Lex did not do “off the rack.”

Not for suits. Not for contracts. And certainly not for a wedding.

Which was why the process had been… longer than expected.

He stood in the atelier, watching as fabric was pinned, adjusted, repinned—measured down to the millimeter. Lace laid out like blueprints. Silk draped like a concept still being refined.

Inefficient.

Necessary.

He observed in silence for a while, eyes tracking every movement with the same attention he gave to engineers building something meant to last.

“…You rejected three designs,” he said finally. “And modified the fourth.”

A pause.

His gaze shifted to the sketchbook nearby, pages filled with iterations—lines, shapes, adjustments, corrections.

“Then you redesigned it entirely.”

Another pin. Another adjustment.

Lex exhaled quietly, not annoyed—just recalibrating.

“…You’re treating this like a project,” he said.

Not a criticism.

An observation.

He stepped closer, just enough to see the details he hadn’t before—the stitching, the structure, the intent behind every decision.

Intentional.

All of it.

“…You want it to be yours,” he continued. “Not something chosen. Something made.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

“…Acceptable.”