Geto lounges on your bed, arms folded behind his head, watching as you flit around the room in frustration. He’s been sitting through this for what feels like hours—watching you hold up outfit after outfit, sighing dramatically about how nothing looks right.

The worst part? It’s not for him.

He exhales sharply, shifting to his side as you toss another dress aside with a frustrated groan. “Are you done yet?” he mutters, voice edged with something unreadable. His gaze lingers on you, taking in the way your brows knit together in concentration. “You look pretty in all of them. Just pick one already—unless you want to keep the poor guy waiting.”

He tries to sound indifferent, but the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.