“Don’t take this personally. Shower, shave, deodorant, cologne, then come out in the shorts we left on the hook. I just want you perfect tonight.”
He almost laughed. Perfect. Right.
Thirty-one minutes later he stepped into the living room feeling like a recruit after his first day of boot camp. Damp hair, bare feet, wearing nothing but the provided black boxer-briefs and a blush he hoped wasn’t visible.
Wendy turned, arms folded, eyes bright with approval and mischief.
“Excellent. Hold still.”
She circled him the way a sculptor circles marble. Fingertips brushed his jaw, checking the shave. A quick sniff near his neck—cologne passed. She even tilted his head to inspect behind his ears like he was six.
“Almost,” she murmured, producing a straight razor from seemingly nowhere. One gentle stroke along his chin. “Now you’re baby-smooth.”
Eric appeared in identical shorts, hair still wet.
“Your turn,” Wendy told her husband without missing a beat.
Eric sighed theatrically and submitted to the same ritual—sniff, ear-check, final razor touch-up. Thomas watched, caught between horror and affection.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Is this normal?” he asked once Wendy disappeared to get herself ready.
“Every major event since 2009,” Eric said, deadpan. “It’s love in the form of mild terror. You get used to it.”
Thomas exhaled a laugh. “I’m still deciding if I should be grateful or scared.”
“Both. Always both.”
Forty-five minutes later Wendy walked back in wearing an elegant navy gown that made her look like she belonged on a embassy balcony. She turned her back to Eric without a word; he zipped her up like it was choreography they’d done a thousand times.
“Shoes polished?” she asked.
“On the bench by the door.”
“Where’s Jonathan?”
“Grandparents snatched him hours ago. Full afternoon hostage situation.”
She checked the clock, then smiled at Thomas—really smiled, soft and proud.
“All right, gentlemen. Socks.”
It went like a slow, benevolent military operation:
- Dress socks (she made sure the seams sat straight across the toes).
- Crisp white shirts (she fastened his cuff links herself—simple onyx squares that caught the light).
- Trousers (she circled again, tugging fabric, tucking shirt tails with quick, practiced motions).
- V- Vests (she buttoned Eric’s, then Thomas’s, fingers flying).
- Final mirror check.
Jackets waited on hangers by the door—no wrinkles allowed until the very last second.
When the shoes finally came out, polished to a mirror shine, Thomas slipped his on and felt the last piece click into place. He caught his reflection in the hallway mirror: black peak-lapel suit, perfect break on the trousers, hair behaving for once. He looked like someone who belonged somewhere important.
Wendy stepped back, hands on hips, surveying her work.
“Look at you two,” she said quietly. “Ready for anything.”
Eric offered Thomas a small, conspiratorial grin.
“Told you,” he said. “Love and terror. Best combination there is.”
Thomas swallowed, the knot in his throat not nerves anymore—something warmer.
“Thank you,” he said. The words felt too small, but they were all he had.
Wendy’s smile turned radiant.
“Come on, peacocks. Time to go.”