Silence.
"You okay?"
"I'm fine." She snaps.
Meaning she’s not fine at all.
I push the door open.
She's standing in front of the mirror still in that dress with her hair wet and dripping down her back, her arms twisted behind her at an angle that looks painful as she struggles with something I can't see.
"The zipper's stuck." She doesn't look at me, just keeps pulling at the fabric with increasing desperation. "I got it halfway down in the shower and now it won't—" She stops and yanks harder, her shoulder pulling in a way that has to hurt. "It won't move."
"Let me look."
"I don't need?—"
"Isabella." I move closer and stop a few feet behind her where I can see her face in the mirror, the frustration and exhaustion and something close to defeat in her eyes. "Let me look at it."
She drops her arms with a heavy exhale and finally meets my eyes in the mirror, hers bright and tired and so frustrated, she looks ready to tear the dress off herself.
"I-It's stuck," she says quietly, her voice losing that sharp edge and going soft. "
"I've got it. Hold still." I close the distance and stop right behind her, close enough to see the problem, the zipper's caught in the fabric, twisted wrong and tangled in the teeth in a way that's going to take patience to fix.
Close enough to smell her too. Soft spices, vanilla and that perfume she always wears, something floral and expensive that's mixed now with my soap from the shower.
My fingers find the zipper and I work it carefully as I try to untangle it without ripping, without pulling.
"You don't have to be so careful." Her voice is steady but quiet. "It's already ruined."
"I'm not trying to save the dress."
"Then what are you doing?"
Making sure I don't touch you. Making sure this doesn't get worse.
"Just hold still." I find myself grumbling.
The fabric finally comes free and the zipper slides down smooth, six inches, eight, ten, revealing her back in increments that I try not to notice.
Pale, creamy skin. The curve of her spine. Water droplets still clinging to her shoulder blades like diamonds catching light. The line of her back disappearing into the fabric, delicate and breakable and beautiful in a way that makes my hands shake.
Fuck.FUCK.
I step back fast, putting three feet between us before my hands move on their own.
"There. You're good." I shove said hands in my pocket.
She catches the dress before it falls and holds it to her chest, her knuckles white where she grips the fabric like it's the only thing keeping her together.
"Thank you."
My clothes are on the bed where she left them and she looks at them, then at me in the mirror.
"I need to—" She stops and takes a breath. "I'm not wearing anything under this. The dress has built-in—" She stops again, color rising in her cheeks. "Can you turn around?"
Every instinct screams at me to leave, to get out, to put walls and doors between us before I do something irreversible.
