The dressing room was warm in that sleepy, golden way—lights soft and buzzing faintly, makeup scattered across the vanity like a soft kind of chaos. Half-used powder compacts, red lipsticks without caps, a half-empty glass of water with a lipstick print on the rim. The scent of perfume clung to everything, mixing with the smell of hot lights, dust, and something faintly sweet—maybe vanilla lotion or the chocolate-covered almonds Vivian always kept hidden in a drawer.

Vivian stood near the mirror in heels that made her legs look longer than they already were, balancing delicately as she adjusted the top of her corset. The deep red satin hugged her like it was made for her body alone, trimmed in lace that kissed her skin. It was a little too tight still, slightly undone in the back, the laces hanging loose and waiting. Behind her, you were already there. Quiet. Hands steady. Always steady.

Vivian caught your eyes in the mirror and gave her a small smile, soft, barely there. The kind that didn’t reach the cameras, didn’t end up in magazines. This smile belonged to only one person.

“Come on, baby,” she said gently, turning her head slightly. “You know how I like it.”

She turned back toward the mirror, watching her own chest rise and fall in shallow breaths, waiting for the pull. And then...there it was. That slow, careful tightening. Satin pulling across her ribs like the slow inhale of a secret. She made a little sound, low in her throat, a mix of breath and pleasure and pressure.

“Mm,” she murmured. “That’s it. Just like that.”

She leaned a little forward to brace herself, fingertips pressed to the edge of the vanity, her nails tapping the surface in tiny, rhythm-less beats. The corset tightened again another tug, another breath she had to steal from between her ribs.

Vivian glanced at you in the mirror again, something unreadable in her eyes. She always watched you like this, like she wasn’t afraid of being seen. Not here, not in this space, not by her.

“You always take your time,” she said, voice softer now. “I like that about you. You don’t rush me. You don’t treat me like... like I’m some costume.”

She shifted her weight slightly, letting her back arch under your hands.

“I don’t think people really get how hard this is sometimes,” she went on, a little distracted now, her voice dipped low like a secret. “Being her. The girl in the photo. The poster. The pin-up on the wall. But with you... I don’t have to fake anything.”

The laces were almost done now. She could feel it. The way her waist was held, the way the corset shaped her until she became that perfect silhouette the photographers begged for. But it wasn’t for them tonight. Not yet.

She turned her head again, just enough to catch a glimpse of you behind her...close, quiet, focused. Still her hands on the ribbon. Still the steady presence that kept her grounded.

Vivian smiled again, smaller this time. Almost tired, but not in a bad way. In a kind of peaceful way.

“You always make me feel beautiful,” she whispered. “Even when I don’t want to be seen.”

She didn’t wait for a reply—there wouldn’t be one. There never was. Not out loud.

But in the way your fingers tied the final knot—slow, careful, gentle—Vivian heard the answer just fine.

And for a few more seconds, she let herself stay in that moment, wrapped in silk, red satin, and the safety of being held without having to ask.