Ellery
The late afternoon light spilled through the tailor shop windows, warm and golden, catching on glass display cases and rows of silk ties.
The whole place smelled like cedar and starch — expensive, controlled, everything in its place.
I stood off to the side with my tablet, checking final notes for the gala’s guest list while Mr. Han worked his magic on the fitting platform.
Beckett looked wildly out of place — six feet of restless energy surrounded by calm, curated luxury.
“You move too much, Mr. Mason,” Mr. Han scolded, half-exasperated, half-admiring the challenge.
Beckett muttered something under his breath, then louder, “Try standing still for twenty minutes while someone stabs pins at you.”
Without looking up from my notes, I said, “Maybe if you didn’t fidget like a toddler—”
“I’m allergic to patience,” he shot back.
I sighed, pretending to be annoyed, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me. I glanced up — just for a second — and immediately regretted it.
Because, God help me, he looked good.
The suit was tailored within an inch of its life — clean black lines, subtle sheen, and a collar he’d already loosened just enough to make it look like sin.
Beckett Mason, usually all sweat and attitude and grass stains, suddenly looked like someone who could walk into any room and own it. And that was the problem.
He wasn’t supposed to look like that.
He wasn’t supposed to make my pulse jump while I was working.
“Stop staring, James,” he said, smirking at the mirror without turning his head.
“I’m not,” I said too quickly.
“Sure you’re not.”
Mr. Han gave him a sharp look. “Please, no talking. Talking makes wrinkles.”
That shut him up — for about five seconds.
He caught my reflection in the mirror, one brow lifted like he knew exactly what I was thinking. I forced myself to focus on the tablet, scrolling through notes that suddenly looked like gibberish.
He wasn’t just handsome — he was dangerous in that effortless, frustrating way some men are. The kind of man who didn’t try to draw attention but did, anyway. The kind who didn’t care if people liked him but somehow made it worse when they did.
“Almost done,” Mr. Han murmured, stepping back to inspect the hem.
Beckett looked over at me again. “Remind me why I agreed to this?”
“Because you owe me,” I said. “And because optics.”
He groaned. “You and your optics.”
I smiled despite myself. “Someone has to keep you from showing up in jeans.”
He grinned — that slow, dangerous grin that always looked a little like trouble.
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint your sponsors,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was too busy trying to ignore the warmth creeping up my neck.
By the time Mr. Han declared him finished, I’d looked at my tablet so long I forgot what I was supposed to be checking.
All I could think was how someone like Beckett Mason — loud, messy, infuriating — could look so devastatingly put together.
And how unfair it was that I was the one who had to notice.
My phone buzzed on the counter, the screen lighting up with Kyle’s name. I didn’t even think before I answered — muscle memory at this point.
“Hey, you,” I said, trying to sound light, normal. “Just a reminder — you need to schedule your fitting for the gala.”
There was noise in the background — whistles, shoes squeaking on the floor, the sound of the Storm’s practice in full swing.
“Yeah, I haven’t had time,” he said, voice rushed. “I’ve got two more drills and film review tonight. I’ll figure it out.”
“It’s next week, Kyle.”
“I know, babe. I’m just trying to stay sharp. You get it.”
I did. That was the problem.
“I do,” I said softly. “I just… wish you’d slow down once in a while.”
A pause. Then, his voice — steady, focused, the same tone he used when talking about game footage or upcoming matches. “I can’t right now. Not with scouts watching. You understand.”
There it was again — that word. Understand.
I forced a smile he couldn’t see. “Yeah. I understand.”
We hung up, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before. I stared at the dress racks lined neatly behind me — silk, satin, lace. Everything perfect, everything prepared. Everything that wasn’t me.
You always understand. Even when it hurts.
It wasn’t anger I felt — not really. Just this quiet ache that never seemed to go away. Like being proud of him and lonely for him at the same time.
I tucked my phone away and turned back toward the fitting platform.
Beckett was watching me in the mirror.
He didn’t say anything, and I was glad he didn't. His reflection met mine, eyes steady, unreadable. The noise of the shop — the snip of scissors, the rustle of fabric — faded until there was only the hum of the lights and the sound of my pulse.
For a moment, I wished he’d look away. Then I wished he wouldn’t.
Mr. Han moved between us, muttering something about sleeve length, and the spell broke.
Beckett adjusted his cuff, expression neutral again, like nothing had passed between us. Like he hadn’t just seen straight through me.
I went back to my clipboard, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
He went back to pretending not to care, and I went back to pretending I didn’t.
But the truth lingered between us — quiet, unspoken, impossible to ignore.
Mr. Han stepped away to fetch another handful of pins, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet tailor shop.
Beckett was standing on the platform, tugging at his tie like it was a noose. “How do people wear these torture devices?” he muttered.
I sighed, setting my tablet aside and crossing the room. “Here,” I said, reaching up toward him. “You’ll strangle yourself.”
He lifted his chin obediently, that infuriating flicker of a smirk ghosting across his mouth. “You sure you know how to do this?”
I arched a brow. “Please.”
That earned me a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled somewhere deep in his chest.
I ignored it. Or at least, I tried to.
The fabric slid smooth beneath my fingers as I straightened the knot, looping and pulling with practiced precision. But the distance between us shrank fast. Too fast. My fingertips brushed the edge of his throat, the heat of his skin catching me off guard.
He smelled like clean soap and cedar — the same faint cologne that clung to his collar and somehow made it harder to think. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his collarbone, a detail I tried not to notice and failed miserably.
“Hold still,” I said, voice a little thinner than I wanted it to be.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe, it seemed. Just watched me — steady, patient, a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes.
It was ridiculous. It was a tie. I’d done this a hundred times before — charity events, press galas, last-minute wardrobe crises. Nothing about this should’ve mattered.
So why couldn’t I breathe?
My pulse was hammering, my hands suddenly unsure. I pulled the knot tight, smoothing it against his chest to cover the fact that my fingers were shaking.
“There,” I managed. “Try not to ruin it before the gala.”
“Depends,” he said, voice low. “You gonna be there making sure I behave?”
I forced a laugh, stepping back before I could get any closer. “You’re a lost cause.”
He grinned, the expression quick but genuine. “Maybe. But at least I’ll look good doing it.”
Mr. Han returned then, arms full of pins, and the spell broke like a snapped thread.
I picked up my tablet again, pretending to check my notes while trying to steady my breathing.
It was just a tie. Just another fitting. Just Beckett Mason being impossible.
But as I glanced at his reflection in the mirror — the loosened knot, the faint smile still lingering — I knew I was lying to myself.
Because somewhere between straightening his collar and meeting his eyes, something had shifted. And no amount of professionalism could tie it back into place.
Mr. Han adjusted Beckett’s cuffs one last time, then glanced toward me over his glasses. “And Mr. Reynolds?” he asked. “He isn’t on the schedule.”
The question landed heavier than it should have. I felt Beckett’s attention shift immediately, his reflection flicking toward mine in the mirror.
I forced a smile — too quick, too practiced. “He’s been busy with training,” I said. “The timing didn’t work out, that’s all.”
Mr. Han nodded politely, though I caught the faint crease between his brows before he murmured something about fetching a new coat for Beckett and slipped into the back room.
The door closed, leaving the two of us alone in the quiet.
Beckett’s reflection lingered in the mirror, still watching me. Not directly — just enough to notice.
I pretended to scroll through my notes on the tablet, the silence pressing in like static. Then, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Kyle’s been running himself ragged. I just wish he’d slow down — just once.”
My voice came out smaller than I meant it to.
Beckett didn’t move, but his eyes lifted toward my reflection. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke — even, but grounded in something I couldn’t name. “That’s not who he is.”
I swallowed, the words finding their mark faster than I expected. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I know.” I hesitated, then added, barely above a whisper, “Sometimes I wish he could be.”
Beckett turned fully — not just a glance in the mirror this time, but facing me head-on. The shift was subtle, but it changed everything.
“You deserve someone who makes time,” he said.
It wasn’t sharp or bitter. It wasn’t an accusation. Just truth — plain and simple.
And that, somehow, hurt more.
The air went still, charged with something fragile. My pulse tripped over itself. I realized my hand was still resting on the edge of his collar, fingertips brushing the fabric just above his chest. Too close. Too much.
I stepped back quickly, pretending to adjust the clipboard clutched in my other hand. “Thanks,” I managed, clearing my throat. “That looks… fine.”
Beckett’s mouth quirked. “Just fine?”
I met his eyes, forcing a quiet laugh. “You’ll do.”