"Let me handle this," Derek's voice, soft and reassuring, came from behind me. He reached for a dress and handed it to me with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment.
Derek took a dress from the closet and handed it to me. With trembling hands, I grabbed the cloth. His touch was gentle, and his grip on my hand was firm, anchoring me in a moment that was fraught with unspoken tensions.
Derek's voice broke the silence, his questions revealing his curiosity and concern. "Are you afraid of me? And, once again, why did you address me as Mr.?"
I stammered, my words coming out in a nervous rush, "No, I'm sorry."
Derek drew me closer to him, his touch serving as both a reassurance and an inquiry. "You are trembling, why?" he asked as he studied my quivering form.
