Chapter Text
You were sitting in the back room, coaxing a stubborn piece of fabric through the sewing machine, when the small brass bell above the front door rang - bright and sudden, cutting through the hum of the motor. The sound made you jolt upright.
“Oh, shoot…” you muttered, pushing back from the table. Then, louder, a more cheerful tone: “Just a sec, coming!”
A low voice floated from the shop: “No stress, ma’am.”
The drawl carried through the wood-paneled doorway like smoke - rough, unhurried, warm at the edges.
You hurried to finish the seam, snipped the thread, brushed a trace of chalk from your skirt, and pushed open the door to the main room of Button & Hem.
The shop felt as it always did in morning light: calm, a little golden, filled with the faint scents of wool, cedar, and pressed linen. Dark wood shelves lined the walls, crowded with folded fabric bolts in quiet colors. Two mannequins stood in the front window - one in a cream linen jacket with a daisy in its lapel, the other in a charcoal suit you’d brightened with a spring-green pocket square. You’d spent too much time fussing over those displays this morning, and it showed in every small, perfect detail.
Soft jazz crackled from a little speaker behind the counter, Louis Armstrong easing through the quiet. The sunlight spilling through the front window caught motes of dust that hung in slow motion, turning the air honey-colored.
He stood near the center of it all, looking faintly out of place - as if he’d walked into the wrong store and wasn’t sure how to reverse course without drawing attention. Hands in the pockets of his jeans, he scanned the racks with the wary expression of a man facing a puzzle he hadn’t planned to solve.
You took in the rest of him as you approached: the flannel shirt, rolled to his forearms, soft with wear; the rough beard and curls streaked with gray; the strong line of his shoulders that didn’t belong to a man who spent much time in tailor shops. Attractive, in a way that made your heartbeat skip once, but he carried himself like someone half-hoping to go unnoticed.
You glanced at the appointment book on the counter and found the entry: Tommy Miller - for his brother Joel.
“Mr. Joel Miller?” you asked, looking up.
His gaze finally met yours, steady and dark. You smiled your professional smile, the one that had soothed a hundred nervous grooms and fathers of brides, and offered your hand.
“Joel’s fine,” he said after a pause. His handshake was warm, firm, the skin of his palm rough against your fingers.
“Welcome to Button & Hem, Joel. Your brother made the appointment, right?”
He nodded once, that same air of mild reluctance hanging on him. “Yeah. Tommy said I needed somethin’ proper. His words.”
“It’s for a wedding, right?”
Another nod, this one paired with a quiet sigh. “His, not mine.” The corner of his mouth twitched, halfway to humor. You noticed - involuntarily - the absence of a ring on his finger.
“He told me I couldn’t wear my old church suit, the one from years back. Said it made me look like I was goin’ to a funeral.”
You laughed softly. “Well, that won’t do for a best man.”
He lifted his eyes again at that. “Didn’t tell you I was best man.”
“Lucky guess,” you smiled. “Comes with the territory, I suppose. You ever had a tailor-made suit before?”
“No, ma’am. Closest I got was when my ma hemmed my sleeves for high-school graduation.”
“Then it’s about time. First one’s always special.” You stepped around the counter, brushing a bit of thread from your skirt. “Give me a second to lock the door, so we won’t be disturbed.”
You turned the sign to Closed for Appointment and shot the bolt, then added, “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee?” Your eyes flicked over him, amused. “Whiskey, maybe?”
That earned a low chuckle. “Coffee’s fine. Black, no sugar.”
“Never would’ve guessed,” you said under your breath, just loud enough for him to catch.
In the little kitchenette behind the counter, you poured the coffee and brought it out in one of your mismatched cups. He hadn’t moved much - just shifted closer to the racks, fingers brushing the edge of a fabric roll as though testing its texture.
“Here you go,” you said, setting the mug on the small side table by the seating area - two worn wing chairs that looked like they’d been salvaged from an old library.
He accepted the cup with a murmured thanks and a nod toward the fabrics. “Didn’t realize there were this many kinds.”
“It can be a bit much at first,” you said, gesturing for him to sit. “We’ll get there. First, let me explain how this all works.”
He hesitated, then settled into the chair opposite you, one hand still cupped around the mug.
“Usually,” you began, folding your hands in your lap, “the first appointment is mostly conversation - we talk about what you need, what you like, then we choose fabric and take your measurements. After that, I’ll draft the pattern, sew a base version, and you’ll come back for fittings. A few meetings in total.”
His brow furrowed. “More meetings? Cost extra, I’m guessin’?”
You nearly laughed but caught yourself in time. “No extra cost, I promise. Sewing the thing is part of the deal.” You held up a hand like you were taking an oath. “All you’ll owe me is patience.”
That earned a small grunt that could almost be approval.
“So,” you continued, “today we’ll start with styles and fabrics. You can tell me what feels right to you - or, if you don’t have strong opinions, I’ll guide you through what suits the occasion. Can I ask - will it be a formal indoor ceremony or something outdoors?”
“Outdoor. April sun, big tent in Tommy’s backyard. I’m told there’ll be a band.”
“Then light fabric, maybe linen blend,” you mused aloud, flipping open one of the swatch books. “We’ll find something that breathes but still looks sharp.”
He leaned forward slightly, interest piqued in spite of himself.
“How long’s this gonna take?” he asked, more out of habit than impatience.
“Not long,” you said, reaching for your swatch book. “Wedding’s in six weeks, right? We’ll make it work.”
He nodded. “Sorry for the short notice.”
“It keeps things interesting,” you said, meaning it.
He took a slow sip, coughed once, and cleared his throat. “Strong brew.”
You smiled, a little embarrassed. “Would you like sug-”
He waved it off. “No, it’s fine. Let’s just get it over with…” His voice softened slightly when he saw the slight shift in your face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound rude. Not exactly my comfort zone, this. I’m not a suit kinda guy, y’know?”
Something in his tone - an honesty stripped of defensiveness - made you relax. You met his eyes, saw the awkwardness there, and felt a warmth rise in your chest.
“Let’s see about that, shall we?” you said, opening the book and arranging it so he could have a first look.
You spent a good hour walking him through the different suit forms, letting him feel the various fabrics and guiding him gently toward what would suit both his build and the wedding’s springtime garden atmosphere. In the end, with just a nudge here and a suggestion there, he settled on a classic cut in black - sturdy enough to keep its shape, soft enough to breathe under the Texas sun.
“What about the shirts and… the other things?” he asked as you began to put away the unused swatches, his voice carrying the faintest edge of curiosity under the usual restraint.
“Tie and pocket square, you mean?” you asked, grinning, trying to keep the mood light. “That’s the very last step. First, the suit has to be perfect.” You reached for your measuring tape, finding it lying on the little stool next to him. Pushing past him in the narrow space, you felt an unexpected warmth from the proximity - the subtle scent of him, the way his arm brushed the air near yours. You cleared your throat and gestured toward the small fitting room adjacent to the platform.
“Please change into the shirt and trousers I’ve laid out in there. They’ll give me the most accurate measurements. When you’re ready, step onto the platform, and we’ll get started.”
He gave a short nod, seemingly unaffected by the brief contact. You retreated a step, giving him the room to change, and used the moment to gather your scattered thoughts. Yes, it had been a while since you’d been around a man who stirred something beneath your professional composure. But that didn’t mean you had to… get distracted by the broad-shouldered, quiet, single man in your shop, right?
“Why don’t we just take these?” he said suddenly, drawing you out of your private reverie. He had stepped onto the platform, pulling on the trousers that fit okay, but not perfectly - slightly short at the ankles, snug across the thighs.
“I guess your brother would protest,” you replied with a smirk. “Shoulders back, try to stay relaxed.” He straightened up, clearly everything but relaxed. “Would you like me to walk through each step, or just…?”
“Just do your thing, Miss,” he answered shortly, and the corner of his mouth twitched as if he almost meant to smile.
Swallowing, you nodded and moved closer. Instantly, you realized that without your little stepping stool, you wouldn’t reach the higher measurements comfortably. You placed it next to the platform and climbed, keeping your hands busy with the tape.
First came his shoulders, measured precisely from point to point. Then, with careful attention, you recorded his upper arm and lower arm widths, marking each number in your small book and trying not to get too distracted by the fair amount of muscle underneath the soft fabric. You shifted around him as you always did, stepping in front to measure his chest, but this time it took more effort than usual to keep your gaze from following the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the subtle tension in his posture.
“I’m just…” you murmured as you looped the tape around his neck. “Your neck circumference… here… yes. Very nice.”
He raised one brow. “Didn’t realize there was a rating system with measurements.”
Had that been… a joke?
You laughed softly, stepping down from the stool. “I’d rate you a solid three right now.”
“Three out of… five? Ten?”
“That info will cost extra,” you shot back, letting your hands brush over his form to measure his chest circumference. Your fingers lingered fractionally longer than necessary, and you felt your pulse spike as you imagined how it would feel if he held you in his arms. You tried to push aside the impulsive and completely inappropriate thoughts, instead moved on to his natural waist, then carefully down to his hips.
As you applied the tape to his outer hip and pulled it down in a natural flow toward his ankle to cover his outer seam, you realized what came next: the inseam. Already kneeling at his feet, tape in hand, the room suddenly felt smaller - denser somehow, as if the air had thickened. From this angle, he seemed impossibly tall, all hard lines and silent composure, the breadth of him blotting out the light behind.
You reached for the inner seam, fingers brushing the fabric of his trousers near his knee, and became acutely aware of how close you were - how one small movement could shift the balance between professionalism and something else entirely. Lifting your gaze to make a lighthearted comment, you froze.
He was already looking down at you.
Not with indulgence or amusement, but with a kind of still, assessing quiet that made your pulse quicken. His eyes were dark and unreadable, their depth holding something you didn’t dare interpret - something that wasn’t hunger but not entirely detached, either. It was the look of a man aware of proximity, of possibility..
The words faltered on your tongue.
You swallowed before your fingers moved with practiced efficiency up toward his crotch, the tape gliding over the firm plane of his thigh. But then - an instant’s slip, a fraction too far. Your knuckles brushed the inside of his leg, the heat of him startlingly real beneath the thin fabric. It wasn’t much, just the faintest graze where the seam met unmistakingly him - but it was enough.
He stiffened immediately. A sharp breath cut through the quiet. Your pulse spiked in response, and for one suspended heartbeat you couldn’t look anywhere but at the line of his jaw as it flexed like someone locking something tightly away. When your gaze finally flicked up, you caught it: a brief, disquieting flicker in his eyes before he turned away.
Mortification flooded you. You clenched your jaw, forcing your hands to keep moving, the tape trembling slightly as you measured the rest in silence. You wanted to blurt out that it had been accidental, that you weren’t some pervert touching all your clients - but the words stuck. Because if you’d listened closely enough, under that breath and silence, there’d been something else. Something like intrigue.
“Alright, that’s it,” you said lightly, straightening up. The air between you felt charged, thick with unspoken tension. You weren’t sure if he felt it too, or if your nerves had betrayed you more than the situation warranted.
He gestured toward the fitting room. “Can I…?”
You nodded, rolling up the tape with careful fingers. Moments later, he stepped out again, easing back into his own clothes, looking more like himself once more.
“So… when should I come by?” he asked, following you to the counter where you flipped through your calendar. If he felt offended by your accidental touch, he at least didn't let it show.
“How about ten days from now?” you suggested, offering a practiced smile. “That gives me time to draft the first version of your suit. Then we can adjust and perfect it.”
He huffed softly, a brief, resigned sound, and nodded. You noted the date on a small card and handed it over. Your fingers brushed briefly again as he took it, and he pulled back as if struck by lightning.
Okay got it, clearly no interest on his part here, you thought, but your smile didn’t falter.
Only after you led him to the door, unlocked it, and watched him step out into the soft spring light, did you allow yourself a sigh, leaning your forehead against the frame.
Ten days.
Enough time to get your head together - and to prepare for the next small collision of worlds that this quiet, broadshouldered man had brought into your little shop.