The padded bench beneath me feels stitched together to calm the impatience of people like me. I sit there with my elbows on my knees, picking at the edges of my nails to extricate the dirt. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker brightly.
It has been a journey.
After half an hour of combing racks and rejecting trends that looked too edgy for my taste, I finally narrowed down outfits that might convince Dominic to embrace colours beyond asphalt and stormcloud.
The salesman had a different agenda altogether. He flitted around us like a butterfly, his floral shirt clashing with the drab surroundings of the store. His suggestions were incessant. Each one made me feel increasingly irritable, stirring up a desire to file a restraining order against his relentless enthusiasm.
Despite my dozen attempts to decline his offers politely yet firmly, he seemed oblivious to my signals.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of his persistent sales pitches, he finally took the hint, retreating with a disappointed sigh to work his charms on another unsuspecting customer, who was now caught in his web of persuasion aimed at selling the latest line of culottes.
When I notice the movement of the dressing room curtain rustling nervously, I sit up straight. Slowly, Dominic's face peeks through with a pout so petulant it belongs on a toddler.
"This is too much colour," he grumbles, his voice muffled but fully soaked in agony.
With an unimpressed look, I say, "The bomber jacket I gave you is a pleasant olive green. I mean, you even got to keep your black trousers."
"I don't like the white shirt."
Have I just been granted a front row seat to a once in a lifetime performance?
"Just come out, Dominic," I urge, a smile tugging at my lips.
He glances down at himself behind the veil of fabric and lets out a disgruntled sound as if this is actual torture. His expression suggests the clothing is burning his soul from the inside out. Which is absurd because nothing he has on is sequined like what I usually wear.
I watch his face closely, catching the way he refuses to meet my gaze. There is a slight tension around his mouth, that stubborn tick that gives him away.
Is he bracing for humiliation?
My amusement flickers, but I don't let it show yet.
"Are you worried I might laugh at you?" I ask whilst feigning curiosity, though there is a smirk buried somewhere beneath the surface. "Because I'm way too mature to indulge in an act so childish."
"Yes, famously," he mutters with that familiar sarcasm. His eyes flick sideways, dodging mine and I suppress the urge to tease him further.
"You're being dramatic," I say, voice light.
"Am I?" he shoots back, clearly wounded by my suggestion.
I scan the store, eyes darting past mannequins and racks until I spot the perfect weapon. Across the aisle is a glaringly awful combination of firetruck red jeans and a mustard yellow tee, hanging together like a fashion crime scene.
"If I really wanted revenge," I say sweetly, "I'd put you in those."
He grimaces.
I lean in, drop my voice low with a whisper of mock sincerity. "Besides, you knew what you were getting yourself into. I said, if you wanna go shopping with me today, just know I'm gonna put you in colour."
His protest is immediate. "But why does it have to be colour?"
The question is so genuinely confused I almost pity him.
"To make people notice you," I say, scanning again for potential outfits I can weaponise. "People like Jodie, who might stop assuming you're gay if you quit dressing like you're attending a funeral."
He stares. "What?"
I glance at him, one brow raised. "Jodie thinks your wardrobe's like some kind of coded language. Like black hoodies are your way of hiding your sexuality."
Dominic blinks, clearly stunned. "Is that... a thing? Do gay people wear dark clothes?"
"I don't."
He waves me off dismissively. "Yeah, but you don't count."
Hold up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He gives me a look like it should be obvious. "You dress like a box of crayons threw up all over you."
And I beam, unashamed. "Yeah, but that's on purpose."
His voice softens with disbelief. "It is?"
"Yeah," I nod, feeling the pride swell in my chest. "Don't you remember how I used to dress in Year Seven?"
"Did I even know you in Year Seven?"
Now that is insulting.
I raise a brow. "Wow. So all that time spent sitting behind you in science meant nothing?"
Dominic squints, trying to remember. "Wait... were you the kid with those glow in the dark shoes and the neon jacket?"
"Yes," I say, proudly. "It was highlighter chic by the way. Some would say, I was ahead of my time."
"What, people who have CTE?" he muses, causing me to narrow my eyes at him. "So you thought that was dressing normally?"
"I was making a statement."
"That you were allergic to earth tones?"
"That I had range, mate." I adjust my colourful sweater dramatically. "First day of school and I was already setting trends while the rest of you basic ass bitches were drowning in beige."
Dominic snorts. "God, you're so gay."
I freeze.
Then I glare at him. "Are you saying that as a pejorative?"
He shrugs. "No. You're just really gay."
My brows pinch as I process his words, unsure whether to be insulted or flattered.
Really gay?
What does that even mean in this context? Like there are degrees to it? Is he talking about the way I talk, the way I dress, the unapologetic volume of my personality? Is there a ranking system now? Like some kind of flagship model of queerness?
The confusion simmers beneath my skin, mingling with irritation. I hate when he tosses comments like that out with zero clarification. His tone wasn't biting. It wasn't cruel. It was... observational. Shrugged off. Which somehow makes it worse.
I lean back in the bench, eyes narrowing as I try to decode his expression. He doesn't look like he's trying to mock me. If anything, he looks indifferent.
"When you say really gay, do you mean like... too much?" I ask, keeping my voice light but firm.
His lips twitch, fighting a grin. "Definitely too much. You're just always gay. All the time. Like it's the first thing in the room."
I blink.
A laugh slips out, short and surprised. "Thanks, I think?"
He shrugs like what he's saying isn't nearly as questionable as it sounds. "Anyway, I meant do other gay people wear dark clothes."
"Maybe the ones still in the closet?" I offer after pretending to mull it over even though his logic is already dancing on a tightrope. "I mean, if you're trying not to be seen, I guess dark clothing would make you feel safer. Invisible."
There is a flicker across his face, somewhere between insulted and intrigued. Like he's never considered that his closet full of greys and blacks might mean more than just a hatred for colour to outsider.
Then something clicks. "Wait... that's literally Jodie's logic," I say, and a small laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Dominic blinks at me. His whole expression crumples wryly, as if I have just accused him of something. "So wearing black means I'm hiding my sexuality now?"
I shrug, the corner of my mouth curling with a mischievous smile. "According to Jodie's logic, yes."
Dominic squints, visibly offended on behalf of his entire wardrobe. "That's deeply insulting."
I wave a dismissive hand. "Yeah, I honestly think she was just grasping at straws because you rejected her advances when she initially tried flirting with you."
"When she what?"
Ignoring his question, I continue, "I mean, I didn't even bother trying to unpack what she saying when she said it. I just left it at Jodie finally using her last two surviving brain cells before they filed for retirement."
And weirdly enough... he doesn't defend her this time.
No protest or an eye roll.
So of course, I take the opportunity to twist the knife gently. "Then again, you're the one who fell in love with her knowing she says things like that so..."
He groans. "I keep telling you I'm not in love with her."
I raise my brows. "That's the only thing you picked up from what I just said?"
Dominic rubs his temples like I'm physically hurting him. "So what, if I wear the mustard tee I suddenly stop being gay? Is that how it works now?"
I grin, innocence practically leaking out of me. "Maybe not immediately straight. Just... less ambiguous."
He exhales long and heavy.
I reach over to a rack, casually picking up a soft pink button down and dangling it near his curtain. "To be fair, you could brighten up your wardrobe without looking like you're going to a Pride parade."
Dominic scowls, recoil instant. "I refuse to wear pink."
"It's rose quartz." I say with a scoff, as if correcting a child who called a violin a guitar. "And wearing it doesn't make you any less straight or more gay. In fact, it just makes you look like you've made peace with your sexuality."
He doesn't respond. Just stands there behind the curtain, probably weighing how much of his self-respect will evaporate the moment he steps out wearing anything not in the grayscale family.
Then, after a long pause, he mutters softly, "You really think Jodie will notice me?"
I smirk slowly. "I know she will. You're about to blind her with your new, tasteful fashion overhaul and that shock value alone will plant you directly in her subconscious where you will live rent free."
He averts his gaze, eyes glued to the ground like it holds all the answers. That agitated pout of his morphs into a frown, and I can almost hear the static of his spiralling thoughts from here. There's regret in the way his shoulders hunch slightly, as if he's already mourning whatever dignity he's convinced he's lost.
He mutters something about regret but the words crumble before they reach me.
His hesitation strangely makes my chest clench.
Then, with far more aggression than the moment calls for, he pulls the curtain aside.
His movements are stiff, robotic even. He doesn't meet my eyes but I do the exact opposite. I stare at him like he just emerged from a portal in another dimension.
My lips curl up involuntarily, stretching so far I nearly worry my face will snap in half.
"Look at you," I exclaim, the words spilling out louder than I intended, drenched in disbelief and undeniable excitement.
His eyes flick away, clearly uncomfortable beneath my wide eyed scrutiny. He's trying not to shrink, but I can see the shrinking happening.
Still, I press on, voice softer now. "No seriously, take a look at yourself."
"Keep talking and I will end you," he mutters, aiming for threatening but landing somewhere between defensive and embarrassed.
I lift my hands like someone caught robbing a cookie jar. The gesture is full of mock surrender, but my eyes betray me. They are laughing, glowing with mischievous pride. I'm beaming so hard I might combust.
Because this... this is the first time I've ever seen him in colour.
Dominic's entire aesthetic has always been grayscale: black hoodies, dark jeans, an occasional deep navy if he's feeling adventurous. His wardrobe screams invisibility, and I've grown so used to the dull palette that seeing him bathed in anything lighter feels like getting a surprise sunrise.
Today I decided to break his streak.
Force it, even.
I wanted to see if I could coax him into letting go just a little.
And I did.
White. I never knew it could look so good on him. It illuminates his features in ways black never could, makes his eyes glint like there's actual light living inside them. And that infuriates me. Because it confirms something I'd always suspected but never tested: Dominic could wear anything and still pull it off like it was designed with him in mind. It's unfair. Deeply unfair.
He looks tense, sure—like the shirt might strangle him out of sheer betrayal. But even with all that reluctance, he looks...
Good.
Actually, devastatingly good.
I get up slowly, my body moving in tandem with awe. Each step toward him feels like stepping through a dream I didn't expect to see come true. When I'm directly in front of him, I reach out to fix the collar of his olive green bomber jacket. It's lopsided, and it's bothering me more than I care to admit.
His body tenses under my fingers but then, gradually, he softens. He lets me.
The white tee hangs over the black cargo trousers, not too tight but fitted enough to do his figure justice. His trousers gather just right at the ankle, the way I told him, and the pristine white trainers anchor the whole look.
It's cohesive.
A statement without screaming.
But then there's his black cap.
It perches on his head like it's trying to undo all the effort we've made. I purse my lips, narrowing my eyes at the contradiction. Rising onto my toes, I meet him face to face and peel the cap off with purpose. My fingers dive into his dark curls, reshaping the mess gently. I let a few strands fall across his forehead where they belong.
His scalp is warm to the touch. The moment my cold fingers make contact, he flinches, recoiling like a child. He pulls his shoulders inward, defensive but not enough to stop me. I'm trespassing against every personal boundary he pretends to hold firm, and yet I keep going.
The entire time, I feel the heat of his eyes blistering against my skin. He's watching me, unwavering, but I don't meet his gaze. I stay focused. I want him to be immaculate. Not only for Jodie Dillon but for himself too.
Mostly for Jodie though.
I dust off his shoulders like I'm putting the finishing touches on a sculpture. Then I step back and take in the full portrait.
"Man, I am good," I whisper breathlessly, with hands on my hips and a cocky smirk that could power a city.
Dominic scoffs, arms folding across his chest. "Of course, you're gonna take credit for this."
"I have to." I flash a grin, rocking back on my heels. "I got you to wear colour and look good in it. That's not just an achievement. That's a revolution. You're welcome."
He sighs tiredly.
I plop his cap on my own head and tip it at him playfully.
"I'm going to try on another outfit. You can go and find more clothes for me."
As he turns on his heel, about to vanish into the changing booth, I blurt out, "Wait."
My hand shoots forward before my brain catches up. My fingers wrap around his forearm instinctively.
Immediately, I regret it.
He looks down at my hand like it's something offensive. His gaze sharpens, that familiar flicker of warning flashing in his eyes. The same glint I've seen before, whenever I cross whatever invisible line he's drawn between us. There's always that subtle shift, that tension that makes my chest tighten, like I've stepped into a space I wasn't invited.
I retract my hand so fast it feels like it stung me.
I fold my arms around my stomach as if that'll slow the rush of nerves, like I can cage in the awkwardness radiating off me.
"Uh... what's your limit?" I ask, forcing my voice steady while my mind still scrambles. It's not that I want to pry. I just need to know. Money changes everything, even if no one wants to say it out loud.
He turns slightly, brows knitting together in confusion. "Limit?"
"Like, how much you're allowed to spend. On clothes."
He shrugs casually, like it's nothing. "I don't know. Doesn't really matter. My parents have it covered."
Of course they do.
I bite the inside of my cheek. My head nods reflexively. "Right. Of course. You're rich. I sometimes forget that."
The words tumble out partially bitter, partially resigned. I'm not angry, not really. Just... reminded that he lives in a world where price tags don't mean anything.
He notices the shift in me instantly, of course he does. His brows dip down, amusement fading into something unreadable. He's staring at me like I've either said something profound, or maybe something pathetic.
I purse my lips and try to shake it off, toss a smile that feels more like a performance than a reflex.
Then I step back, pointing at him like I'm trying to deflect with awkward enthusiasm. "I'll be right back with those clothes."
And I turn before he can read more than I want him to.
After trudging through what felt like every store in this mall, my arms nearly dislocating from the weight of the mountain of bags I carried, none of which belonged to me—I was absurdly still letting Dominic pick out clothes like a prince. Somehow, he had managed to try on half the racks in this place and walk out with my enthusiastic nod of approval each time. I don't mind as much. I was practically born to be a stylish sidekick.
This was the last stop.
Finally.
My back agreed with that decision before my brain did.
I don't know how we haven't triggered a fraud alert yet. The amount of money Dominic has burned through today should've sent his bank a flurry of red flags. And his credit card? Still alive and swiping. I swear it's not made of plastic. It's enchanted.
What's more curious is his phone. It has been buzzing all day, but he doesn't flinch. Just ignores it like he's meditating or something. He's clearly dodging someone. I can feel it, even if he won't say.
Honestly? I'm not poking that bear. I've had enough of him snapping at me for one afternoon.
He has been weirdly civil, though. By civil, I mean only mildly bossy and demanding. I've carried his crap, been ordered around like a personal assistant who doesn't get paid, but hey, I'm still here. Still smiling. Mostly.
I'm flipping through racks when I end up in the underwear section. Don't ask how—I just blinked and boom, boxers everywhere. And then I see it. A gem of an item. Bright, ridiculous and utterly perfect.
SpongeBob boxers.
A chuckle bubbles in my throat and before I can talk myself out of it, I grab them and sprint toward Dominic excitedly.
I find him mid-fashion crisis, staring at himself in the mirror and layering shirts over his torso like he's trying to decide between grey and white.
"Dominic!" I wave the boxers like a victory flag.
He jumps and yeets the shirt away like it burned him. "What? Who said I like white? I don't. I hate it."
His reaction would have been funny if this wasn't much better. "Domi, look at this!"
He finally spots me across the store, his eyes bulging. "Wait, Starr. The floor is—"
Slip.
Bang.
Clutter.
"...wet," he finishes flatly.
The back of my head rings like a bell. I lie there blinking at the ceiling, wincing in pain. Great. This is what I get for sprinting through the store like an overexcited toddler.
I crack one eye open.
Dominic is looking down at me, equal parts concerned and amused. I can't decide whether to be grateful or to kick him between his forehead.
"It's not funny," I mutter, voice laced with pain and pride. "What if I cracked my skull or something?"
He sobers up at my glare but not completely. "Why were you running?"
I lift the glorious SpongeBob boxers like they're a trophy. "We're in our colour era, remember? I thought you might appreciate a little cartoon chic."
He rolls his eyes so hard, they nearly rotate out of his head. "You're an idiot, Starr. C'mon, get up."
"Ow..."
"Hurry up. You're attracting attention."
He snatches the boxers and tosses them aside like I've handed him a cursed artifact. Then he helps me sit up, hands surprisingly gentle despite his annoyance. I rub the back of my head again. The throb is real. Probably going to have a decent headache later.
Actually... maybe I can use it as an excuse. Amma won't suspect I faked illness just to avoid church if I look mildly concussed, right?
"Are you okay?"
I lick my lip, nod, and force a grin. "Yeah."
"What have we learned from this experience?" His eyebrow arches like a patronising professor who hates his job way.
I blink at him, cradling the back of my head.
What have I learned? That running while holding SpongeBob boxers is apparently hazardous to one's health. But also...
"That you need to hear a pun to cheer you up?" I offer, tilting my head in mock seriousness.
"What?" He looks at me in confusion. "No. No."
Oh, sweet, naïve Dominic.
"Here it comes. Whether you like it or not."
His face contorts in painful anticipation.
I launch into it with the proud bravado of someone who absolutely refuses to read the room.
"So a crazy wife walks into a house and says to her husband, moose are falling from the sky and you know what the husband says?"
He rubs a hand down his face like he's trying to wipe away his regrets and probably me along with them.
"He says, 'It's reindeer.'"
Silence.
Deadpan silence.
He stares at me through the gap between his fingers like he's trying to determine if I've completely lost the plot or just most of it.
I open my mouth to emphasise the 'rain-dear' part, because clearly the genius of my joke is being slept on, but—
"I think you're having a mild concussion. You did hit the ground pretty hard."
Rude.
My hand presses to my skull like I'm trying to protect my remaining brain cells from his savage dismissal.
"Why you gotta kill my vibe like that?" I murmur with full dramatic flair.
He shakes his head like a dad dealing with a child. "Come, let's get you some water. Then we can pay for these clothes and call it a day. I'm exhausted and you're clearly delirious."
He pulls me to my feet and—oh, okay. He surprisingly puts his hand on my waist. That's new. Normally, touching me seems to activate his internal "ick" sensor, but now he's practically cradling me. The moment I'm upright, pain rockets through the back of my skull again. Fantastic.
I reach for his shirt like it's a lifeline, scrunching it in my grip in case he suddenly decides to yeet me to the floor but he doesn't. He just... holds me up like a decent human.
Which is confusing.
Will process later.
"Can we go grab some food at the food court before we leave?" My stomach growls dramatically, supporting the motion with audible protest.
"You literally ate doughnuts not so long ago."
Okay, but doughnuts are fluff. I need substance.
I blink through the haze and shoot him the most tragic pout I can muster. Weaponised cuteness has been activated. "But I'm really craving some Fan Tuan."
"Fan-what-now?"
Oh, he's about to get educated.
"It's a Taiwanese dish. It's like a... burrito-like roll of sticky rice. Happiness wrapped in carbs. I like it with pork floss."
He squints like I've just recited an alien menu. "Sure. If they have that here."
As he walks ahead toward the tills, I try one last time to rally SpongeBob's honour. "Are we going to buy the boxers?"
"No. We're not buying the boxers," he says, his tone now dipped in disdain. "I'm not wearing some SpongeBob boxers. That's for kids."
"I think they're cute."
Which, objectively, they are. SpongeBob would be proud.
"You have a weird definition of cute, Starr," he mutters without looking back.