But I can't look away from the ghost of her in the glass.
She's chaos incarnate. Spilled clothes and scattered thoughts and that laugh that erupts at the worst possible moments. When I growled at her former partner, she giggled.Giggled.Like my threat display was amusing instead of terrifying.
Everything about her contradicts my training.
And I cannot stop watching her reflection as she steps into a different dress, tugging it up over her hips, struggling with the zipper.
"Fuck. Fuck. Why do I buy dresses I can't zip myself? What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. I never think."
She's talking to herself now, wrestling with the fabric like it's an opponent who won't submit. I can hear the frustrationbuilding in her voice, that edge of barely-contained chaos that seems to follow her everywhere she goes.
"Kruk?" Her voice shifts, uncertain. Quieter. There's a vulnerability in it that wasn't there a moment ago. "Can you... can you help with the zipper?"
The question hangs in the air between us.
I turn before processing the full implications of the request. Before my tactical mind can analyze the scenario, assess the risks, calculate the appropriate response. My body moves on instinct, responding to the uncertainty in her voice like it's a threat I need to neutralize.
But this isn't a threat.
This is something else entirely.
She's standing in the middle of the room in a dark blue dress that clings to her body like it was designed specifically to destroy my focus. The back is open, a zipper hanging at her waist, exposing a long stretch of bare skin from her shoulders to the small of her back.
My hands clench at my sides.
"Please?" she adds, and there's something in her voice I don't have words for. Not quite vulnerable. Not quite trusting. Something between.
I cross the room slowly, giving her time to change her mind. She doesn't. She just turns her back to me and pulls her hair over one shoulder, exposing her neck.
The zipper is small. My fingers are not.
I take the tab carefully between my thumb and forefinger, hyperaware of how easy it would be to tear the delicate metal track. How close my knuckles are to her skin. How she smells like something sweet and unfamiliar, something that makes me want to lean closer and identify the source.
Strawberries, maybe. And something else. Something uniquely her.
I pull the zipper upward slowly, watching the fabric close over her back, hiding her from me inch by inch. Her breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. The same signs of anxiety I noted earlier, but different somehow. Warmer.
"There," I say when the zipper reaches the top. My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She doesn't move immediately.
Neither do I.
We stand there, me behind her, close enough that I could wrap my hand around her throat. Close enough that she's inside my reach, my space, my protective radius.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I step back before I do something catastrophically unprofessional. "We should prepare for the social engagement."
"Right. Yes. Cocktails. With my family. And Derek." She turns, and her face has gone blotchy. Red patches on her cheeks and neck. "This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm not panicking."
She is absolutely panicking. Every indicator confirms it—elevated pulse visible at her throat, the slight tremor in her fingers as she presses them against her flushed cheeks, the way her eyes have gone too wide and too bright.
"Did you bring the garment?" she asks abruptly, her words coming out in a rush, tumbling over each other like she's afraid if she doesn't speak quickly enough she'll lose her nerve entirely.
I blink, running through my mental inventory of equipment. Garment could refer to multiple items. Context is required. "Clarify."
"The suit. I texted you. I sent you to that place on Fourth Street, and they were supposed to have something ready for you. For the wedding events. Please tell me you picked it up."
