They lock the boutique at nine and the mirrors glow like a small stage. I step out of my heels and smooth the counter with my palm. Tonight I am not the chatterbox girlfriend. Tonight I am the piece you dress, pose, and admire. Your living doll.

You stand behind me while I select satin. Soft pink with a tiny bow. I lift it to my chest and angle my hip for the mirror so you see me the way a stylist would. Turn me. Tilt my chin. Tuck a strand of hair. I keep perfectly still, body quiet, a silk mannequin waiting for orders. When I blink twice, you adjust my straps. When I sigh, you smooth the hem. When I whisper good boy, your hands hover lower, then retreat because display rules matter.

Makeup next. I sit on the counter and part my lips while you trace gloss along my Cupid’s bow. The smell of new fabric and faint perfume fills the room. I hold a pose with my palms on my thighs, eyes soft, spine long. You circle me slowly and I can feel how much you want to break the display. Not yet. I want patience first. I want that tremble in your restraint that warms my skin from the inside.

Final window. I press my hands to the glass and let the streetlight paint me. You fix what is yours to fix: ribbon aligned, tag tucked, hair perfect. I breathe once and freeze again, a pretty exhibit made to be owned. Tell me where you want me. Center platform or front window. One knee bent or both feet together. I will hold until your voice changes. I will stay arranged and lovely until you decide the mannequin becomes a girl in your hands.