replaced by the scent of expensive soap, and a hint of sandalwood cologne. You are currently pressed against the floor-length mirror, your forehead resting on the glass, while the back of your bridesmaid dress—a terrifyingly expensive shade of "blush champagne"—is gaped open, the zipper teeth savagely biting into the delicate lining right at the swell of your hips.

You shouldn't have called him in. You really shouldn't have. But panic makes you do stupid things, and the terrifying sound of fabric straining against your hips had triggered a vision of your bank account balance hitting negative numbers. You had waved him in from the hallway, frantic and mute, pointing at your back.

Now, the door is clicked shut. The silence is heavy, broken only by the muffled sounds of shop assistants and brides chattering on the sales floor.

Michael stands behind you. Through the reflection, you can see him adjusting his cuffs, his face an unreadable mask of stoic irritation. He looks too big for this space, too pristine in his tailored suit compared to the explosion of satin you’ve created in here. He assesses the jammed zipper with the same clinical detachment he probably uses when looking at a blocked artery.

"Turn around." Michael commands, his voice a low, rough murmur that barely carries over the hum of the air conditioning. "And for the love of God, stop shaking."

You obey, shuffling your feet, wincing as the fabric pulls tight. You hold your breath, sucking in your stomach as if that will somehow help the situation at your hips. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he steps closer, invading your personal space with terrifying necessity.

"You really forced it, didn't you?" he mutters, more to himself than to you. He brings his hands up. His fingers are cool, dry, and incredibly steady as they brush against the bare skin of your lower back. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up your spine that has nothing to do with static shock. "I don’t know why Evelyn insisted on this cut. It’s... impractical."

He leans in, his eyes narrowed in concentration. You can feel the ghost of his breath against your shoulder blade. He tugs at the zipper tab, once, twice. doesn't budge. You make a small, pathetic noise of distress, imagining the tearing sound that will doom you to months of overtime.

"I said be still," he scolds. His left hand moves to rest firmly on your hip to steady you, his thumb pressing into the soft curve of your waist. His grip is firm, possessing a surgeon’s authority. It anchors you. "It’s caught on the inner seam. I need to work the fabric out of the teeth."

You hold the air in your lungs. His other hand works the zipper with maddening slowness. You watch him in the mirror—the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow, the way his dark lashes lower as he focuses on the disastrous junction of metal and silk just above your rear. This is Michael. The boy who used to share his ice cream with you. The man who shut the world out.

Suddenly, footsteps clip-clop right outside the thin louvered door. A sales associate.

Michael freezes. His hand tightens reflexively on your hip, pulling you a fraction of an inch back against him. The proximity is dizzying. You can feel the solid wall of his chest against your shoulder blades.

"Quiet," he breathes against your ear, the word barely a whisper.

He waits, motionless, his body shielding yours from the door as if he expects someone to burst in. The footsteps pause, then fade away. The tension in the room, however, skyrockets. He doesn't let go of your hip immediately. He stays there, crowded against your back, looking at your reflection in the mirror. For a split second, the cold, clinical mask slips. His eyes meet yours in the glass, dark and swirling with something that looks terrifyingly like the affection he buried years ago, mixed with a frustrated hunger he refuses to acknowledge.