Chapter Three: Needles and Nerves
1153 Words
Carson had never sewn a dress at night. Not since he was nineteen.
But tonight, the machine hummed like a lullaby, its needle diving and rising in rhythm with the thrum in his chest.
The deep navy silk whispered through his fingers — luxurious, perfect — and utterly wrong.
Because every stitch reminded him of the spool left at his door.
The one Caleb had chosen.
The one he never mentioned needing out loud.
The one no one else could’ve known about.
---
Carson pushed back from the machine, flexing his fingers. They ached. Not from the work — but from the pressure he was applying to keep his hands steady.
This wasn’t attraction. He’d known that before.
Attraction was a flutter. A glance. A safe game.
This was something darker. Like Caleb had his fingers wrapped around the base of Carson’s spine, tugging gently, making him lean without realizing it.
He hated it.
He craved it.
---
Downstairs, the bell chimed.
It was nearly 11:00 p.m.
He didn’t move.
He waited five seconds. Ten.
A second chime.
He grabbed the closest pair of scissors, their blades cool in his palm, and made his way to the landing.
From the shadows, he looked down.
Caleb stood alone in the soft light of the reception. Black pants, rolled sleeves, an umbrella in one hand. Rain streaked the glass door behind him. He hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t buzzed.
He had used a key.
---
“You broke in?” Carson hissed as he descended the steps.
“I didn’t break anything,” Caleb replied calmly, pocketing the keycard. “I was given access. Your assistant thought I left something behind last week.”
“You told her that?”
“I said I’d left something important. She assumed it was yours.”
Carson walked past him to lock the front door.
“You’re insane,” he muttered.
Caleb didn’t deny it.
He was watching Carson again. Not like prey. Like a scientist before an experiment.
Carson hated being the subject.
“Why are you here?” he snapped.
“I told you,” Caleb said smoothly. “You stitch bodies. I stitch flesh. We're not that different.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Caleb stepped closer.
“I came because you haven’t been sleeping,” he said quietly. “You’re jumpy. Distracted. And you didn’t lock the studio window.”
Carson blinked.
“What?”
Caleb’s voice was a whisper. “I climbed through it. Five minutes ago.”
Carson’s breath stuttered.
He didn’t move as Caleb stepped within a hand’s breadth of him.
“You let people see the final product,” Caleb said. “But you keep the work — the raw, bloodied part — locked away. Hidden. You think that protects you?”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Carson said.
“No,” Caleb replied. “But you want to give it. That’s what scares you.”
Silence.
The sound of the rain thickened against the glass. Carson’s heartbeat pounded in his ears. Caleb’s scent — bergamot and something sterile — filled the space between them.
Carson’s voice cracked. “If you’re trying to break me, I promise it’s not that interesting.”
Caleb tilted his head. “Who said I want to break you?”
Carson opened his mouth — but he didn’t get the chance to reply.
Because Caleb reached up, gently, and pulled a stray thread from Carson’s collar.
Not a touch. Just a graze.
But Carson’s whole body reacted like he’d been burned.
---
They didn’t kiss. Not that night.
Carson would’ve preferred a kiss. Something physical. Predictable.
But Caleb didn’t want predictable.
He wanted to be in Carson’s head.
And Carson…
He didn’t know how to stop him.
---
Later, alone again in the studio, Carson stared at the jacket he’d been working on.
He traced the seams with his thumb.
Every line was straight. Every detail precise. But it felt off.
Because all he could think of was the way Caleb looked at him — like a surgeon mapping out a heart.
And he was starting to wonder if he’d already been cut open.
---
The next morning, the assistants returned to a studio that smelled like cedar and citrus. Freshly cleaned.
Carson said nothing about the night before. No one asked.
But when he entered his private office, he found a gift box on the chair.
Inside: a pair of surgical-grade scissors. Custom-engraved.
"To cut more than cloth." – C.A.
Carson threw them across the room.
---
Two days later, he was at the gala fitting.
A mansion in Asokoro. Glittering chandeliers. Polished marble. Waitstaff that didn’t speak unless spoken to.
Carson didn’t want to be there. But money talked. And the elite whispered his name like a spell.
His team set up the mobile studio in a guest wing. Portable mirrors, fabric racks, standing mannequins.
It was work. Purely professional.
Until Caleb entered the room.
No introduction. No greeting. Just that slow, confident walk and a gaze that scraped Carson raw.
“Mr. Adura,” he said smoothly, drawing out the syllables.
“Doctor,” Carson replied, not looking up.
“You’re not wearing your thimble.”
Carson’s eyes shot to him.
Caleb smiled.
He was referring to the bandage on Carson’s middle finger — a tiny nick from a distracted night of sketching.
“I stitched someone yesterday,” Caleb said, “and I kept thinking about your hands.”
Carson didn’t reply.
But his grip on the chalk tightened.
---
They worked in near silence.
Carson measured. Caleb obeyed.
But the tension in the room was suffocating.
At one point, as Carson leaned in to adjust the shoulder measurement, his cheek brushed Caleb’s collarbone.
His pulse leapt.
Caleb said nothing. Just closed his eyes, breathing in slowly — like Carson was a scent he was trying to memorize.
---
“Do you dream when you sew?” Caleb asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Do you ever lose yourself in it so deeply, it feels like sleep?”
Carson hesitated.
“Not sleep,” he said finally. “More like drowning.”
Caleb nodded.
“Then maybe we’re both addicts.”
“To drowning?”
“To control,” Caleb said. “And how we lose it.”
The words hung heavy between them.
---
After the fitting, Caleb didn’t leave immediately.
Instead, he walked Carson to the service lift.
They stood alone as the doors closed.
The air between them thickened.
“Why me?” Carson whispered. “There are easier people.”
Caleb smiled softly.
“I don’t want easy,” he said. “I want truth. And scars. And stitching that almost didn’t hold.”
The lift dinged.
The doors opened.
Caleb stepped out first — but turned just once to say:
“I’m going to keep coming back.”
Then he vanished into the night.
- Writer
