unbeta’d, subject to change…
He steps out of the bathroom, but the second he sees me dressed to go the press conference, his freezes.
Fuck me. He must hate how I look.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I wear separates to work. It seems people wear suits to these things, and this is the only suit I own. I didn’t have time to buy something and have it altered–”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because my clothes are from the 1940s, and you hate it when I wear vintage around…” I struggle with how to phrase it. “…uh, your job,” I say, shrugging.
“When did I say that?”
I think back to dress shopping with him for his birthday dinner, how he insisted on buying me something new—even after we walked past the dress I really wanted in the window of a vintage shop. After that, I stopped fighting him on wardrobe—I just wore whatever he wanted me to. I never gave him a second chance.
“Now that I think about it, you never did.”
“You look perfect.” He kisses the top my forehead then whispers, “You are perfect.”