Chapter Text
I picked at the frayed hem of my skirt and stared as a thread snagged beneath my fingernail. It started to take other strings with it. Started unravelling steadily beneath my trembling fingers.
It was an ugly Tuesday outside. The sun beat down, with no clouds to soften its hot daze, and the light pouring in through the high windows had begun to settle behind my eyes like a dull ache.
The sharp click-clack of heels cut through the room with every step of the production manager. She paced relentlessly, three strides one way and then back again, wrestling with a pair of overstuffed garment bags.
"Mr Jackson's team is really excited you could come in on such short notice," she said, almost sounding out of breath. "They saw your tailoring work from that downtown theater production and asked me to call right away."
She adjusted her grip on a lighting ring and gestured for me to follow.
I pushed to my feet, swallowing the sudden rush of dizziness. "Thank you," I managed, frantically wiping the cold sweat from my hands onto my shorts.
Offering an apologetic laugh as though embarrassed by the scene, she turned back towards me. "We're running a little behind schedule," she said, setting down a large makeup case on the counter. "I'm Antonia, by the way."
The pressure of her firm handshake startled me. "Amara," I said. "Nice to meet you."
Antonia marched ahead and I hurried after her through a maze of black cables and half-open doors. The strap of one of the bags kept slipping from her shoulder. She hooked it back into place so many times I lost count.
Someone rushed past carrying an armful of costumes as we rounded the corner. The blur of movement made me instinctively skid to a halt behind Antonia and flatten myself against the brickwork.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
Antonia caught my arm before another crew member could brush past me and pulled me into the shadow of a doorway. "Okay,0 she said. "Just–stay close to me when we go in. It's a bit hectic."
I nodded once, a twitchy movement of chin to chest, and tried my best to dim out the muffled pulse of a track leaking through the double-insulated doors. Once Antonia shoved them open, sharp, white stage lights bled across the floor.
I followed inside her hurriedly as I tried not to step into anyone's path. Crew members moved in overlapping directions. Equipment rattled across the floor.
The bass was powerful enough to vibrate through my spine, yet Antonie had no trouble cutting through the sound.
"Wardrobe is here!"
Then, lowering her voice, she said, "Okay. This is where you'll be working. Someone from wardrobe will come check in with you."
"I appreciate it."
The blonde shot me a sympathetic look over her shoulder before disappearing through the doorway, leaving me pressed against a vanity table with my pulse hammering against my throat. For several long moments I stood frozen, unsure of what to do or where to go until an older man crossed the room towards me.
"Amara?" he asked, immediately reaching for the garment bags.
"Yes, sir."
"Follow me."
A knot tightened in my throat at the thought of having to squeeze past crew members yelling timing cues once again, but nevertheless, I followed the man through the chaos.
"First time?" he said without bothering to turn around.
"Yes. It's—hectic."
"Always is. Right here, follow me."
He guided me through another corridor before stopping abruptly.
"Are they shooting the music video today?"
A rather humorless laugh escaped his mouth. "Not today, no. Blocking rehearsal. You're here for the measuring." He stopped abruptly and turned to face me. "That okay?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Keith Simmers," he said, extending his hand.
"Nice to meet you."
Mr Simmers pointed to the right with his other hand. "You see Simon there?" he asked without letting go of me.
A tall man stood leaning against the wall, looking bored as he sipped on water.
"Start with him. You know the drill."
"Alright," I said, nodding. "Thank you, Mr Simmers."
Simon yawned in the doorway, half-lidded eyes surveying the chaos casually. Although everything within willed me to bolt the other way, I continued straight forwards until I stood under his thoroughly unimpressed gaze.
"Amara. I'm here for the measuring."
Simon shook my hand with an easy smile. "Right, just tell me where you want me."
Relief loosened something inside my chest. This was not my scene, and I sensed that Simon had understood that. He followed me towards the platform, and, as though he'd done this countless times, stretched his arms to either side.
To shut out the chaos around me, I focused entirely on his proportions—starting with the narrow sweep of his chest, then trailing down to his waist and hips. The chaotic din of music and shouting faded slowly. Was replaced by the quiet slide of measuring tape beneath my hands.
"I think that's it," I mumbled once I'd written down the numbers. "Thank you."
"Appreciate it. I'll call out Raquel."
Once Simon was out of sight, I itched at my scar, then remembered what Dr Davis had said and gave it three sharp smacks instead. Itching inflamed. Sharp pressure, though—it distracted from the pain a little better.
I wound up the end of my measuring tape into a neat spool. Watched it uncoil across the surface of the table. Forced my lungs to expand then let out two slow, deliberate breaths.
"Hey, let's go!"
The sharp smack of two hands clapping together pulled my head around in a flash.
"Michael's waiting for you," Mr Simmers said, planting a hand between my shoulder blades and steering me forward.
"But I thought—"
"Raquel is late—again. Come on."
Before I could collect myself properly, Mr Simmers wrenched the door open and shoved me inside. He didn't even bother to step over the threshold before letting the heavy wood thud shut.
My stomach dropped into my shoes. I was suddenly overly conscious of the dead skin over my dry lips and the ever-present itch in my chest. I scratched compulsively at it as I stared at him, my feet having stuttered—hiccuped to a halt.
He was sort of half sitting, half standing, his legs bent awkwardly as though I'd interrupted him mid-routine. It only took a second more to realize that I had.
"Make sure to keep that foot angled. That's the important part," he said, finally looking up in my direction.
His dark eyes skipped like rocks on water, tripping and tumbling over themselves. And he did a double take. Stared back and then straightened a little as he realized the full weight of my startled gaze.
"We'll go over it in a minute," he mumbled, and out of the corner of my eye I saw someone slip past me. Open the door and leave.
"Sorry," I said, taking a cautious step forward. "Mr Simmers told me—"
"No, that's okay. I'm Michael."
I'd thought I'd made up my mind on the concept. On whether or not working for him even mattered to me. Had decided it most certainly did not.
But now I wasn't so sure. I was disconcerted, to say the least. The familiar nervousness had settled over me like an ill-fitting coat, heavy and impossible to ignore.
"Amara," I forced out, letting my hand slide into his gentle grasp. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise."
I cleared my throat and reached for the measuring tape hanging from my pocket. "We should probably get started."
"Probably," he echoed, though he didn't move immediately. Didn't even release my hand until a beat of silence had passed between us.
I motioned towards the small platform near the mirrors. "Stand there for me?"
He obeyed immediately, climbing onto it and folding his hands behind his back as I approached. I tried very hard not to notice how still he became under my fingers as I crouched to measure his inseam.
"Relax," I murmured before I could stop myself.
His big, brown eyes flitted downwards behind thick lashes. "I am relaxed."
I stood again and slid the tape across his shoulders. They were delicate in a way that contradicted the sharpness of his long limbs, as though built for gracious movement rather than brute force.
"You're not breathing," I finally said, looking up to meet his eyes.
Though I tried telling myself otherwise, I was acutely aware of how motionless he became whenever the tips of my fingers slipped across his shoulders.
A quiet chuckle startled out of him. Warm and boyish. He inhaled a deep breath. "Is this better?"
Heat rushed to my face, forcing me to look back down before I completely gave myself away. "Chest," I said, though the word came out quieter than I meant it to.
He hesitated before lifting his arms in a timid manner. The tape brushed around his back, grazing the thin fabric of his white shirt. Beneath it, I felt the small rise of his breath—uneven now and shallow enough for both of us to notice.
"You can breathe," I murmured again.
His eyes flickered downwards at once, lashes lowering as color touched his cheeks. "Sorry."
I looked down and pretended to concentrate on the numbers written along the measuring tape, though they had stopped meaning anything coherent in my head. Neither of us spoke as I measured twice just to give myself an excuse for the delay.
"Alright," I said, scribbling the numbers I'd already memorized. "Sleeves next."
He nodded and extended an arm towards me. I couldn't help but notice the ink-dark hair falling over his forehead now from all his nervous shifting. Couldn't help but notice the way his eyes glimmered beneath the soft light.
Sliding my fingers from his shoulder to his wrist, I guided the tape along the length of his slender arm. "You really aren't very relaxed," I whispered as his pulse jumped beneath my fingertips.
A small and timid smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, enough to loosen the knot in my stomach completely. "Can you blame me?"
I stared at him for one stupid heartbeat too long before stepping back. The measuring tape fell loose around my neck as I cleared my throat, shifting from one leg to the other nervously. The room felt strangely warm, and the way he stood still with his hands still stretched before him only quickened my pulse.
"You can—you can sit," I mumbled.
He nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor as he smoothed down unnecessary wrinkles from the front of his shirt. I pretended not to notice his fumbling fingers. Pretended to scribble down the final numbers onto the order sheet.
"You do this all day?" he asked after a while. His voice had softened into something almost drowsy in the hush of the room.
"I—mostly, yes."
"Stare and measure?"
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. "I don't stare."
"You do a little."
Heat immediately climbed onto my face. I ducked my head and pretended intense interest in adjusting the papers on my clipboard.
Then, he said, almost too quietly to hear, "I didn't mind it."
When I looked over, he was already staring down at his own hands as though he were embarrassed by the words the instant they had left him.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Jackson," I said, tearing the measurement slip from my clipboard with trembling fingers.
I handed the piece of paper to him, and for a moment, neither of how seemed eager to let go. The pause lasted no more than a heartbeat, perhaps two, yet it stretched strangely in my mind, thin and delicate as thread pulled taut between two hands.
Then I stepped backwards.
His gaze followed me as I crossed the room. Present in a way that left me far too aware of it.
Heat creeping up my neck, I cast one last glance at him before reaching for the door handle. The last thing I saw before fleeing the room was his big, unblinking eyes tracking my every step.
Somehow, they followed me all the way home as well. And far longer than I cared to admit.