“For prom.”
We both knew what remained unsaid: We can’t afford one.
“Leave the dress to me,” he said.
I laughed. “That’s a wild sentence coming from a man who owns three identical work shirts.”
Yet, after that evening, things changed. The hall closet stayed locked. Packages appeared and disappeared. And late at night, I heard the steady, quiet hum of a sewing machine.
One evening, I caught him in the act. He was bent over a spill of ivory fabric, reading glasses slipping down his nose, hands moving with surprising care.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That doesn’t look like nothing.”
He pointed toward my bedroom. “Go.”
For weeks, that became our rhythm: thread on the couch, burnt dinners, and a bandage wrapped around his thumb.
“What happened?” I asked.
“The zipper fought back.”
“You’ve been sewing so much you injured yourself over formalwear?”
He shrugged. “War asks different things of different men.”
I laughed, but something in my chest tightened with warmth.
