“Stand still, Harry.”

“I am standing still.”

“You’re not. You keep twitching.”

“I’m breathing, not twitching.”

The tailor, a tiny man with suspiciously sharp scissors, sighed like he’d just spent a week with toddlers. “Sir, please. This is your wedding tuxedo. The sleeves must be precise.”

Harry looked down at his reflection. The tuxedo was perfect. The fit, the fabric, the cut. Everything screamed "rich and classy and soon-to-be-married'. But all he felt was ...