The dress had a mind of its own. That was the only explanation Maya could come up with as she tugged at the hem for the seventh time, then shifted from one foot to the other, the heel of her shoe wobbling like it, too, wanted to rebel. She stood in front of the mirror in Damien's apartment, her shoulders pulled back in a posture she was still trying to make second nature. The silk clung in ways that made her feel exposed yet demanded she stand tall, as though the garment would scold her if she didn't live up to it.
She twisted, testing how it moved, and nearly tripped over her own foot. Catching herself, she sighed at the reflection. She could see Isla in her mind -- the effortless elegance, the way Isla carried herself like gravity bent toward her instead of the other way around. Maya, on the other hand, looked like a nervous actress rehearsing a part she wasn't sure she deserved.
"You're going to crease it if you keep fidgeting."
His voice was calm, deep, carrying from the doorway like it belonged here more than she did. Damien leaned against the frame with his suit jacket draped casually over his arm. The tie at his throat was already knotted with infuriating perfection.
Maya's reflection betrayed her; she startled slightly when their eyes met in the mirror. "I feel like I borrowed this," she muttered, smoothing her hands over the front of the dress.
Damien pushed off the doorframe with deliberate ease and walked closer, his pace measured. He stopped just behind her, his reflection now filling the mirror with hers. He let his eyes linger, sweeping from the curve of her shoulders down to the line of her waist before settling.
"It doesn't look borrowed." His tone was even, not exaggerated, but there was something in it that made her skin heat. "It looks like it was made for you."
Her lips parted before she could think of something to say. Compliments from him were rare, and when they came, they were utilitarian. He'd tell her when her posture was correct, when her tone was practiced enough, when her smile looked believable. But this wasn't functional. This wasn't about Isla.
"You don't have to flatter me," she said, a little too quickly.
His gaze didn't waver. "I'm not." A pause. "If it didn't work, I'd tell you."
Her throat tightened, and she had to look away before her expression gave too much away.
The car ride carried with it a different kind of silence than their earlier practices. It wasn't sharp, wasn't heavy. It was almost… steady. Damien's voice broke it only occasionally, softer than usual.
"Back straight," he said once, his hand hovering close to the small of her back as she adjusted her seat, though it never touched. "Not rigid. Lifted."
She corrected herself, her chin tilting upward just slightly.
"Better."
The word carried weight because he didn't offer it lightly. She tucked it away like a secret.
Lights from the city streamed across her face as they drove, and for the first time she found herself wanting to meet his corrections, not just out of duty but because his approval settled in her chest like warmth.
The restaurant was draped in golden light. Candles flickered against polished glasses, and the low hum of other conversations formed a backdrop that felt private despite the crowd. Damien guided her inside with quiet authority. His hand hovered near her back again -- not pressing, never forcing -- but close enough that she felt anchored.
At the table, he waited until she was seated before taking his chair. The gesture startled her more than it should have. No one had ever made her feel as though her presence merited patience.
She caught him looking at her again across the table, his gaze steady, unreadable but unmistakably focused. "You're staring," she whispered, half teasing, half unsettled.
"Making sure you're comfortable," he replied. Then, quieter, leaning just enough for his words to reach her over the candlelight, "The dress suits you. More than I expected."
Her pulse stuttered. She lowered her gaze, tracing the edge of the silverware with her fingertip. "So usually I disappoint you?"
The corner of his mouth curved, subtle but genuine. "Not usually."
Dinner became a rehearsal without the edges. He guided her through questions and responses they had practiced countless times, but his voice was gentler tonight.
"Tell me about last summer," he prompted as the first course arrived.
Her mind scrambled for the rehearsed detail. "The villa..."
"...with the lemon grove," he finished smoothly, not unkindly.
She found her rhythm again. "Yes. We spent afternoons there. My mother used to sit under the trees with her books. I pretended to help with the baskets, but honestly, I just ate more than I picked."
Damien tilted his head, considering. For a moment she braced for a correction. But instead, his eyes softened, and the faintest trace of approval colored his voice. "That's better. Keep it. It sounds lived."
Something warm spread through her chest. For once, it wasn't about Isla's memory. It was about Maya claiming it as though she belonged in it.
The evening loosened her. By the time dessert arrived, the stiffness had bled from her shoulders. When the plate was set down, adorned with spun sugar so delicate it looked like art, she couldn't help but laugh softly.
"How am I supposed to eat this?" she asked, eyeing the sculpture warily.
"With a fork," Damien said, deadpan.
"That feels like vandalism."
"It's dinner, not an exhibit."
The banter came easily, like a rhythm they had stumbled into without meaning to. She lifted her fork reluctantly and broke into the sugar. The shard snapped, ringing faintly against the plate.
"See?" he said, watching her reaction. "Not so tragic."
When her spoon slipped from her fingers, he caught it before it clattered to the floor. His hand brushed against hers as he set it back on the table. The touch was fleeting, accidental by every measure, but neither moved right away. The candlelight flickered, his shadow cast long across the table, and for a moment the rest of the restaurant disappeared.
He was the one to pull back first, but his gaze lingered in a way that made her heart ache with the weight of everything unspoken.
The ride home was steeped in quiet again, but not the awkward kind. Maya leaned against the seat, the silk of the dress a second skin now rather than a costume. Her reflection in the window looked almost… credible.
"You think I managed?" she asked softly, afraid to disturb the hush that had fallen.
Damien's head turned toward her, his expression unreadable but intent. "You weren't just managing," he said finally. "You belonged."
Her breath caught. The words slid deeper than any correction, any lesson. They were not about performance. They were about her.
When the car slowed to a stop, he didn't move to open the door right away. He looked at her instead, his gaze tracing her face as if memorizing every line, as if she might vanish if he blinked too long.
For the first time, she realized she wasn't simply learning Isla's part. She wasn't practicing at all. She was becoming.
The silence between them pulsed with something intimate, almost dangerous, a tension neither stepped across. Yet the quiet felt more like a confession than any words could have.