The dress was perfect.

Radiant, sunlit, unapologetically yellow.

Marisol knew it the second she stepped into it and pulled it up over her hips. The fabric settled smoothly, the color making her hazel eyes glow in the mirror. She smoothed it down, turned side to side, bun perched neatly on her head, already imagining where she’d wear it.

“This,” she said to her reflection, nodding once, “was absolutely the right choice.”

The zipper ran down the front, starting just below her collarbone. She grasped the pull and zipped it up easily, the metal gliding without complaint until it reached the top.

She admired herself for another second.

Then she reached for the zipper to take it back down.

It didn’t move.

She blinked and tried again, thumb and forefinger pinching the pull with casual confidence.

Nothing.

Her brows knit together. “Okay. That’s... fine.”

Zippers caught sometimes. She tugged gently downward. Still nothing. She pressed the fabric flat with her other hand, trying to ease any tension, then pulled again.

The zipper stayed exactly where it was.

Her confidence wavered.

She leaned closer to the mirror, peering down at it like she could intimidate it into cooperation. She tried pulling from a slightly different angle. Then another.

Nothing.

She exhaled sharply and laughed once, under her breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

She tried sitting down on the edge of the bed, leaning forward as if gravity might help. Tug. Nothing. She stood up straight, shoulders back, posture perfect, and pulled again.

The zipper refused.

Her bun started to loosen as she ran a hand over her hair in frustration. A few strands escaped and brushed her cheek. The room suddenly felt warmer, the bright yellow fabric clinging a little too confidently for comfort.

She tried using her nails. Then a hairpin, which slipped and snapped shut uselessly against the metal.

“Seriously?” she muttered.

She paced her room, one hand instinctively resting against the front of the dress, acutely aware now that she was very much stuck inside it. She lifted the skirt slightly, shifted her stance, tried pulling the zipper upward first and then down, just in case it needed a reset.

It did not.

Her heart began to thump, not with panic yet, but with that creeping realization that the situation was no longer amusing.

She stared at herself in the mirror. The dress looked flawless. Effortless. As if it had always intended to stay right there.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “We’re not doing this.”

She tried one last time, bracing the fabric with one hand and pulling firmly with the other.

The zipper did not budge even a millimeter.

Marisol dropped her arm and stood very still.

There was only one option left, and she hated how obvious it was the moment it occurred to her.

She was going to have to ask her step sibling for help.