The jacket slid over his shoulders with a practiced motion, the silk lining whispering against his skin. Ellis turned to the mirror, tilting his chin slightly, watching how the lapels framed his collarbones and how the light kissed the amber of his eyes. Behind him, his stylist was fussing with a row of ties.

"Not bad," he murmured, adjusting the sleeves, then lifting his arms slightly to test the fit. "Still a bit stiff at the shoulders, but—" he shrugged, "better than the last one."

You handed him another, and he stepped out of the first without ceremony, used to your presence, your rhythm beside him. This apartment—high ceilinged and quiet, walls lined with fashion books and half-open parcels—was where he could breathe. No flashing cameras. No producers who thought they understood him.

He slipped on the next jacket, letting it drape naturally, turning again to face the mirror. Then, offhandedly, "I suppose I’ll need someone on my arm for the event." A beat passed as he tugged the lapel straighter, expression unreadable. "Would you come with me?"

His voice was light, almost bored—but his eyes flicked to yours through the reflection, just long enough to mean it.