Always You || Simon Minter (miniminter)

Chapter 45

The flat smells like hairspray, coffee, and whatever JJ's sprayed on himself that could probably strip paint.

I'm stood in Simon and JJ's bathroom, carefully painting the last bits of blue onto my neck and collarbones. My dress is laid out on the bed behind me, corset-style, pale and slightly tattered — very Corpse Bride, if I do say so myself.

Simon hovers behind me, already fully dressed as Victor Van Dort. Black suit, crisp white shirt, thin tie, pale makeup and darkened eyes. He looks unfairly good, which is frankly rude.

"Try not to move," he says, focused, blending blue paint along my shoulder.

"I am literally doing nothing," I reply. "This is my stillest form."

JJ leans against the doorframe, in normal clothes - he says his costume needs to be put on last minute.

"I don't get it," he says. "Why are you blue?"

I turn slowly. "I'm a corpse, Jide."

He nods seriously. "Right. Makes sense."

Simon snorts before he can stop himself, quickly pretending to be very invested in my shoulder again.

"Your costume is a cry for help," I tell JJ.

"And yet," he says, pointing at Simon, "this man looks like he's walked out of a Tim Burton wet dream." I pause for a moment, looking at JJ through the mirror, too stunned to speak.

"Your stupidness never fails to amaze me." I laugh, seeing him roll his eyes.

I catch Simon's eyes in the mirror and my stomach flips, he has a look on his face I can't quite decipher.

"Why do you look like that?" I ask quietly.

"Like what?" he replies, though his lips twitch.

"Like you're about to emotionally devastate me." I almost whisper.

JJ gags loudly. "I'm going to throw up in my mouth."

He disappears into the living room, muttering something about finding his phone charger even though it's in his hand.

Simon steps closer, hands settling gently on my waist, careful not to smudge anything.

"You okay?" he asks, softer now.

I nod. "Yeah. You?"

There's a pause — just a second — before he nods too. "Yeah. I am."

His thumb brushes my hip, grounding me.

Simon stands behind me, fingers carefully threading the ribbon through the back of the corset. His touch is gentle, focused, like he's handling something fragile — which only makes my heart thud harder.

"Hold the front," he murmurs.

"I am," I say, gripping the bodice as he tightens it. The dress settles against me properly now, hugging my waist, the skirt falling in soft, uneven layers around my legs.

When he finishes, his hands linger for half a second too long.

I turn to face him, smoothing the fabric down nervously. "Okay... don't laugh."

I step back so he can see me properly.

Simon goes very still.

His eyes drag slowly over me — the blue skin, the delicate stitching, the way the dress looks far too real to be just a costume. His mouth parts slightly before he seems to catch himself.

"...Wow."

I laugh softly, a little shy. "That bad?"

"No," he says immediately. "The opposite."