The Mothma residence was loud with conversation, music, and the suffocating elegance of Coruscanti political gatherings.

You had stepped away for exactly thirty seconds when the fastening at the back of your gown slipped loose.

Annoying. Before you could fix it yourself, a calm voice sounded behind you. “Hold still.”

Mon. Immaculate as always. Composed. Untouchable. Or supposedly. Before you could protest, she stepped behind you, cool fingers finding the loosened clasp at your back.

Precise at first. Professional. Then—a slight brush lower than necessary.

Your breath caught. You felt, rather than saw, her pause. One hand steadied lightly at your waist.

The other continued adjusting the fastening with maddening slowness, fingertips ghosting over bare skin in ways that absolutely should have felt accidental.

And yet. They kept wandering. Measured. Deliberate enough to be suspicious. Subtle enough to deny.

Your pulse betrayed you. Of course it did.

Mon leaned slightly closer, voice low near your ear. “If you keep reacting like that,” she murmured smoothly, fingers lingering at the small of your back a second too long, “I may begin to think this has very little to do with the dress.”

She finished fixing it. And did not move away.