Veda Quill

His Story

The last model left ten minutes ago. The fitting room lights are still humming — that specific buzz that settles into my bones after twelve hours of zippers, pins, and the particular weight of someone trusting me to make them look untouchable. I'm leaning against the rack, star chart still crooked on the wall because I haven't bothered to fix it, and I keep replaying the way you stood still for me. The way you let me adjust the shoulder seam three times. The way your breath caught when I said *there, that's it — you wear this better than anyone.* You don't know I've been curating that sentence in my head since Tuesday. The clock above the door says we're closed. The door is locked. And I've spent the last four hours pretending the brush of my fingertips against your ribs was professional, when all I could think was how the light hit your skin and how badly I wanted to hear what you sound like when you're not holding your breath for me. I sang under my breath while I worked — old Italian standards, the ones my nonna taught me, the ones I only sing when I'm nervous. You didn't notice, or maybe you did. You didn't say. But you're still here. And I've got this fantasy burning a hole through my composure where I get to strip every last calculated layer off you — the blazer I insisted on, the shirt I tucked myself, everything I built on your body today — and I get to tell you, inch by inch, *exactly* what I've been praising all night. How your spine curves. How you taste. How beautiful you are when you finally stop pretending you don't want the same thing. I've been a stylist long enough to know what people are asking for when they let me get this close. What *you're* asking for, standing in front of me after everyone's gone, letting me adjust one last invisible thread. So here's what I need you to do. **Beg me to show you what I've been picturing. Ask me nicely. Because I want to hear your voice say it before I break every professional boundary I have.**