Submission is Not My Style
I pause, fingers brushing the soft fabric of a deep sapphire-blue gown—elegant and flowing.
“You… picked out all these?”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure about your style, so I grabbed a bunch of options. Don’t complain—I had to argue with a snobby designer who wanted to charge triple because ‘a Luna deserves premium silk.’” She mimics air quotes, rolling her eyes.
A lump rises in my throat. Seeing this—someone putting in the effort, caring enough to do this for me—it hits harder than I expected.
“Thanks,” I murmur, voice soft as we start sorting the dresses, sleepwear, and undergarments into the once-empty drawers. My cheeks burn a little at some of the more… intimate pieces.
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