With a flick of his wrist, the towel landed in a careless heap, forgotten. He reached for the glass vial of oil on the shelf, pouring a measure into his palm.
Slowly, and deliberately, he smoothed it across his chest, his arms, the ridges of muscle glistening under his touch, as though layering strength where the mirror had revealed weakness.
His hand lingered at his throat, tracing the beat of his pulse, before he moved on, reaching for the suit laid out in solemn precision. Black fabric, tailored to precision, sharp as a blade.
He slid the shirt over his shoulders, fastening button after button, each click soft but final, until the pale expanse of vulnerability was sealed away.
Cuff by cuff, sleeve by sleeve, the armor returned. He pulled the coat into place, shoulders settling beneath its weight, and bent to slip his feet into polished leather shoes.
