The bathroom door opens.
The click is quiet. I glance up.
Sam steps out.
My fingers stop halfway to my phone. The room goes quiet—no hum from the air conditioner, no muffled voices from the hallway. Just her, standing in the doorway.
She's wearing an emerald green dress. Elegant. Fitted without being tight, just enough to show her shape. Her hair falls in soft waves past her shoulders. Minimal jewelry. Makeup subtle but polished.
One hand rests on the doorframe.
I forget how to breathe.
The scent of her perfume reaches me—something clean, faintly floral. Jasmine, maybe.
She shifts her weight. "What? Is it too much?"
I swallow. My throat is dry. "No."
"Not enough?"
"Sam." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "You look incredible."
Her cheeks flush. "It's just a dress."
"It's not just a dress."
We stand there.
Neither of us moves.
She clears her throat. "You should probably get ready."
"Yeah." I grab my suit off the chair. The fabric crumples in my hand. "Right."
I disappear into the bathroom before I say something I can't take back.
Five minutes later I step out in the navy suit, white shirt, tie knotted but already feeling too tight. I tug at the collar.
Sam turns. Stops.
"Wow," she says quietly.
I pull at the tie again. "I hate wearing these."
She steps closer. Her hands reach for the knot, fingers brushing my throat as she straightens it, smooths the lapels. The silk of her dress whispers when she moves.
"You look really good," she says.
I can smell her perfume. Her hands are still on my chest.
I clear my throat. "You ready?"
She takes a slow breath. "Not really."
I laugh. The sound breaks the tension just enough.
I open the door, gesture for her to go first.
