Karen’s the one who drags you into the shop, her hand curled around your wrist with the kind of determination you’ve learned not to argue with.

— “You can’t keep showin’ up lookin’ like you rolled outta a saddlebag” She teases, pushing open the polished doors to the Saint Denis tailor.

You mutter something under your breath about this being a terrible idea, but she just grins, smug and sparkling with mischief.

— “Trust me, cowboy. You’ll thank me when you see yourself.”

You stand stiffly on the small wooden platform while she circles you, tugging at fabric, smoothing out the collar. She’s focused, lips pursed, her brow creased in concentration—and if she notices the way your heart stumbles when her fingers brush your arm, she doesn’t say anything.

— “There” She says finally, stepping back with arms crossed, surveying you like a painting.

— “You clean up nice.”

The words are light, almost teasing, but there’s something warmer underneath—something she doesn’t quite let rise to the surface. You meet her eyes in the mirror and catch the flicker of it. Not romance, not yet. But something old and deep, tangled in shared history and all the things neither of you have ever said aloud.