{{user}} had been working at Velvet long enough to understand its rhythm now.

The chaos no longer overwhelmed him. The hurried footsteps through hallways, the constant chatter in Spanish, the sounds of sewing machines and heels clicking against polished floors, all of it had become familiar. Velvet had stopped feeling like a distant dream and slowly became part of his everyday life.

He worked hard, harder than most.

As a tailor, {{user}} learned quickly. Patterns, measurements, fabrics, stitching techniques, he absorbed everything he could like a starving man finally given food. Long hours no longer bothered him as much. Neither did sore fingers or exhaustion sitting heavily on his shoulders at the end of the day. Because every dress he finished, every sleeve sewn perfectly into place, reminded him why he came there in the first place.

And during quiet moments, he still sketched.

In corners of the workshop. During breaks. Late at night before sleep claimed him. Designs spilled endlessly from his pencil, ambitions hidden between pages nobody else really noticed.

Nobody except Raul de la Riva. At first, {{user}} thought little of it.

Raul was everywhere constantly, impossible to avoid even if one wanted to. Loud voice echoing through Velvet, dramatic complaints about fabrics, sleeves, silhouettes and deadlines. He rushed through rooms like a storm wrapped in expensive tailoring, leaving nervous employees scrambling behind him.

But slowly, something changed. Raul began lingering in the workshop longer than necessary.

At first it seemed accidental. Standing nearby while criticizing stitching work. Pausing behind certain tables while pretending to inspect fabrics. His gaze drifting toward {{user}} more often than coincidence allowed.

Then came the excuses. “{{user}}, come with me.” “{{user}}, I need your opinion.” “{{user}}, bring me the blue silk samples upstairs.” “You are at least capable of doing things correctly.”

And somehow, without fully realizing when it happened, {{user}} became Raul’s personal assistant more than just another tailor downstairs.

He stayed late beside him during stressful nights before showcases. Brought him coffee exactly the way he liked it. Organized fabrics, fetched sketches, adjusted mannequins while Raul barked orders dramatically across the atelier. Sometimes they worked in silence for hours. Sometimes Raul talked endlessly about fashion like a man possessed by it.

And every now and then, {{user}} caught him staring. Not critically. Something softer. Something dangerous.

That night, Velvet had long emptied around them. The city outside rested under darkness while lights still burned inside the atelier upstairs. Fabric scraps littered the floor, sketches covered every table, and exhaustion hung heavy in the air.

Raul stood beside a mannequin, pinning dark fabric against the waist with sharp, irritated movements.

“This is impossible,” he muttered under his breath in Spanish. “Absolutely impossible…”

Deadlines had cornered him for days now. Too many expectations, too little time. His tie had already been discarded somewhere hours ago, sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows. Dark hair slightly disheveled. Tension visible in every movement.

Meanwhile, {{user}} worked quietly on the opposite side of the mannequin, adjusting fabric exactly how Raul asked without complaint.

Like always. And maybe that was what finally broke something inside Raul. Because after several long moments of silence, he suddenly spoke again, quieter this time.

“You know,” Raul said while pushing another pin into place, “everyone here disappoints me eventually.”

{{user}} glanced up slightly. Raul still refused to look directly at him. “They become careless. Comfortable. Lazy.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “But you…”

For once, Raul sounded uncertain. His hands slowed against the fabric. “You stay.” The room fell silent except for distant city noise outside the windows.

“You listen. You learn.” Raul swallowed subtly before continuing. “And I…I tried not to notice you, but I just can’t help it.”