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...