Misery

Fittings

The hiss of scissors sliding through silk was one of my favorite sounds in the world. Rhythmic, clean, almost meditative. I’d stripped down into my usual work uniform, black leggings and a fitted tank I’d stolen from the gym pile, hair pulled into a messy knot that hadn’t seen a brush in hours. It wasn’t glamorous, but it let me move, bend, and stretch across the cutting table without worrying about snagging anything.

I was halfway through the final panel when Mira’s head popped into the doorway.

“Angela, emergency.”

My heart jerked. “What is it? Did the delivery truck get lost again? Please don’t tell me—”

“Not that kind of emergency,” she cut in, her eyes bright in that mischievous way that always made me suspicious. “You should… come to the showroom.”

I set down the shears with a sigh, brushing fabric dust from my thighs. “Mira, if this is another one of your—”

But she’d already disappeared.

I tugged my tank into place, padded barefoot across the floor, and pushed open the glass door into the showroom.

And froze.

Michael.

He was standing there like he owned the room, tall and composed in a perfectly cut suit, the kind of presence you noticed before you wanted to. His gaze flicked up, then down, taking in my messy bun, the cling of leggings, the sheen of sweat at my collarbone. His jaw flexed, and for a beat too long, he closed his eyes as if to steady himself.

When he opened them again, his voice was calm, low, and deliberate.

“Michael,” he said, stepping forward as though we hadn’t met before. “It’s good to see you again.”

My breath caught in my throat, heat blooming in places I didn’t want to name.

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice into something steady.

“Same here,” I said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “How’s Claire?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely. “She’s well. She still hasn’t stopped talking about your collection.”

I shifted my weight, suddenly hyperaware of the sweat clinging to my back. “That’s… nice to hear.”

His gaze lingered, unhurried, like he was cataloguing every detail.

Michael took a slow step closer, his height closing the gap between us in a way that made the room feel suddenly smaller.

“We left before I could ask you more questions,” he said, his voice measured, almost careful.

I forced a shrug, though my pulse was anything but casual. “Oh, I, uh… had to take a smoke break. Been stressed all morning.”

His eyes flickered with something, amusement, maybe, or relief. “Is that what it was? Because I thought I made you uncomfortable.”

Another step, closer this time. My breath caught.

“I don’t want to do that,” he added softly, as though the words carried weight he couldn’t name.

I felt the air shift, heavy and intimate, the kind of moment you know you should break but can’t. My fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, grounding myself.

Michael’s eyes held mine a moment longer before his mouth curved into something more practical.

“I’m here to ask you about commissions.”

I blinked, thrown off balance. “Commissions?”

“I’d like to get fitted for a couple of suits,” he said smoothly. “Mira mentioned you don’t have ready-to-wear for men, but you do the occasional customs for those who can pay.” His pause was deliberate. “I can pay.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Not arrogant, not a brag just a statement, factual.

I straightened, brushing my palms over my leggings, wishing I’d at least changed before this. “That’s true,” I said carefully. “Though I’m selective.”

His gaze never wavered. “Then be selective with me.”

“I want to, um… I can, it’s just—” The words tangled on my tongue.

Michael tilted his head, studying me with unnerving calm. “Am I scaring you, Angela?”

The sound of my name in his voice made my stomach flip. I gripped the counter a little harder, forcing a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Scaring me? No. You’re just… a lot to process before noon.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but thought better of it. He didn’t step back. If anything, the space between us felt even smaller.

“Your… size,” I managed, hating how my voice caught. “You’re large. I’d need a stool to get all… your measurements.”

His eyes softened, the corners crinkling like he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Then I’ll stand still,” he said evenly. “Would that help?”

The air between us thickened, humming with something unspoken. I couldn’t bring myself to look away, not until Mira’s voice called faintly from the other room, breaking the spell.

“Angela? The delivery guy needs a signature!”

I stepped back instantly, grateful for the excuse, even as my pulse thudded in my throat. “I should—uh—handle that.”

Michael didn’t move right away. His gaze lingered a beat longer, steady and unreadable, before he finally inclined his head. “Of course.”

I slipped past him, careful not to brush against his arm, and Mira was waiting just outside the door with the kind of smirk that made me want to strangle her.

I signed the paper and quickly shoved the clipboard back at Mira before she could get a word in. “Could you get me my stool?” I said, my tone clipped. “I’m going to take his measurements. After this, I need a long lunch break.”

Mira’s smirk widened, but she nodded, disappearing toward the back.

I turned back to Michael, forcing myself into the calm, efficient designer I knew how to be. But my hands still felt warm, my pulse still too quick, and from the way he watched me, steady, patient, almost amused, I knew he could tell.

Mira returned with the stool, setting it down beside me like she was delivering a stage prop. Her eyes glimmered with the kind of mischief only she could get away with.

“Thank you,” I said tightly.

Michael didn’t move as I approached, tape measure in hand. Up close, his height was even more impossible. The air shifted, his cologne, warm and woodsy, clung to the space between us.

“Arms out,” I instructed. My voice betrayed nothing, but my hands? My hands were not as steady as I wanted.

He complied, silent, gaze lowered to watch me work. I measured shoulders, chest, arms, each note scrawled onto my pad. When I had to step onto the stool to reach across him, his eyes followed, unblinking.

“Do you always do this yourself?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” I muttered, keeping my focus on the tape.

“I imagine most men would volunteer just for the privilege.”

I nearly lost my footing but recovered, scribbling the number too quickly. “Well, you’re not most men.”

“No,” he said, and it didn’t sound like agreement so much as fact.

When I stepped down, tape dangling at my side, he tilted his head. “Have lunch with me.”

I froze, breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“Lunch. Today. You said you needed a long break.”

For one dizzy second, I pictured it, walking into some quiet Midtown restaurant with him at my side. But then I shook my head, stuffing the tape back into its tin.

“I don’t mix business with… whatever that was,” I said briskly. “You’ll have your suits by the end of the month.”

His mouth curved, slow and deliberate. “Whatever that was?” he echoed. “Tell me, what was that?”

I glanced up sharply, and instantly regretted it. His eyes locked onto mine, steady, searching, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear me say it.

Heat crept up the back of my neck. I busied myself with stacking fabric swatches that didn’t need stacking. “Nothing. We can deliver these to you in the next two weeks.”

His chuckle lingered in the air, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. I straightened my notes, smoothed the pad closed, and looked up just enough to be polite.

“Thank you,” I said evenly. “See you around.”

Michael held my gaze for one long, unhurried moment, then gave a small nod, as though we’d agreed on something neither of us had said out loud.

And then he turned, leaving the studio quieter than it had been all morning.

Only when the door clicked shut did I let out the breath I’d been holding.

I meant it when I said I needed a long lunch break. By the time I got out of the studio, the air had cooled, and Central Park seemed like the only place I could breathe. I bought a coffee from a cart, found a quiet bench under the trees, and let the noise of the city blur into the background.

I should’ve been sketching. Or answering emails. Or literally anything else. But all I could do was replay the morning.

Michael’s voice. Michael’s height. Michael’s hands, steady, broad, patient as he held still for me, like he knew the effect it had. I pressed my cup to my lips, hoping the burn of the coffee would scald the thought away.

It didn’t.

I shut my eyes, leaning back against the bench. This was ridiculous. I didn’t know him, didn’t want to know him. Men were distractions, messy ones at that. And yet here I was, in the middle of Central Park, thinking about the way his gaze lingered like it belonged somewhere closer.

I shook my head and muttered under my breath, “Get a grip, Angela.”

The city carried on around me, runners and dog walkers and children weaving past, oblivious to the storm in my head. But no matter how many times I told myself to let it go, the memory of his hands lingered, warm and unshakable