Stitches and Scars

The scissors in Carson’s hand weren’t sharp enough to kill, but they’d leave a scar. He clutched them anyway. The lights above flickered once — not enough to go dark, but enough to freeze his breath. Shadows stretched long across the cream floor tiles of the showroom. Between mannequins draped in satin suits, his own reflection in the polished glass pane looked like a ghost in motion. Another sound. Closer this time. A deliberate heel hitting the tiled floor with unhurried purpose. He was supposed to be alone. Everyone had gone home hours ago. He’d stayed back to finish a client’s jacket — but the back door had been locked. No footsteps should echo after closing. He took a breath, slow and shallow, as he backed behind the curtain near the changing area. His left hand trembled around the handle of his tailor’s scissors — sleek, gold-handled, surgical in design, but barely enough to harm. Still, in that moment, they were a weapon. The footsteps paused. Then— “Beautiful work.” The voice came like a whisper, low and masculine, yet confident in its presence. Carson’s body stilled. Every memory he’d buried clawed at his throat. He stepped forward, slowly, cautiously, emerging from the veil of curtains. His eyes scanned the dim space. No one was there. The mannequins stood like sentinels around him, dressed in his latest work: crushed velvet in deep forest green, navy brocade, stark white silk shirts. Each design was a secret, stitched into silence. But none of them moved. None of them spoke. His grip loosened. Maybe he was hearing things. Maybe the exhaustion was catching up to him again. Then came the voice again, this time behind him: “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Carson spun. The man was standing in the doorway to the private fitting room — tall, poised, and utterly still. Black-on-black suit. Black shirt underneath. Skin like warm bronze. Eyes… unreadable. He looked expensive. Controlled. Dangerous. Carson’s mouth went dry. “How did you get in?” The man stepped forward, one hand in his pocket. “I knocked.” “No one knocks on the back door.” “You left it open.” “No, I didn’t.” A flicker of something passed through the man’s eyes — amusement, perhaps — but he didn’t reply. Instead, he walked further into the room, glancing around with idle interest. His eyes touched the unfinished sketches on the corkboard, the fabric rolls stacked by the wall, the iron still hot beside the sewing machine. Then his gaze came back to Carson. “I like the symmetry of your space,” he said quietly. “It’s very… precise.” Carson tightened his jaw. “Who are you?” “Dr. Caleb Ayoola. I have an appointment with you.” “No, you don’t. I don’t do fittings at night.” Caleb pulled out his phone and turned the screen to him. The email booking flashed up — through Carson’s assistant, two days ago. It was real. But this wasn’t the agreed time. And certainly not the agreed entrance. “You’re early,” Carson said stiffly. “I’m interested.” Carson frowned. “In what? A suit?” “In the hands that make them.” Something in Caleb’s tone slid under Carson’s skin like a needle. “I think you should leave.” Caleb tilted his head. “Do you always greet your clients like this?” “Not when they come through locked doors.” They stared at each other, the air tight with unspoken challenge. Caleb’s eyes didn’t waver. Eventually, he stepped back, lips curved in a faint smile. “Apologies. I’ll return at a more acceptable hour.” He turned and walked out — without glancing back, without needing to. And just like that, he was gone. --- The next morning, the glass doors of the shop glinted clean in the sun. The fashion house opened to its usual rhythm — two interns steaming fabrics, his assistant cataloging new orders, the iron hissing in the background. But Carson couldn’t shake the scent of last night — something faintly sterile, like antiseptic… or sandalwood. He didn’t tell anyone about Caleb. He should have. Instead, he threw himself into designing. He worked for hours without pause, hands moving faster than thought. By evening, the studio cleared again, and he was alone — just him and the silence. And then he saw it. A folded note. Resting on the mirrored counter where he usually set cufflinks. He stared at it for a long time before picking it up. There was no envelope. No name on the outside. But he knew. His fingers opened the paper. > “Some stitches are meant to be pulled loose. Others hold us together. You decide which I am.” — C Carson dropped the note like it burned. He spun, checking the doors, the back hallway, even the bathroom. No sign of anyone. He pressed his back against the glass window, heart thudding wildly. He should be furious. Violated. On edge. But what he felt was worse: curiosity. --- Three days passed. No word from Caleb. Carson told himself it was good — that maybe it had been a one-time, unsettling event. Clients were strange sometimes. Rich men were entitled. It was over. But part of him checked the mirror every night. Looked for another note. Left the scissors closer to the machine than usual. And then, on the fourth day, just as the shop was about to close, the receptionist buzzed him through the intercom. “Your ten o’clock fitting is early. Should I send him up?” Carson paused. He hadn’t scheduled anyone for ten. His voice cracked. “Name?” “Caleb Ayoola.” Carson didn’t reply. He just ended the call. Moments later, Caleb walked in — as if he never left. --- He wore a deep gray suit this time, custom-fit, likely Italian. His shirt was bone-white, collar undone, no tie. A man with no fear of judgment. “Good evening,” he said. “I thought I’d come early, since we missed our proper session.” Carson stepped back, letting the door swing shut behind them. “You weren’t invited.” “But I was expected.” “You came through the front this time,” Carson noted. Caleb smiled faintly. “Progress.” They stood facing each other for a long moment. Then Carson gestured stiffly. “Fitting room. This way.” Caleb moved past him, the faintest scent of spice trailing behind. His presence filled the space without force. Like a shadow that wrapped instead of passed. --- Inside the fitting room, Carson retrieved his measuring tape and clipboard. “Shirt off,” he said simply. Caleb complied, unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling his sleeves. Carson tried not to look. Failed. His torso was lean but defined — the kind of body that knew both luxury and control. Not gym-sculpted, but strong. Efficient. Like every part of him was calculated. Carson stepped forward and lifted the tape to Caleb’s chest. “Breathe in.” The moment Caleb exhaled, their eyes met. Carson looked away. He measured shoulders, arms, waist. Fingers brushed bare skin. Caleb didn’t flinch. “You’re shaking,” Caleb said softly. “No, I’m not.” “You are.” Carson stepped back, tape clenched tightly. “We’re done.” “I haven’t chosen the fabric.” Carson opened a drawer and laid out swatches without looking at him. Caleb took one. Midnight blue. Heavy silk. “This,” he said. “No lining. I want it to feel like skin.” Carson wrote it down. “Three weeks.” “Two,” Caleb replied. Carson raised a brow. “It’s not possible.” “For you, it is.” Silence. Then Caleb leaned closer, voice just above a whisper. “You know, Carson, some people hide behind clothes. You stitch them like armor.” Carson met his gaze, heart thundering. “And some people walk into places they don’t belong,” he said coolly. Caleb gave him one final look — unreadable, shadowed. “I do belong here.” Then he left, leaving nothing behind but the scent of silk and smoke. That night, Carson lay awake on his studio couch. The designs remained untouched. His scissors glinted under the desk light. He rose, restless, walked to the mirror where the last note had appeared. This time, there was nothing. But on the inside of the mirror, traced faintly into the foggy glass with a finger: > “You’re still shaking.” Carson wiped it off with a shaky hand. And this time, he didn’t look away from his own reflection.