take a date. So, same thing."

"This can't be good." It was a pattern she recognised.

"A formal event. Senior Officers only on the Steel Whale."

Bingo, but only half. The event made sense, but the why and where didn't. Evalyn pulled away, keeping her hands on his shoulders. "What occasion?"

Elliot pouted, shaking his head and shrugging. His button-up shirt's shoulders were beginning to crease; she'd have to iron them out before he left next Monday.

"Big wig? Something, something? I don't know."

Evalyn sighed, patting his shoulders and leaving for the kitchen. "If you're looking to get promoted, it's time to start paying attention to what's going on above your head."

"And suck up to people?" Elliot protested, resting his head on a fist. "You know how terrible I am at that."

"You obey me pretty well."

"Because you hit hard."

Evalyn chuckled. The threat still lingered with him despite it being years since she'd last enacted on it.

At least in earnest.

"I'm not certain what it's for, but it's certainly a celebration."

A stretch of silence followed as Evalyn poured water into the iron-cast kettle and ignited the burner.

"And a real celebration," Elliot clarified. "Not some excuse to network with investors and nobles."

They flashed a knowing glance at each other. They'd been to events before, but nothing so formal. He knew how much she hated them, how she hoped her career as a high-class plus one would be buried with the last of her bloodline.

Elliot sank onto the table, stuffing his face into his forearms as though trying to run away from the answer he already expected. "I can take Iris," he said. "But it's a booze thing, not much for her to get excited over."

Iris didn't have a dress, and as much as Evalyn could fawn over the idea of picking something out for her, the thought of the bomber jacket making a return appearance over the top made her blood run cold.

"No, I'll go," Evalyn conceded as steam rose from the kettle. She broke a sheepish smile. "I can pretend to be a lady of the house, as long as it's only pretending."

Elliot smiled, nothing of the mischievous grin that had put her on edge. He stood and strutted closer, a proper stride that held none of the sarcasm that word implied in her head, the type of strut that looked perfect when done in a three-piece suit.

Elliot paused and met her eyes with his. Even after a decade, sometimes looking directly into his razor-sharp gaze stung. Sometimes, enough for her to look away.

And that moment of weakness was when he took his chance. He was a fighter pilot—exploiting weakness was his thing.

She felt her calloused hand raised by a gentle touch, and a pair of soft lips kiss her tallest knuckle.

"When did you ever stop being a lady of the house?" Elliot asked.

Evalyn glanced back at him but couldn't bear it for much longer than a glance.

"Yep. You've still got it."

That morning and afternoon she spent holed up in their bedroom, Elliot only fluttering in and out to get dressed and do his hair. It was long and unruly for a military man, with layers building on layers like a helmet if he neglected a haircut. Somehow, he'd always tame it, and without any help from her either.

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Evalyn took care of her hair if only to please her husband. He didn't care much about how she carried herself, but he would always complain the moment her ends began to fray. As a result, it was easy to wrangle. Even if she was to leave it out, Evalyn was particular about how she went about it. Old habits died hard, especially the ones hammered into her for half her life.

Her makeup cabinet was sparse. She knew what she liked, and she saw no reason to experiment. Even a surprise event wasn't reason enough to call Oswald to send a servant for her ancient stash. She wasn't desperate enough to powder herself with products ten years out of fashion.

Dress. Her least favourite part. She'd grown too comfortable in her trousers and trench coat. Besides, they were warm.

Her gaze passed over her closet; most of the civilian clothing were holdovers from Kestrel Manor, things she'd taken with her when she inherited the place. Rummaging through it, she wondered if the added muscle mass around her waist was enough to change her figure. No point going if the dress wouldn't fit.

But then again, that one had to.

Not for some logical reasoning, or because the alterations would only take an afternoon.

Something more irrational than that. One of the few things she knew for sure belonged to her mother, the dress she'd first stolen Elliot's eyes with.

In the back of her closet, as it always was whenever she needed it. The way its red fabric still so boldly declared its existence and the way the sequins so brilliantly reflected the light, the dress wanted to tell her that, for as long as she needed it, it would remain immortal.

Sleeveless, with a generous neckline—the fabric was loose enough to shift with her movements, came together at her waist before billowing out again and ending just below her knees. It was flashy, and perhaps she was getting too old for it.

But she smiled at herself when she looked in the mirror, allowing herself a small joy as her dangling silver earrings seemed to greet her cheerfully.

She heard the door open without any prior warning, whatever announcement Elliot had made must have flown over her head.

She turned, conscious of how her hair fluttered around her shoulders and, how she was still barefoot. Even that, it seemed, was still enough to stun him.

Wide-eyed, missing his jacket, his manners seemed to leave him as he simply stared at her. First, it was the dress, but that soon shifted to her face. It was a pleasant feeling, one that Elliot never let his guard down enough to reward her with. She decided to play into it, popping a shoulder and flashing a wide smile.

"What do you think?" Evalyn asked.

"Woah," was the answer, but it didn't come from the intended person.

Despite no blood relation, father and daughter were in perfect sync, the same gobsmacked expression beaming her from two directions.

"What? Stop."

Iris stepped forward, her small hands still lost in the bomber jacket's sleeve. She'd already messed up her hair, or rather, hadn't brushed it that morning at all. Evalyn crouched, meeting Iris at her level. The little girl outstretched her hand and traced Evalyn's arms.

"What?" she smiled. "Am I too muscular for this dress?"

Iris shook her head. "No. It suits you," she muttered, her finger tracing the markings along Evalyn's arm.