The Tailor’s Tape

She only needed her dress adjusted for an event. Nothing dramatic. Nothing bold.
But the tailor—calm, soft-spoken, overly focused—had a way of making a simple measurement feel like a slow confession.

“Arms up,” he said gently.

She obeyed, trying not to think about how close he was standing. His tape slid around her waist with practiced ease, but when he pulled it snug, his fingers brushed her skin. She inhaled. Too sharply.

He paused. “Too tight?”

“No,” she said quickly.

He smirked—small, but enough to make her stomach turn warm.
Then he measured again, slower this time, as if he wanted to feel how she reacted.

“Relax,” he whispered. “You’re holding your breath.”

“I’m not,” she lied.

“You are.”

His fingers pressed lightly against her lower back, guiding her posture straight. Her entire body tensed at the contact. He felt it, of course he did.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be.”

He moved to measure her shoulder. She felt his breath near her neck, warm enough to raise goosebumps. His tape grazed her collarbone, and she had to close her eyes for a moment to keep steady.

“You’re very still,” he noted.

“Trying not to mess up your work.”

He chuckled softly. “You’re making it harder.”

When he finished, he stepped back—but the space between them didn’t feel empty. It felt charged, like the room still held the shape of his hands on her.

“Your dress will be ready in two days,” he said.

She nodded.

But her mind wasn’t thinking about the dress at all.

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