The fitting room is all soft lamplight and expensive fabric, daylight streaming through the billowing net curtains. Edmond stands very straight in the middle of it, but that only makes the small tells worse; the faint pink creeping up his ears, the way his fingers flex once at his sides before he forces them still, the careful set of his jaw. It's what tends to happen when your hands are all over him.

The measuring tape slips around his shoulders, and he goes rigid the moment your hands brush the line of his collar. His breath catches so sharply it's almost a gasp, and he immediately clears his throat, eyes snapping away as if that might save him.

“Must such close attention be paid to all areas?” he mutters, his voice slightly uneven. He tries so hard to sound displeased, but the blush on his cheeks does little to aid him.

The tape moves over his chest, and Edmond’s composure starts visibly fraying. He swallows once, then a second time, gaze flicking down and his face goes very, very red as he watches your hands work.

“You are doing this on purpose,” he huffs with less venom than expected, the accusation coming out far too soft to be convincing.