I sat down on the edge of the bed with a soft PLOP, letting the thick comforter swallow half my weight. The quiet of the room settled around me, but just as I exhaled, a faint GRUMBLE, GRUMBLE echoed from the bathroom.
She must be washing her face—and probably cursing me under her breath while doing it.
I pressed my fingers to my forehead, rubbing lightly as the memory of our conversation replayed in my mind.
She had looked up at me earlier, wide-eyed, blinking rapidly beneath layers of glittery eyeshadow that absolutely did not belong on her face. "My face? Why? Do I look weird?"
I remembered trying—really trying—to keep my expression neutral. "What in the world did you…?" The sentence died in my throat. I couldn't even finish it. A small CHUCKLE slipped out before I could stop myself, and I had immediately covered my mouth.
She caught it instantly.
She always does.
"He laughed?" she muttered under her breath. Then louder, her voice sharp and accusing: "Did you just laugh at me? And what about my face?" She recoiled with a dramatic FLINCH, as if my reaction had physically wounded her.
Honestly… the way she overreacts, the way she gets so worked up—it never fails to amuse me. Irritate me, sometimes. But amuse me, always.
She spun back to face me, cheeks puffed, her expression torn between offense and embarrassment. "Wait. Do I look weird right now?"
I had sighed, unable to hold back anymore. "Your outfit isn't the problem at the moment. Go wash off that ridiculous makeup first."
Her lower lip quivered—not heartbreak, just that tiny wounded pride she gets when she knows she messed up but refuses to admit it. "But it took me an hour of hard work to do this…"
My patience snapped. "GET RID OF IT."
She slumped like a character out of a gag panel. "Well… that was an hour wasted…" she mumbled in defeat, dragging her feet to the bathroom.
The door closed with a soft CLICK, and the room grew still.
That's when something on the bed caught my eye.
A small folded page, half-tucked beneath a pillow. I reached over and pulled it out. The paper gave a FLAP as I unfolded it, smoothing out the creases with my thumb.
Ah. This was what she'd been staring so intently at yesterday in the car.
A report. A detailed, neatly annotated document—all about President Harold.
I sat back, letting the paper rest across my lap. The contrast hit me all at once:
The same woman who obsessively studies political reports with razor-sharp focus…
…also spent an hour smearing chaotic eyeshadow onto her face like an overexcited child discovering makeup for the first time.
A low breath of amusement escaped me, not quite a laugh, more of a silent, helpless smile.
My partner in business.
My source of endless trouble.
My constant, chaotic distraction.
And… the person who never stops surprising me.
I traced the edge of the report with my fingertip, still smiling faintly.
Ridiculous makeup or not—
she always has my full attention.
The report on President Harold lay open on my lap, the sunlight spilling across the page like a golden stripe. I traced a single sentence with my thumb, but my mind was nowhere on the content anymore.
So she'd already researched everything herself.
Good. That made one thing easier.
But everything else… not so much.
For a few peaceful minutes, the room was silent.
Then it began.
GROAN. GROAN.
Followed by the unmistakable thump of her foot hitting the floor in an irritated little stomp.
I closed my eyes briefly. Here we go.
"Ugh, this was so much easier when Sui was around to help…!" she muttered from behind the folding screen.
I could picture it perfectly:
Her hair tied up with that ridiculous bow she insists is "mature."
Her hands reaching awkwardly behind her, fingers grasping at the impossible back buttons of her dress.
Shoulders twisting. Fabric catching.
Her face scrunching up in dramatic misery.
It had been ten minutes.
Then fifteen.
Now twenty.
My patience was evaporating.
We had an appointment. A schedule. A reputation to maintain. And she was behind the screen wrestling with fabric like it was an enemy soldier.
"It's already been twenty minutes," I said, my voice sharp, cutting through her groans. "I can't wait any longer. What are you going to do?"
I heard her freeze.
Then her thoughts—so loud I could practically hear them spilling out of her.
"I washed my face… but what do I do now? If I ask him to button me up, he'll see my back… and I don't want Eiser to see my body…!"
She fumbled around again, clearly panicking.
"Should I just wear what I wore yesterday? But that has a zipper in the back too…!!"
The silence that followed was tight, stretched thin like a wire.
Fine. If she wouldn't choose, I'd make her choose.
I leaned back slightly and raised my voice just enough.
"Should I grab any woman I can find and ask her to button you up?" I asked evenly. "While running the risk of being late?"
I let that sink in for a beat before adding, with a tone that was far too calm to be comforting:
"Or should I button you up with my eyes closed?"
Silence.
Not a breath. Not a shuffle.
She was absolutely melting down behind that screen.
Does he think this is a joke?!
I could practically feel her screaming it internally.
I remained seated, posture straight, expression unreadable.
I needed her to respond.
I needed her to move.
If teasing her a little got her attention—well, so be it.
A moment later her face slowly peeked out, just her eyes and the top of her head visible. Her expression was the perfect mix of panic and… suspicion?
He looks irritated… but why do I get the feeling he's kind of enjoying this…?
She studied me like I was a ticking bomb with a smirk hidden inside.
I stood up, smoothing out the cuffs of my suit jacket with deliberate precision.
"Listen carefully," I said, stepping forward just enough for her to stiffen.
"If you're not going to choose either option—
or you decide not to give me any answer at all—"
I paused.
A clean, final line.
"I have no choice but to leave by myself."
Her breath caught behind the screen.
And then…
I waited.
Still. Silent.
Eyes on the edge of the screen where she hid.
This was it.
The ultimatum.
Her decision.
Whatever she said next would decide everything.
The tension hung so heavily in the air it felt like even the dust motes had frozen.
From behind the screen, I saw the faint, nervous shifting of her feet. Uncertain steps. Hesitant weight changes.
Her heartbeat practically echoed through the room.
BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.
She was panicking.
I could sense it—like a ripple of heat from behind the screen.
What do I do…? But… if he sees my back… if I ask him…
Her dilemma was almost loud enough to touch.
Time to end this.
I stood with a decisive STAND, brushing invisible wrinkles from my suit as I began to STRIDE toward the door. My footsteps were slow, deliberate, the kind meant to make her chest tighten with every step.
"It seems," I said coolly, "that I should inform the President you couldn't come because you were feeling unwell."
Her shadow jolted.
I reached the door. My hand wrapped around the handle, fingers tightening just slightly.
"Good luck," I added, letting a subtle edge color my tone—an edge that said I was absolutely serious, and absolutely finished waiting.
The metal handle turned with a soft CREAK.
"Though I don't know," I murmured, half to myself, half for her torment, "who else you could ask for help in that state… if I also leave."
The door began to swing open—
And then—
A desperate GRASP.
Her small, trembling hand caught my suit jacket sleeve, clutching it like a lifeline. The pull was soft but urgent, halting me instantly.
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned just enough to see her.
She wasn't even looking up—
her forehead rested lightly against my back, shoulders rigid with embarrassment, breath feathering against the fabric of my shirt.
Her voice was so small it barely existed.
"…help me…"
I closed my eyes for a brief second, a quiet, satisfied breath forming in my chest.
That's it, Serena.
I didn't turn to face her fully.
I only angled my head, glancing over my shoulder with a look she knew all too well—commanding, patient, merciless.
"Say it loud and clear."
She stiffened.
Lifting her head, she mustered every ounce of pride she hadn't swallowed yet and forced the words out.
This time, audible.
"…Help me."
My lips curved—slowly, deliberately—into a smile that felt equal parts victory and amusement.
I let the silence stretch for a beat, then spoke, low and irresistible:
"Ask me for help."
And just like that, the crisis, the chaos, the twenty-minute ordeal—
—was finally under control.
For now.
I held her gaze over my shoulder, letting the silence stretch—
a long, heavy STARE that made the air between us tighten.
"Ask me for help," I repeated, voice smooth, deliberately slow.
This wasn't just about fastening a few buttons.
It was about hearing her admit it—
that she needed me.
Because it made things… far more interesting.
Finally, she deflated like a punctured balloon.
"Button me up..." she muttered, eyes burning with irritation.
She clearly hated every second of this.
UGH! Does he really have to take it that far?!
But I wasn't satisfied—not yet.
She clenched onto my arm harder, fingers curling like she wanted to strangle me through the sleeve. A final, reluctant exhale left her lips.
"...Please. (You jackass.)"
I heard that silent insult just as clearly as if she'd shouted it.
But it didn't matter.
She said please.
A low, pleased CHUCKLE escaped me.
"Turn around."
She let go of my sleeve, slow and stiff, then turned her back to me.
The high neckline of her blouse covered her front, but the back…
A clean, elegant V-line, bare from her shoulder blades downward—
and a row of impossibly tiny buttons she clearly had zero chance of managing.
Her hair, long and dark, spilled down her back in soft waves.
She hurriedly scooped it up with both hands, dragging it over her shoulder in a messy sweep, a small FLINCH betraying just how self-conscious she was.
I stepped closer until there was barely any space between us.
She kept her head lowered, eyes squeezed CLOSE, breathing out a tiny surrendering sigh. Embarrassment radiated from her like heat.
My fingers brushed her upper back—cool silk and warm skin meeting under my touch. She stiffened immediately, shoulders rising a fraction.
Good.
She was paying attention.
I started fastening the buttons, one by one.
POP. POP. POP.
Each quiet sound echoed in the stillness of the room.
Her breathing hitched softly.
Her posture rigid—trying desperately not to react.
I worked with practiced precision, my fingers lingering only long enough to secure the silk in place. Her entire body was tense beneath my hands, like she feared acknowledging the closeness would somehow give me the upper hand again.
(As if I didn't already have it.)
Finally, the last button clicked into place.
I let my hand fall away from her back, stepping back just slightly.
She released her hair, letting it cascade over the newly fastened blouse, still refusing to look at me—cheeks barely tinted, shoulders slowly lowering as she regained her composure.
I straightened my jacket and spoke calmly.
"Now," I said, voice smooth, controlled. "We're ready for the appointment."
I didn't need to say I told you so.
It hung between us anyway.
And whether she wanted to admit it or not—
I had won this round.
The moment I began fastening the buttons, the atmosphere shifted—
subtle but unmistakable.
She turned rigid, spine straight, hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles turned pale.
Her eyes stayed squeezed CLOSE, as if shutting out the world would make this less embarrassing.
Each button gave a soft POP—a tiny, harmless sound—yet to her it must have felt like thunder.
Did… did buttoning always sound this loud?
Her inner turmoil practically vibrated through the air.
I can't hear anything else…
I kept my movements controlled, minimal, careful not to touch any more skin than necessary.
Even so, the task was undeniably intimate.
The sound of the buttons… and the silence… now that I'm conscious of both, they're getting on my nerves.
Her breathing hitched.
Her body wavered.
A small, unsteady WOBBLE.
She was concentrating so hard on staying composed that she was forgetting to stay balanced.
I paused mid-button.
That wouldn't do.
Not when the fabric was delicate.
Not when her flinching could make me accidentally pinch her.
Without warning, I placed both hands firmly on her shoulders.
She froze.
Then I nudged her forward until her palms met the nearest wall. The textured wallpaper pressed lightly against her skin as she steadied herself with a startled GRASP.
She gasped—a soft, breathless sound—and whipped her head around to glare at me, eyes wide and flushed.
"What do you think you're doing? Why are you pushing me up against the wall!?"
Her reaction was dramatic, but her voice shook just slightly—
a detail she probably hoped I wouldn't catch.
"I will," I answered calmly, finishing the next button with a clean POP, "if you don't stay still. Hold on to the wall and stand up straight. Stop stumbling around."
Her thoughts erupted in a silent storm behind her eyes.
"..."
I really… HATE THIS!
She didn't say it.
She didn't have to.
Her entire body screamed it.
But she obeyed.
Finally, the last button slipped into place with a soft click.
Warmth lingered faintly on my fingertips before I stepped back, letting the space between us return.
She stood perfectly still, shoulders stiff, face flushed but composed—
buttoned, neat, presentable.
Annoyed, yes.
Mortified, absolutely.
But ready.
And I—
I felt the quiet, undeniable satisfaction of a task completed on my terms.
She had asked for my help.
I had given it.
And now—
I adjusted my cuffs, my tone returning to crisp professionalism.
"We're done here. Let's go."
The appointment awaited.
The President awaited.
And now that she was put together—
So did the next stage of the day.
The final button clicked into place, and I stepped back.
"Done," I announced.
She reacted instantly.
A swift SPIN, the hem of her skirt fluttering slightly, her heels striking the wooden floor with two sharp, anxious beats—
CLACK. CLACK.
Her outfit was perfect now.
Hair in place.
Face clean.
Back fully covered.
But her expression…
That was what caught my attention.
Wide eyes, faintly trembling lashes, a flush creeping up her cheeks—
She wasn't looking angry anymore.
She looked confused.
Not at me.
At herself.
Why does his touch make me feel so uncomfortable…?
She didn't say it aloud, but her face made it crystal clear.
Her thoughts were practically written across her forehead.
Her gaze lowered, troubled, as if searching through memories.
I've never been uncomfortable when Frederick touched me… even when I changed clothes in front of him…
Her brows furrowed slightly.
Is it because… I like someone or not?
I watched her quietly.
Hands behind my back.
Expression unreadable.
Her internal debate only deepened.
No… that's not it. I didn't feel anything even when I first met Frederick while wearing a NIGHTGOWN.
Her confusion sharpened, her lips pressing together.
The truth was obvious:
this—our closeness, the tension I deliberately stirred—
it had shaken her.
All Eiser can see is my back… so why does it bother me? Why do I feel so awkward just from having him look at me?
Her heartbeat had not calmed.
BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP. BA-BUMP.
It practically filled the room.
She was unraveling in a way she didn't understand.
And personally…
I found it fascinating.
Raw. Honest.
A rare moment where her guard was down, not because she chose to lower it, but because her own emotions betrayed her.
Her eyes darted away, then back, then down again, caught in her own storm of questions.
I picked up the report I had set aside earlier, tapping it lightly against my palm—
a sound that sliced through her spiraling thoughts.
"We're late enough," I said evenly.
"Hurry up."
My tone was calm, clipped, professional—
but she jolted slightly, as if pulled back to reality all at once.
The charged moment between us dissolved, replaced by purpose.
She nodded stiffly, cheeks still warmed with the remnants of embarrassment.
The intimacy of the buttoning scene was over.
Now we were back to what we were meant to be:
Two partners.
United goal.
Political mission.

"TURN."
The word landed like a firm hand on my shoulder, even though he hadn't touched me yet. His voice was low, clipped—an order, not a request. Before I could think, my back hit the cold, damask-patterned wallpaper behind me. The sudden chill seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, shocking my spine upright.
"F–FLUSTERED—" The word slipped out of me in a clumsy whisper, my pulse tripping over itself. "What do you think you're doing? Why are you pushing me up against the wall—?"
He didn't react to my panic. Not a scoff, not a sigh. His tone remained maddeningly neutral, like he was adjusting a crooked picture frame rather than manhandling a person.
"Hold on to the wall and stand up straight," he instructed, voice steady and maddeningly close. "Stop stumbling around."
Just steadying me. That's all he was doing.
Then why did it feel like my lungs had shrunk to half their size?
I lifted my hands and pressed them against the wallpaper. It felt colder now, or maybe my palms were sweating. His presence behind me wasn't a touch, not yet—just a shadow, a heat. But it was enough for my breath to trip.
"HURRY UP," he said, impatient, his breath skimming the back of my neck in a way I tried to pretend I didn't notice.
"I—I am," I managed, but my voice was thin, my throat tight. I felt him step closer. My shoulders tensed.
Then—
POP.
A small sound. A tiny, simple fastening of a loop or button at the back of my dress.
But it felt like he had pressed directly on my heartbeat.
BA-BUMP.
BA-BUMP.
My pulse roared in my ears like I'd been running.
Why is this—
Why am I—
I swallowed, hard. My thoughts were fragments, scattering like startled birds.
He didn't hesitate, didn't pause to check if I was breathing or if I was seconds away from shattering.
"I will, so stay still," he murmured, leaning in just enough that I felt the whisper of movement. Then—
POP.
Another fastening. The tiny, polite sound of responsibility being carried out. In contrast, my own internal noises were loud, frantic, humiliatingly obvious.
Why—why is this making my chest feel tight?
All he can see is my back.
Just my back.
Just fabric.
So why does it feel like he's seeing through me?
This has never happened before. Frederick had helped me countless times. Dresses, jewelry, even once when I was half-asleep and barely functioning. Frederick's touch had always been warm, familiar, like a childhood blanket.
Comforting.
Predictable.
So why was this different? Why did this feel—
Dangerous?
Unsettling?
Alive?
My breath hitched when his fingers skimmed the small of my back—not a caress, just the necessary place to steady the fabric for the final fastening.
Yet it was enough to send a small tremor spiraling through my stomach.
What is wrong with me?
Why does his touch…
Why do I really—
HATE THIS?
My fingertips pressed harder into the wall, chasing distance that didn't exist.
Then—
POP.
The final button.
The final sound.
"DONE."
His voice sliced the moment cleanly, and suddenly his warmth withdrew, like a tide pulling back.
I could breathe again. Sort of.
Instinct took over—I spun sharply on my heel, the hem of my dress brushing his leg as I turned.
CLACK.
CLACK.
My embellished shoes announced the movement with an embarrassing loudness, echoing against the floor like a declaration of my own flustered state.
When I faced him, he was already looking down at me.
Expression unreadable.
Eyes steady.
Shoulders relaxed, as if nothing unusual had happened.
I stood there, chest rising too quickly, hands