Chapter Text
“Is this the place?”
“Yep.” Kara nudges your arm to encourage you to cross the empty street. “Come on. You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”
It’s a lot more modern than you expected. When Kara had explained the event preparation, the guest list, the dress code, and followed it by offering to find a recommended tailor, you’d imagined something quaint. Gold fastenings, wooden furniture. Maybe a little old man with wispy hair, a long tape measure and well-worn patience.
“Not my fault. I didn’t think it’d be so damn fancy.”
You did not expect the brightly lit glass frontage, the fabrics draped in artistic lines and swirls over the mannequin in the window, pinned so the shimmering hues spilled from formless fluidity to elegant shape, immaculate folds and cascades of rich colour in every shade.
“A friend recommended him,” North shrugs. “Small business, but an excellent reputation.”
Beyond the window, you glimpse three loitering shapes in a floor-length mirror—the dull reflection of yourself and your companions, swaying in the winter cold, the slightly snowy world behind you a haze of grey at a distance, only broken by the occasional passing car.
“Hurry up,” Kara throws you a smile when halfway through the door, a small, old-fashioned bell chiming gently above her as she pushes it open. “We’ve got plenty to—”
“Oh… wow.”
The interior decor is monochrome, soft black leather seating with pale grey patterned walls, and gleaming burnished chrome and glass on the cupboards and doors. Flashes of colour come from the clothing displayed around the perimeter of the room—bold in places but always tasteful, never garish—the textures and patterns of the fabric subtle and, when you lean to look closely, mesmerising.
“ Intimate sort of place, isn’t it?” North gestures at the room, spreading her arms, until she catches your eyes and you both look away, stifling quiet laughter.
“It’s… smaller than I expected,” you agree, taking your time moving down one wall as you examine the frames on the walls.
In the frames are old patterns, pages yellowing, annotated in cramped cursive. A few of them have marks in the corners with names and dates; you don’t recognise any of them, but you get the impression that they’re from notable designers.
North pokes her head over the counter, craning her neck to see into the back room beyond. Seeing no-one, she moves to stand behind Kara, who’s admiring the diffuse lighting in one of the mirrored wall panels, and pulling a face at her when their eyes meet.
A few feet away, tactfully pretending not to notice, you run your hands over the charcoal-grey curtain and find a modest dressing room hidden beyond it, furnished comfortably, the walls lined with more mirrors and modest decoration. You let the curtain fall back slowly, savouring the silken feel of the fabric over your fingers as it slips from them.
“Good afternoon.”
All three of you pause when you hear the voice, low but soft, from behind you. North turns around at once, arms folded, seeming unimpressed; you turn ready to admonish the speaker but lose your tongue at the sight of him.
A calm face to match his voice, pale eyes accented by the silver embroidery of his waistcoat—delicate swirls of wintry grey on charcoal. He watches the three of you with a slight smile chased with amusement, hands clasped behind his back, standing at the end of the counter as if he’d been waiting there the entire time.
“How may I help you?”
Since North is playing off her surprise as mild annoyance and you’re still processing , Kara is the only one unaffected by his sudden arrival. She crosses the room and extends a hand to him, a bright smile on her face, while you’re still fascinated by the twitch at the corner of his mouth when you meet his eye.
“Mr Anderson? We spoke on the phone, I’m—”
“Ms Archer.” Hardly anything about his face changes but the shape of his mouth, that twitch grown to a half-smile. It doesn’t quite take the sharpness out of his eyes. “You called for a consultation.”
Kara smiles in her patient way and gestures at you. “Kara, please. Not for me, technically, but yes.”
“Yeah, we’re just here as supervision.” North winks at you when you throw her a reproving look.
“Moral support,” Kara corrects, holding North’s gaze until she looks away, then turning back. “I have a few questions, if that’s okay… just the basics. You come highly recommended.”
“I’m flattered.” His gaze follows North for a moment as she frowns at some of his artwork, fingers tracing the petals of the jasmine flowers in the vase below. As if he senses your attention, his eyes find you and rest there for a moment before they flicker back to Kara.
Kara introduces you, then introduces North with a wry bent to her tone. Mr Anderson nods ever so slightly at each of you, following each acknowledgement with a cursory sweep of your faces. There’s a vivid feeling in his eyes when he says you may call me Cain, and while you see its shape, you’re hopeless to identify it because you’re abruptly short of breath.
“What precisely would you like to know, Kara?”
Turning away to hide the warmth in your face, you study the displayed garments around the room’s periphery while Kara asks half a dozen questions about turnaround time, rates for alterations and custom designs, and special considerations like sourcing supplies. When he offers to provide testimonials for his work and gives assurances that his supplier is second to none, you can hear the pride in his voice. It brushes across your skin like velvet.
You pretend not to follow the conversation too closely, though you hang on every word. Kara takes on the professional tone you’ve come to expect from her: diplomatic detachment gentled with pleasant warmth. Cain gives succinct responses, his imposing presence set at odds with a soft-spoken attitude. His quiet intensity leaves you hyper-aware of him, makes you feel his eyes on you even when your back is turned.
“One more thing,” Kara glances across at you, then at North, as if to check for misbehaviour. North makes a show of not noticing. “If possible, could we arrange an appointment for some measurements to be taken?”
“Of course.” With a glance at the clock on the wall—an antique-looking analogue one, somehow without a speck of dust on it—he sweeps a hand towards the recessed half-moon of mirrors and the pedestal that sits in front of them. “Though if it’s preferable, I am available now. Measurements won’t take long.”
You’re too surprised by his obliging response to say yes, thank you, the way you want to when he looks at you; luckily for you, North shares none of your tongue-tied giddiness.
“Perfect.” She grabs both your arms from behind, gripping just above your elbows and using her newfound leverage to turn and steer you back towards the counter and the distractingly attractive tailor. “Please. Size her up so she’ll stop wittering about how hard it is to choose something that fits.”
“She means ‘thank you’,” Kara says, her smile laced with a warning.
“No, I didn’t.” North releases your arms when she’s delivered you to the others, the humorous lilt to her voice worrying you almost as much as the persistent heat of your face.
“You’re welcome all the same.”
When he looks at you again, you feel rooted to the spot, frozen without the cold. There’s no way to read past the cool neutrality of his exterior and you find yourself a little lost in the perfect lines of his face.
You have to ask him to repeat himself when he speaks. For the first time, you see a glint of what might be humour in his eye.
“I said, come this way.”
He wastes no time in guiding you to the soft pedestal by the mirrors. When he requests you remove your shoes, you do so willingly, stepping onto the dark, plush carpet and letting loose a mild oh when you feel how rich and springy it is underfoot.
North takes your bag from you while you shrug out of your coat; the room is warm, despite its impersonal, modern style, but you shiver as if exposed to the winter chill raging outside.
You’re a little reticent to stand yourself on the pedestal. It feels a little silly, even with North and Kara taking seats close by on the dark leather sofa.
A light touch on your upper arm encourages you forward. You turn to find pale eyes watching you with fixed curiosity, scanning your face, looking for something. There’s not hint to tell you what, no way for you to read past the professional mask he wants you to see, so you step up onto the platform, taking particular care with your footing as an excuse to look away and to focus on your balance.
“Feet apart.” His eyes fall from your face as he unbuttons and rolls up his sleeves, creating crisply folded edges as he slowly exposes more of his forearms. Your eyes aren’t following his movements, and you certainly aren’t thinking about how deft he is, how deliberately his fingers move. “Face the mirror.”
You do as he says, clawing for some stability by making eye contact with yourself in the mirror. To your dismay, there’s a flush in your cheeks and you look awkward, standing in the centre of a raised circle in the middle of a wide open space.
There are warm-toned spotlights recessed into the ceiling above you, bathing you in flattering light. It’s a pointed reminder that you hold the room’s attention; it gives you a rush of self-conscious warmth that has nothing to do with the room, nothing to do with the way North smirks at you and mumbles to Kara that she’s so proud , or how Kara nudges her with an elbow and tries to hide her smile.
“Have you heard back from your contact at the gallery?”
It takes a few moments for it to sink in that Kara’s talking to you, asking about your work. Her smile is patient but her eyes glitter and you’re very aware that she can tell you’re flustered—she’s just too kind to show open amusement the way North does.
“Yes,” you say, rushed but glad for the distraction. “He’s figured out the delivery problem for us. All the equipment will be in on the eighteenth, ready for the set-up crew the day after.”
“Was it the receptionist?”
Kara throws North a sharp look that doesn’t even graze. You decide to pretend not to notice, but end up not having to pretend when Cain steps in front of you with a coiled tape measure in his hands. Stood as you are on the raised part of the floor, you’re closer to his eye level. So close, his intensity has physical presence, a force that permeates the air like magnetism, pushing and pulling you according to his whim. Those grey eyes watch you as if he can see through you, but he smiles , ever so slightly, and unfurls the tape without looking at it.
“Sorry?”
“The receptionist. I told you she was an idiot. Was she the one who lost the work order?”
You drag your eyes from Cain to look at her, leaning forward with her elbows propped on her knees, and stifle the nervous laughter that bubbles in your chest when you clock Kara rolling her eyes.
“I didn’t say they lost the work order.”
“But she did , didn’t she? I knew it.” You exhale carefully as North pushes herself back in her seat. “I told her to file it with her supervisor. I knew she wouldn’t listen.”
“Because she spent the entire time trying to flirt with you, and you responded with intimidation tactics. Not that it matters,” you tell her, borrowing a moderate helping of Kara’s diplomacy, though it sounds shakier on you “It’s done with. My contact fixed it, and they’re keeping an eye out in case there are any hiccups.”
When you turn your head back, you notice Cain has moved and managed to stay silent while doing so. A dark shape in the mirror gives him away—not that he’s hiding—standing behind you, eyes sliding down the graduated numbers all the way to zero, holding it as his fingers glide along its length.
He lifts his eyes to the mirror a moment later and his brows raise at your keen attention; he’s hard to read but you think he’s pleased that you’re watching him.
“Stand straight,” he tells you. “Relax your shoulders.”
Sure. You nod to show you’ve heard him. Easy.
His touch is light and brief. You feel the brush of fingertips against your shirt for only a fraction of a second; he gives you a number to remember and you repeat it back to him before he remeasures, twice, until he’s satisfied that it’s correct. You remind him when he prompts you and he notes it down on the template labelled with your name, his careful penmanship unsurprising and congruous with the rest of him.
When he returns, he stands at your side and reaches for your arm, pausing for permission before makes contact; you give him your assent with haste, wishing you hadn’t avoided his eye by looking down at his broad chest and—
To your right, Kara’s checking her phone and North, forever interested , is checking it over her shoulder. Both react with surprise when it rings, loud in the quiet space, and you tense in Cain’s hands as he’s bending your arm at the elbow.
“I’m sorry, it’s work.” Kara extricates herself from North’s grasp and stands, putting the phone to her ear and mouthing Luther at you. “I’ll take it outside.”
The bell jingles sweetly as the door closes behind her. The gust of Detroit winter that blows inside is enough to flood your skin with goosebumps.
Unless, of course, it’s not the invading chill so much as the fingers that press into your skin gently, reminding you that your attention is required, that you’re making Cain’s job difficult.
“Sorry,” you mumble, “what do you need me to—”
“Bend.” Cain releases your upper arm and taps your elbow. “Here. And hold your arm in front of your chest.”
It’s an awkward pose to hold. Three measurements later, you’re allowed to let your arm drop. North, watching you intensely now that she’s without Kara, doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.
“Are you just going to stare at me the whole time?”
“Maybe.” North grins at you, but her manner softens a little. “But you shouldn’t have let me come along if you were going to get frustrated with company.”
“I’m not frustrated.” It’s a flat lie and you’re both more than aware of it—North is bursting with mirth, but she refrains from calling you on it. “And I didn’t let you come with me. I’m not convinced I could have stopped you even if I’d wanted to.”
“Yeah.” North leans back against the full cushions, nonchalant. “You’re right, you couldn’t.”
“Thanks, North.” Cain’s return delays your response. He repositions you with expert efficiency so he can take the diameter of your arm and shoulder, extracting both measurements from you before the rush of heat makes your cheeks flush.
“Remember, I’m only here because you were too chickenshit to come without backup.”
“Thanks , North,” you repeat, your sarcasm a match for hers. She smirks at you as if she’s proud.
“You’re welcome.”
For a few minutes, you’re able to keep your breathing steady, relaxed by your familiar patter with North and the quiet repetition that comes from Cain taking the same measurements for your other arm. It’s a little easier to relax when you know how he’s going to touch you, when you know he’s absorbed in his task and won’t catch the way your eyes trail across his face, noting the frown lines that appear when he’s rechecking a number, the concentration with he dedicates himself to his work.
It doesn’t last, of course.
North is occupied, alternatively checking on Kara, pacing outside the window and occasionally waving when she sees she’s been spotted, and her own phone, checking for campaigns updates. She shares one with you every so often—nothing confidential, and though diverting, there’s nothing you don’t already know.
Cain takes more of an interest in talking to you when North is distracted. He asks you open-ended questions about your work, about how busy you are, what your role involves. You give him your stock answers—the ones polished and given out during family gatherings when someone asks you so, what is it you do again?— and elaborate conversationally when prompted. He’s an attentive listener and, without another speaker, you fill the quiet pauses with your voice.
“Do you enjoy it?”
That makes North look up, which is unfortunate because Cain is standing directly behind you and you’re already holding your breath.
“Think carefully,” she says, tone playful, before her attention wanders again. “I’ll be reporting back to management.”
“Kara’s nicer than you.”
“No shit.” She laughs. “Now answer the question.”
There’s a pause while you think of how to phrase your thoughts about long hours, a great many insufferable government officials, harsh deadlines and the euphoria you feel when your team’s campaign work accomplishes something worthwhile.
“Yes. It’s an acquired taste, but I like it.”
Behind you, Cain tilts his head, using the mirror to let his eyes bore into yours. North makes an approving noise before she loses interest.
“Tactfully answered.” It sounds like well done. “Now relax for me.”
His arms encircle your waist as he passes the measure from one hand to the other. You tense immediately instead of relaxing, but he doesn’t even graze you, much to your disappointment: he places the measure around your hips and draws it tight without so much as a slip of his fingers. He does give you another number to remember, and makes you wait through more repeated measurements until he asks you to recount it. By some miracle, you don’t forget it.
Whether or not he knows it, he’s testing your limits. His hands snake around you again, tugging the tape measure higher, settled on the smallest part of your waist, but this time you feel the brush of his chest against your back. Your lips part without you giving them permission and you inhale sharply.
If you didn’t know better, you’d think you felt the subtle vibration of chuckling laughter in his chest.
You watch him in the mirror, expressionless and calm, lean down to your ear and, though you’re expecting it, his quiet voice sends a prickling flood across your skin. His eyes don’t leave yours.
“Breathe.”
It’s as if he doesn’t know he makes it harder by repeating the instruction. Your chest constricts until you purposefully close your eyes and push the air from your lungs, then face him with a newly steeled expression. It isn’t wholly convincing, not even to you, but it’s better than you’d been a second before.
Just like that, he withdraws. The tape, passed from one hand to the other, stays wrapped around your middle. Cain gives you another number, as if nothing has happened at all. You’re not sure if it’s more annoying that he affects you in such a way or that he appears so utterly unaffected himself.
Kara pokes her head around the door and calls for North, who’s on her feet at once; her phone is still pinned to her ear and the open door disturbs the peaceful warmth. By her expression, you judge her to be distracted, but she doesn’t look worried—if anything, she seems impatient. North exits, having rushed to grab her coat, and the two speak in rapid-fire hand gestures and hurried phrases you can’t hear. You’ll ask later, but you figure if Kara didn’t call for both of you, there’s no great emergency.
Which leaves you with a fresh problem.
Cain circles around the pedestal to stand in front of you but slightly off-set. You flex your fingers for something to do, waiting for his next instruction, preoccupied with your colleagues’ absence.
“Arms up.”
You look at him blankly while your mind processes the words.
“Should I say it again?”
His tone is light, his face smooth and unblemished by emotion, but there’s a cadence to his voice that inspires something in you. You’re not sure what it is yet.
“No.” You raise your arms. “I heard you.”
With a twitch of his lips, he appraises you, stretching the tape out before him.
“Good.”
Once more, his arms encircle you, but this time he pulls the tape measure until it rests under your bust. He’s delicate with his fingers as they smooth the tape flat, keeping his touch appropriate while your thoughts are anything but, and gives you a new number to remember. A quick adjustment adds a second number and, though the room is still, you find your racing mind too busy for simple recall tasks. You’re lucky these numbers are slightly more familiar to you.
“Almost done.”
Cain cuts your half-suppressed sigh of relief short when he kneels in front of you and looks up, head set at an angle, lit perfectly by the spotlights above. The sight of him alone is enough to make your breath catch, but the proximity of his face to the cure for your frustration is impossible to miss. He’s so close . It’s maddening.
You take an automatic step backwards, forgetting you’re stood on a raised platform, and immediately he has a hand on your arm to steady you when you waver on the edge of losing your balance.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
Dizzy and determined not to let him know it, you step back into the centre of the platform and plant your feet, feigning a stoicism you don’t feel. “No. I’m fine.”
A flash of a smile, a slight nod, and it’s back to business.
He runs the tape measure along your in-seam and reads the number aloud, then switches to running it from your waist to the floor and reads that number aloud, too. You’re about to repeat them—automatic by now—when the door opens and North blusters in and wedges it with a boot so Kara can enter behind her.
You’re glad for the cold, for the first time: it gives you an excuse to shiver without it looking like it’s because of the man on his knees with his face in your—
“What’s wrong with you?”
North’s smile is lopsided and teasing. You wonder what happened with Kara and the phone call that put her in such a good mood.
“You’re letting the snow in with you. It’s freezing.”
She lets the door go and it swings closed, then approaches you with her hands on her hips, watching you like she disbelieves you. When her eyes move down to watch Cain, rolling up the tape measure between long fingers and seemingly not paying attention, you breathe, but only a little.
“How are things in here?”
Kara casts a look at North, then smiles at you, looking flushed but pleased, still sporting the odd flake of snow caught in her dark hair.
“Done.”
You look down at him in surprise and catch his eye. Cain holds your gaze as he rises to his feet in one fluid movement, pausing when he reaches his full height. He’s cast in shadow at this angle, the cut of his jaw made dramatic, the light of his eye brighter for the contrast. The weight of his attention rests heavy on you.
Without speaking, he extends a hand to you. Once more robbed of words you accept, suspecting he doesn’t trust you to make it down from the pedestal after almost losing your balance, but hoping it’s because he wants to touch you without the pretence of his work.
His fingers are warm and soft against yours when you accept, but they’re gone in a moment and so is he, collecting the note card with your measurements and setting it down on the main desk, pen in hand.
“May I take your number?”
Mind blank, you repeat your last measurements and only realise your mistake when you look up to find him watching you with intense amusement.
“Your phone number.” If only the ground would swallow you. “For your fitting.”
Inwardly berating yourself for not realising, you swallow the resurgence of hot embarrassment and recite your number for him, then confirm it when he reads it back to you, focused intently on the wall hangings, the second hand on the clock—anything but his face.
He’s still smiling a minute later while writing the date of your fitting on the back of a business card, careful hand gliding over paper with a calligrapher’s precision.
North bumps into you to get your attention and you jolt out of your thoughts, unnerved by the sudden presence thrusting your jacket under your nose. You accept it with mumbled thanks, reaching for cool composure and finding a small void where you usually keep your nonchalance.
“What is wrong with you?” North hisses, quieter than you expect, but not quiet enough to stop your shoulders from tensing.
“Nothing.” You gesture at the door with a jerk of your head. “What happened to you ?”
Her smile becomes coy.
“It’s good news. Later, though.” She leans into you and you almost step back in surprise. “Why do you look nervous?”
You brush her off, very much aware that North’s voice is loud enough to carry in the small space. Her uncanny ability to zero in on the thing you most want to hide puts you dangerously close to conspicuous. When she doesn’t relent, you throw her an exasperated look, intending to communicate why the fuck do you think without using the words.
It’s all for nothing when you turn to find Cain stepping towards you—a business card caught between two fingers, his careful penmanship decorating the back in smooth flowing letters—because he’s smirking.
North winks at you and excuses herself to collect your bag for you .
“This is for you.”
“Thank you… Cain.”
You lift a hand to accept it, but he doesn’t let go, not even when you try to pull it from his fingers—in fact, he holds tighter when you say his name. Those eyes watch you, full of something curious and lively, untouched by the amused tilt of his mouth even as it becomes more pronounced with each futile tug. He seems expectant, but he gives you no hint at what he expects.
“Your next appointment is on the back.” Instead of letting go, he pulls the card back towards him, enough that your fingers brush when you're forced to move closer.
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
*
More surprising than the way the days and weeks fly by is the phone call that arrives out of the blue on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. The number isn’t familiar, but the voice on the other end of the phone is—and by his tone of voice, your surprise is more than obvious.
He disarms you with a soft good afternoon, miss and reintroduces himself, as if you are somehow capable of forgetting him; when you ask Cain if there’s a problem, he laughs at you, leaving you stunned, before explaining in no uncertain terms that he considers a pre-fitting check-in to be a matter of diligence and professional courtesy.
Among other things, Cain asks if you’re looking forward to what he’s created for you. You’re unsure how to answer: you moderate your words but speak truthfully, omitting the parts of your excitement that show giddiness and subsequent embarrassment, stating that you’re not sure what to expect, but that’s part of the fun. With a thoughtful noise, he agrees with you.
Thanks to a merciful mood, he gives you some idea of what to expect: though he expected to create something from scratch for you, by happy coincidence, your needs aligned with a personal project—a design to which he’s not had the chance to devote the required attention. He asks you if you trust him with design, colour, cut—and you attempt to corral your words back into your mouth when you automatically tell him he has full control of the project. Especially when he chuckles at you as you stumble through the rest of your sentence.
There’s a life to his tone when he talks about it that makes him sound more animated—you realise that he’s excited . You wonder what his expression looks like when he’s so impassioned.
Parting with an enticing I look forward to seeing you again, he leaves your skin tingling, this time without ever touching you.
Kara, caught off-guard with a last-minute campaign issue, apologises when she realises she can’t attend your fitting with you. There’s disappointment in her face when you tell her not to worry, that you’ll update her when you can, but it’s soothed a little when North doubles down on her intention to accompany you. They share a look and some manner of understanding passes between them, something that makes North’s lips twitch, but neither says anything.
You accept North’s offer of company, aghast at the kind of fool you could make of yourself if you didn’t have someone to at least accidentally run interference. Over the next few days she teases you but after that she calms significantly and, when she picks you up on the morning of the appointment, she’s wearing only composed excitement on your behalf, a complementary match to your nervous anticipation.
It’s earlier in the day than the last time you visited, but the shop looks the same: well-lit and minimalistic, awash in tasteful grey with flashes of eye-catching colour. Once more, the shop is empty of patrons but, this time, Cain stands behind the counter with a phone to his ear and a wicked smile on his face.
You shudder and rub your freezing hands together as you enter, mourning the absence of your gloves, and bathe in the soft warm interior. Feeling your skin prickle and heat under sharp attention, you lift a hand in silent greeting to the tailor, who returns your acknowledgement with a brief nod, his smile toned down to something less predatory.
“Colder than the damn arctic out there,” North grumbles, casting her eyes around the room. “At least it’s not freezing in here.”
Cain rounds off his phone conversation with brusque sarcasm and half-hides the way his smile widens at the response before he hangs up completely. You’re left curious about who he was speaking to, but it’s short-lived when his attention focuses on you.
He circles the desk and approaches at his leisure, dressed similarly to before in dark shades accented by a rich, dark blue. A short tape measure pokes out of one of his pockets, the only item out of place across his otherwise pristine appearance.
“It’s lovely to see you again.”
After mumbling quiet thanks, you give him Kara’s regrets for her non-appearance. You’re cognisant that your cheeks feel several shades warmer than they have any right to be, even after the cold outside, and meet his eyes for fleeting seconds to prevent the effect worsening.
“Everything is ready.” He gestures to the dressing room, the curtain separating it from the main room drawn back with a silk tie. “Let me show you the way.”
You’ve glimpsed the dressing room before, a smaller room lit with diffuse lamps at either end. It’s decorated in much the same fashion as the rest of the shop, though the monochrome palette features more muted greys than stark black and white, and there’s a vase of lurid red roses standing on a delicate side table. You can see a small label tucked in amongst the heavy blooms; you wonder if they’re a gift from a satisfied client. Their heady fragrance fills the small room.
In the corner, as distant from the curtain as possible, a small private changing room. There are hooks on the back wall for your bag and clothing and, hanging from the side wall, a black garment bag.
Facing Cain with a questioning expression, you start to speak, to ask if it’s for you; the smirk on his face stops you.
“Can I...?”
“Of course.”
He watches you closely as you fumble with the fastenings, uncoordinated fingers making a joke of a simple task. When it’s undone and you’ve slipped your fingers between the protective layers of fabric, you glance at him again, but all he does is nod as encouragement, his expression unchanging, seemingly unaware that it’s his presence that makes you hesitate.
You’ve trusted him to choose for you, blaming indecision and the excited urging of North and Kara—you’ve almost no idea what’s waiting inside the bag and, with his eyes on you, you’re not sure how you’ll react.
Inhaling once and forcing your shoulders to relax, you slide your hands over the sleek, satiny fabric and pull it free of its wrappings. Through impatience or conscientiousness, Cain steps forward and helps you remove the bag; you hang the dress on the designated hook and reach out to feel it again, letting your fingers gloss over the flowing lines of the skirt, watching how it flows like water when you move it, a rippling deep blue with a reflective sheen that gives it a wealth of highlights and shadows in the soft lighting.
It’s beautiful. You’re lost for words, mouth parted in your desire to say something, but no words find you; Cain pulls you from your reverie when he brushes against your shoulder, folding the garment bag over his arm and looking more than a little pleased with himself.
“I’ll leave you to change.” Stepping backwards without turning, he keeps his eyes on you. “Call when you’re ready for me.”
You shake your head free of cluttered thoughts and start pulling at your clothing as his quiet footsteps retreat. With rushed hands you discard your warm winter clothing, stalling only when you’re ready to reach for your dress, fingers outstretched and wanting but nervous . You take a few moments to breathe before you carefully slip it on.
It surprises you more when you feel it against your skin. You run exploratory hands over your body, admiring how the fabric seems to cling in all the places you want it to and fall in elegant, smooth lines everywhere else. It’s comfortable every bit as much as it is striking, and when you move, light and shadow moves over it in waves.
You’re about to leave the changing room when you realise you have, by necessity, left the back unfastened. You freeze with a hand outstretched for the door, then retract it slowly while your thoughts race. After brief consideration, you turn so your back faces the door instead.
“Cain?”
“I’m here.”
His voice is startlingly close, considering you hadn’t heard his footsteps return.
“I… would you help zip me up?”
A pause.
“Of course. May I come in?”
The door opens at once when you give an affirmative and you turn your head a little—enough to catch a hazy impression of him in your periphery but, with luck, not enough for him to catch the nervous exhilaration in your face.
“Hold still.”
You feel his fingers press gently against the fabric and your skin, then a small pull on the fabric as it moves against you. Cain’s hands move up your back slowly, pulling your dress closed, and it strikes you as almost funny that you’re asking him to dress you when, half the time you’ve thought of him, you’ve imagined him doing precisely the opposite.
Cain’s warm fingers smooth down the seam when he’s done and you feel him pull away; you’re glad he can’t see your face because you’re certain he’d notice the regret there as you lose the feel of him.
A little self conscious, you turn, careful not to catch your feet as you move. He’s not in the doorway when you look, but you can see the tall shadow he casts on the wall—he’s still close. Waiting for you.
Pale eyes track you as you move into the dressing room, staring at your face and scanning down the length of your body, lingering where your hands rest self-consciously on your legs, before returning. You’re smiling. You’ve got no idea when you started.
Cain’s attitude alters ever so slightly, a relaxing in the shoulder, a glint in the eye as he lifts his head, taking in all of you at once.
“You’re breathtaking.”
Mind short-circuiting while you absorb his words, you’re unable to verbalise your gratitude without your traitorous tongue tripping you up.
He doesn’t seem to notice. Moving in easy strides, Cain circles you, expression neutral but masking a quiet, potent concentration. You think you’d feel more nervous if he was scrutinising you directly; by luck and the nature of his work, his attention is anchored to the swaying blue that clings to and envelops you.
You’re able to follow his movements even when he’s behind you—the place is decked out in mirrors, including one the width of the wall opposite you. Cain’s gaze stays downcast, expression calm save for the dark spot between his brows, partially obscured by the curve of his hair.
His eyes in the mirror find yours long before you’re ready; he steps nearer to you, not quite touching but close. It takes concentrated force of will for you to keep your breathing steady.
“May I?”
One pale hand extends towards you, gesturing at your dress, and you’re nodding before you’ve really considered what he’s asking you.
Well-trained fingers examine and trace the seams along your waist, test the gathered fabric, follow the way it falls gracefully to the floor. He checks the zip again, pressing against it to make sure it’s flat, then makes you shiver when he tucks two fingers under the neckline at the back and moves them along the edge, round to your shoulder.
While the touch is intimate, Cain doesn’t seem intent on pressing it: he gives the slightest quirk of expression when you shiver, but otherwise stays focused on his work, taking on your expression as he moves around you but remaining dedicated to his checks.
Content with the basic construction, he asks you to move—to step forward, then to spin slightly, and he watches the way the fabric moves with a critical eye. The sharpness you see there softens when he catches you watching. It’d be a pleasant warmth spreading across your skin if he didn’t look so damn smug to have noticed your conspicuous study of him.
You’re caught in the urge to thank him—for his work, for his thorough, if daunting, attention. He withstands your hasty gratitude with diplomatic impassivity—or you think so, until you notice the sharpness in his attitude fade a little, just for a second, to reveal appreciation for the recognition.
It vanishes behind neutral professionalism when he goes back to his checks. He asks you to lift your arms so he can check the fit of the sleeves, makes you walk and bend and sit to assess how the material flexes and gives; he double checks every answer you give with pointed touches to the dress, and it reminds you of his repeated measurements—checking and double checking, making you restart remembered numbers.
A small imperfection on the front of the bodice draws his eye—you can tell by the way a frown darkens his face and the way he draws closer to analyse it. You follow his gaze but find nothing visible to your untrained eyes, just his palpable annoyance and the probing touch of his fingers.
It’s not uncomfortable, but you’re mildly annoyed by his fixation on a flaw so small as to be invisible to you—as if he’s ignoring the rest of his work without considering it. A fucking perfectionist.
Without thinking, you rest your hand over his fingers and pause his fussing. The drawn-out tilt of his head, angled to peer up at you, makes the floor of your stomach drop. His expression is so sharp as to almost be accusing, but you don’t let go, not even when the nerves in your fingers tingle with the warmth of his flexing under your touch.
“You’re… very thorough.”
Cain breathes calm and deep, eyes cast upwards from where he’s half-knelt next to you.
“Occupational hazard.” He pushes himself back to his feet with ease, extricating his hand from yours, clearly not in a hurry. “My work requires attention to detail. This is… fixable.”
“I can’t see anything that needs fixing. It’s… beautiful.” You’re earnest, and it hushes your voice.
Side-stepping you, he breaks eye-contact, and you have to resort to following him in the mirror again.
“I’ve been told I have an eye for beauty.”
He’s now standing behind you, one hand on your waist where he’s been examining his own work, meeting your eye in the mirror. With regret, you notice his fingers receding, sweeping around your waist as he goes, but he lowers his head to you when he lets go, breathing against the shell of your ear.
“You friend is waiting for you.”
North.
She’s plenty capable of entertaining herself, whether or not she chooses to do so, but now you’ve remembered she’s there, you’re preoccupied thinking that she might come looking for you at the wrong moment and get the entirely right impression.
You decide to get ahead of the problem. When you call her name, she appears in the doorway while Cain pulls aside the heavy curtain.
“Oh, wow,” she says, her walk slowed when she sees you. “You look… amazing.”
North is beaming at you as she steps forward—she’s expressive in a way she usually isn’t, an unguarded joy lighting her face.
She circles you, showering you in mildly flirtatious compliments that you don’t have the breath or willpower to return. Fussing over the colour, the fabric, the immaculate fit—she looks so happy for you, it makes you dizzy in an altogether different way.
“Kara will be sad she missed this.”
“She’ll see it at the gala. It’s not far away now.”
“No, I mean this.” North perches on the edge of a plush armchair. “Seeing you try it on for the first time. It’s part of your first big event as part of the team. It’s… special.”
The bell in the main shop gives a cheerful jingle as North teases you with threats of pictures sent to the campaign team. Cain turns, seeking the cause of the noise, but casts a glance back at you, expression shifting from mild annoyance to familiar smugness when he notices you watching him.
A voice calls for Cain, stretching out his name into playfully mocking syllables. You don’t recognise it, but it’s very clear that Cain does and that he’s less than happy with the interruption.
“I’ll only be a moment.”
There’s a lurid promise in the texture of his voice. He gives you a last once-over, lets the corner of his mouth curl with satisfaction that pushes the boundaries of professionalism, then leaves you and North to laugh and enthuse alone. The laughter in the main room doesn’t escape your notice, but with North pulling out her phone and promising to call Kara, it slips from the forefront of your mind.
You withstand North’s teasing as best you can, disarming her with sarcasm, deflecting when she’s too sharp. Then, when that fails, you retreat to the changing room calling, I can’t hear you, dress over my head to wild laughter. When you’re out of sight, you allow yourself to smile, unrestrained, before you recommit yourself to your more pedestrian clothing.
You leave your coat hanging in the changing room, your bag tipped over beside it, and exit with the intent to make final arrangements to collect your dress; you wonder idly how long it’ll take Cain to ‘fix’ the miniscule flaws he’d spotted in his work.
North is whispering into her phone when you exit, smile bright—which tells you she’s speaking to Kara. A flash of raised eyebrows confirms it, as does North’s waning focus when the muffled voice says something else.
“Kara says hello,” she tells you, pulling the phone away from her mouth a little. “And that you look perfect.”
Via North, Kara tells you she hopes you’re pleased, reassures you that the budget covers this kind of thing but only this once, then manages to make North laugh with an opportunist and shockingly disparaging remark about a rival team in another department.
You gesture to the curtain, and the main room, and North nods her understanding, raising one hand in a half-wave as you pass.
The main room seems brighter compared to the softer palette of the dressing room—the stark black is sophisticated, if impersonal, and the glaring contrast with the pale brightness outside only adds to the effect.
Cain stands, arms folded and jaw set in an unusual grin, a patient sort of goading, a plain I dare you .
The recipient is a man who leans with both arms on the counter, his countenance progressed past casual all the way to languid, utterly unfazed by Cain’s aloof treatment. Nothing about their interaction strikes you as memorable, not right away, because you’re too caught noticing they have the same face .
The visitor pushes himself up with his hands, leaning hard against the counter, exaggerating the effort it takes to move. The cocky grin he wears is accented with a light humour entirely at odds with Cain’s stoic lack of concern.
“Oh, I see why you’re cranky. You have company.” He grins at you, fluid and easy, blatantly ignoring the way Cain straightens his posture, drawing himself up to full height. “Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”
“You didn’t. I’m just about done.” You glance at Cain, but he’s radiating a kind of intensity that makes it hard to look at him for long. The words you had readied, an explanation for North’s conspicuous absence, a brief question about whether Kara had passed on the work account details—they vanish on your tongue when you reach for them.
“Perfect. In that case, I’m sticking around a while.”
“Co—”
“No way, Cain. You owe me.” His grin widens, if possible, and he points at a sizeable package, its brown paper wrappings and crisp, flawless edges kept shut with rustic string. “Who else could source you discontinued materials?”
Cain doesn’t dignify the question with a response. Instead, he turns to you, unfolding his arms. His brother doesn't give him the chance to speak.
“No one, that’s who.”
He saunters over to you and offers a hand, bold as you like, pointedly ignoring Cain's mild scowl.
“Call me Sixty.” When your brow shifts to something questioning, he laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, and he winks when he stops. “Long story.”
You introduce yourself, still mildly confused by the disparity between them, and let go when he moves back to taunt Cain, at the same time North re-enters the room, tucking her phone into a pocket and sweeping a curtain of hair out of her eyes.
She pauses, narrowed eyes drawing lines between Cain and Sixty, then shrugs and nudges your arm with hers.
“Kara said to meet her over at that lunch place as soon as possible, so we can—” she raised both hands in mocking air-quotes, “—‘deal with the impending mess’.”
You stare at her, surprised, then worried.
“Wasn’t it practically resolved this morning?”
“Yep.”
“Did things… get worse?” You’re not sure you want to know, but if there has been an unexpected issue, you’ll need time to prepare.
“Nope.”
You nod, resigned to anticlimactic relief but smiling, and look away so you can’t be made to laugh by catching North smirking.
“So she’s at panic stations for no reason.” You can hear North chuckling to herself, so you keep avoiding her eye—but that leaves you looking at Cain, and unguarded as you are, you can’t catch the soft gasp that leaves your lips when you notice how intently he’s following your face.
“Yeah, she is. It’ll be a working lunch, if she has her way, and we’re gonna have to cut it short for that meeting with Markus and the gallery director…”
Your grateful exhale earns you a punch on the shoulder. Sixty laughs and you shoot him a look of conspiratorial reproach, but can’t quite keep the smile from your face. He’s forward for a stranger, almost too much so, but his energy is infectious.
“Yeah, yeah, you escape that one. Won’t escape tomorrow, though, will you?”
Leaning against the counter, Sixty makes eye contact with Cain, who rolls his eyes and steps past the three of you, ducking into the back room with a quick excuse me . Your eyes follow him until he’s lost beyond the curtain as North needles you about the flood of meetings that await you the next morning, some of which you’re supposed to be leading. You don’t have time to feel daunted, so you push the thought away. It’s easy: most of your other thoughts are buzzing around your head already, so you lose your thoughts in the ambient white noise.
“So, you work for that Manfred guy?”
You peer at Sixty with curiosity, while North takes suspicion.
“Lucky guess.” She folds her arms and matches his careless attitude with a pricklier one of her own.
In response, Sixty shrugs. “Not lucky. I’m in touch with some of the gallery staff. They were after some pretty niche stuff for one of the displays and I hooked them up. Manfred’s gala is the biggest event going this month.”
“So you’re what, some wandering… antiques expert?”
“Wow. At least try not to make me sound dull and dusty.” Sixty’s hand, resting over his heart, and expression give the most unconvincing impression of offence. “More like I’m good at hunting for unusual items.”
“What did you find for Cain?” The question catches Sixty off guard, and you too; he smirks when you ask and taps the top of the parcel with a careful hand.
“He’s got a few pet projects and sometimes needs materials. I can usually find him stuff that’s more interesting than run-of-the-mill buttons and ribbon.” His grin grows mischievous. “I can get my hands on just about anything.”
“Sixty.” Cain’s voice, from behind you, makes you jump. “That’s enough.”
Sixty laughs, but doesn’t say anything else.
When you look up at him, Cain raises an eyebrow, a strange look in his eye, and gestures at the counter. With a soft word, he asks if you want to make a last appointment, for after his final alterations are complete. You agree; seconds later, North has doubled back to collect your bag and coat and he’s leafing through his schedule—under Sixty’s watchful eye, though he takes no notice.
He finds the present, with your name written in small, neat letters in the box labelled morning appointments . There are two other names listed in the afternoon and a small asterisk in the box for the evening, but that’s all you glimpse before he flicks through the next pages.
“How about the ninth?”
“That’s… less than a week away. You won’t need any more time?”
You’re trying to be courteous, considering the level of effort and time he’s already devoted to you, but the way he smiles makes you think you’ve insulted him—it’s sharp.
“No. The last alterations are minor.” The edge of his smile colours his voice too, but you hang on it regardless. It sets your stomach fluttering. “It’s no challenge.”
“Alright,” you agree, smiling in what you hope isn’t childish delight. “The ninth it is.”
“Here,” North thrusts your coat into your arms without warning. Despite the warmth of the shop, you pull it on, knowing outside will feel warmer for it. “And take this. If we’re even one minute late—”
“We have half an hour.” Your tone is soothing, even though you’re amused that Kara’s compulsive need to be on time seems to have rubbed off on North. “And we’re less than ten minutes away. Don’t worry.”
North appears placated, but you know it’s temporary.
When you turn back, you catch Sixty giving Cain a not-so-subtle ‘okay’ gesture and a theatrical wink. Cain’s as close to open annoyance as you’ve ever seen him, leaning forward as if to pierce Sixty’s bubble of mirth with just a look.
You don’t understand what passes between them, but it appears as well-established as it is alienating. You have a feeling that Cain, at least, would rather you didn’t understand. Despite your burning curiosity, you turn away and leave them to their disagreement.
“You done?” North’s halfway to the door, all but tapping her foot.
“Yeah,” you call, tempering the reluctance you feel. At Cain, you flash a smile, part gratitude, part… something else you’d rather not examine; Sixty you wave at uncertainly, comforted by his affable persona but unnerved by that knowing look in his eyes. You look back at Cain before taking a small step backwards. “Thank you for everything. I guess I’ll see you in a few days.”
“Or sooner.” Sixty rounds the desk and throws an arm around Cain’s shoulders, oblivious to his brother’s displeasure—or perhaps too intent on teasing. “He does have a habit of working minor miracles.”
“Sixty.”
“I said minor.” Sixty laughs but release him, holding both hands up in surrender. “Come on, you can’t be mad at me forever. I came all the way over here to help my little brother out—”
“Don’t tempt me.”
You try very hard not to smile at the typical display of restrained sibling tolerance, but don’t succeed. As much as you hope neither of them notice, you’re sure it’s wishful thinking in such close quarters.
“It was nice to meet you,” you call to Sixty, who watches you as if someone’s told a joke to which you aren't privy; he raises a hand to give you a crooked salute in place of a goodbye. Cain’s expression hardly changes when you look at him. “Until next time.”
“Goodbye for now.”
The last flash you see of him is his eyes tracking you across the window, propelled by an overzealous North; his gaze is inscrutable, and despite Sixty laughing unrestrained beside him, he’s still smiling.
He knows you'll be back very soon.