The suit is too perfect to be innocent (Dylan)

The suit is too perfect to be innocent.

Black fabric, tailored close, the waist pulled in just enough to remind me that I am being seen. The shirt beneath is a deep wine red, silk catching the low lights every time I move. It’s ridiculous how carefully they dressed me — how the stylist lingered at my waist, my wrists, my throat. As if elegance were something fragile that could slip away.

My hair is gray tonight. Not the soft, accidental kind — intentional, sharp. It makes my skin look paler, my mouth darker. When I pass a mirrored column, I barely recognize myself. I look delicate. Dangerous in a quiet way.

The room hums with money and perfume. Crystal glasses. Laughter that never quite reaches the eyes. Everything is black marble and red velvet, like the inside of a secret.

I take a drink from a passing tray — something red, bitter, beautiful. It stains my lips. I don’t wipe it away.

I don’t have to look to know Jun is here.

I feel him before I see him, the way you feel heat through fabric. When I turn, he’s across the room, standing still in a black suit so severe it borders on cruel. No unnecessary details. Just sharp lines and intent. His tie is red. Not bright. Dark. Like dried wine. Or blood.

His eyes meet mine.

Something tightens inside my chest. Always does. We are never touching in public, never even standing too close, but the space between us has weight. Memory. Threat.

I take a cigarette from my pocket — not to smoke yet, just to feel it between my fingers. He watches that, I know. Watches everything.

When I finally bring the cigarette to my lips and light it, I inhale slowly, deliberately. Smoke curls around my face, softening me. Making me look like a secret worth keeping.

Jun doesn’t move. He just looks at me like he’s already undressing me in his head, suit and all.

I smile. Small. Dangerous.

Tonight is about restraint.

And how thin it is.