There’s a pause.
Then the soft click of the handle.
“Tyler!”
The door creaks open.
I whirl around, breathless, expecting a smirk. A wink. Something cocky and insufferable.
But he just stands there.
Silent.
His hair is slicked back, still damp at the edges like he’s fresh from a shower. A black eye mask with silver trim sits snug against his cheekbones, sharp, elegant, infuriatingly unfair. The rest of him is head-to-toe in full Tudor regalia, and yet he somehow still manages to look dangerous. The top buttons of his doublet are undone, revealing a sliver of chest and collarbone like he’s personally declared war on every functioning ovary in the building.
My mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t move.
Just looks.
No smirk. No jokes. And somehow, that’s worse.
“Zip,” I croak. It’s the only word that makes it out.
One corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “Allow me.”
He steps closer, deliberately slow, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. The air thickens with every inch he closes between us.
I turn around, still clutching the front of my bodice, my heart hammering.
His fingertips skim the small of my back, warm and careful, and the intimacy of it nearly undoes me. It’s such a simple act, closing a zip, but it feels too close, too familiar, like we’ve done this a hundred times before in some other life, and my body remembers even if my mind doesn’t.
The thought makes my pulse stutter.
He works the zip, the glide unhurried, the sound of it sliding home impossibly loud. His touch is almost reverent.
When he reaches the top, his fingers pause, brushing the base of my neck like a question, before he lets go.
Goosebumps ripple up my arms.
I turn back to face him, my fingers still gripping the front of my dress, pulse thudding at my throat.
And our eyes catch.
The energy between us shifts, subtle, but unmistakable. Heavier and charged, like the whole room is holding its breath and waiting to see who sparks first.
My lungs forget their job, my pulse, a wild traitorous drum in my ears.
There’s no humour in his face. No cockiness. No shield of sarcasm.
No mask, not really, despite the one resting just beneath his eyes.
Just him.
Just me.
And this, whatever this is, simmering between us. My breath comes shallow, my fingers twitch at my sides, like they’re aching to close the distance and not entirely sure they’re allowed.
