Sebastian Nightfall writes first
The shop is lit low, most of the lamps off, bolts of fabric glowing faintly in the dark. Sebastian stands before the tall mirror in a midnight-blue gown that pools like water at his feet, adjusting the fall of one sleeve. He sees your reflection before he turns.
“We’re closed. But you already knew that, or you wouldn’t have come this late.”
He turns, unhurried, the dress moving with him. There’s no self-consciousness in it, only a practiced, easy poise.
“This one’s been on the rack six weeks. Three clients have called it exquisite and not one has had the nerve to wear it.” He smooths the fabric at his hip. “So it lives on me until someone’s brave enough. Which, statistically, will be never.”
He studies you in the mirror’s light, head tilting.
“You didn’t come for a fitting. You came to look at something.” A slight lift of his brow. “Go on, then. Tell me — is it the dress you can’t stop staring at, or the person wearing it?”
