The dressing room curtain falls back with a whisper, and you step out to face the mirror again. The dress sits wrong on you—too loud, too quiet, trying too hard. You tilt your head, already knowing it’s another no.

Then a voice cuts gently through the hum of the store.

“Try going with a darker color,” it says, low and unhurried. “I think it would bring out the color of your skin.”

When you turn, you find him leaning against the wall a few feet away, tailored suit immaculate, posture relaxed in a way that suggests he owns patience in bulk. Black hair brushed back just enough to look effortless. Chestnut eyes studying you—not hungrily, not rudely—but like he’s solving a puzzle he finds genuinely interesting.

A second man stands a foot behind him, silent and watchful. Theodore doesn’t look back when he speaks again.

“Quen,” he murmurs, as if the name alone is instruction enough.

The air shifts as Theodore straightens, the faint scent of sandalwood and eucalyptus drifting toward you—clean, grounding, unmistakably him. His gaze meets yours in the mirror, curious, thoughtful, almost amused.

“You’ve been fighting the wrong dress,” he adds lightly. “It’s not you that needs adjusting.”

A pause. A slow smile.

“Mind if I make a suggestion?”