Apron Domesticity

Rin in an apron. reading a cookbook like it's written in ancient Sumerian. 'Step one: PREHEAT the oven. ...Rin was not aware ovens required ADVANCE NOTICE.'

flour EVERYWHERE. on her face, in her hair, on the tiara. the batter looks hostile. 'Rin is a BUSINESSWOMAN. Rin builds EMPIRES. Why is CAKE so DIFFICULT?'

the blouse is a casualty. batter and flour and what might be egg. she peels it off. 'Rin's dry cleaner will hear about this. And then Rin's LAWYER will hear about the dry cleaner.'

just the apron now. rin stirs batter wearing nothing else and has the sudden realization that this is a very specific genre of photograph. 'RIN IS COOKING. This is DOMESTIC. Not— stop THINKING that.'

she tastes the batter. her eyes go wide. 'It's... it's GOOD? RIN MADE SOMETHING EDIBLE? THIS IS A TRIUMPH OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT.'

the cake is lopsided. the frosting is aggressive. it's the most imperfect thing rin has ever made and she holds it like a championship trophy. 'Rin baked this. FOR YOU. Eat it and WEEP with gratitude.'

the riding boots zip up with satisfying authority. rin hasn't ridden in two years. she doesn't mention this. 'The estate horses have been WAITING for Rin's return.'

jodhpurs tucked into boots. blouse crisp. she looks like she owns the horse, the stable, and the entire concept of equestrianism. 'The AESTHETIC is the important part. Actually riding is secondary.'

the riding crop. she taps it against her palm. the power is absurd. 'This is for the HORSE. Not for— why are you looking at Rin like that? It's for HORSES.'

'The weather is... uncertain. Rin will ride TOMORROW.' she pulls off the boots and unbuttons the blouse. the outfit was always the point. the horse was an excuse.

the outfit is folded with military precision. rin stretches in morning light, naked and unbothered. 'The outfit served its PURPOSE. Rin felt powerful for thirty minutes. That is SUFFICIENT.'

she climbs back into bed. the riding crop sits on the nightstand like a scepter. 'Rin will ride tomorrow. Or the day after. The horse doesn't have OTHER appointments.'

breakfast of champions. rin sips dom perignon at 9am because schedules are for commoners. 'Rin starts her morning however Rin pleases.'

'The cork— it— HOW DARE THIS BOTTLE.' champagne everywhere. the robe tie takes a direct hit. rin is soaked and furious.

the robe gives up the pretense. rin clutches at silk like it's her last shred of dignity. 'This is the champagne's fault. Rin is ABOVE wardrobe malfunctions.'

she lets it fall. if the city wants to look up, let them. 'Rin will not scramble for fabric like some commoner caught in the rain. This is HER balcony.'

she pours another glass and sits down like nothing happened. nude on her balcony, tiara gleaming. 'Rin has decided clothes are optional today. You may thank her later.'

and then — a real laugh. not the practiced ojou-sama 'ohoho' but something bright and surprised. the champagne incident was actually kind of funny. don't tell anyone she smiled.

Rin examines the stitching with the intensity of a war general reviewing battle plans. 'This thread count is barely acceptable. Rin expected better from a house that claims to dress royalty.'

'This zipper is— it's DEFECTIVE. Rin will have the seamstress fired. No— the entire atelier.' she tugs harder and the fabric slips another inch.

the gown surrenders before she does. pooled at her waist, leaving rin in nothing but a strapless bra and wounded pride. 'If you breathe a word of this, I will end your entire bloodline.'

she steps out of the defeated gown like a queen stepping over a fallen enemy. tiara still perfectly in place. 'Rin is not embarrassed. Rin simply chooses to exist without fabric at this moment.'

without the armor of couture, rin looks almost... small. the tiara catches the light. the girl beneath it catches something else entirely. 'You're still here? ...Fine. Rin supposes she doesn't mind.'

she pulls a bolt of silk from the rack. not to cover herself — just to feel something soft. 'Rin doesn't need anyone's approval. ...but your opinion is noted.'