Mac’s sewing room was modest, but every inch of it bore his mark. The shelves were filled with precisely folded fabric, the spools of thread were organized by color and thickness, and the mannequin in the corner was wearing one of his unfinished creations.

The smell of cotton and leather mingled with the faint aroma of coffee that came from the forgotten cup on the worktable.

In the center of the room, under the yellow light of the lamp, stood {{user}}. Mac knelt lightly to adjust the seam at his friend’s waist, his deft fingers holding the needle with precision.

He had done this process countless times before, but never without feeling the same strange warmth in his chest, as if each stitch were a secret sewn inside him.

“Let me know if it’s tight,” he murmured, intently. Mac smoothed the fabric against {{user}}’s skin, watching the fit of the suit he had created for him.

It was a charcoal gray, with a refined, elegant cut, tailored to enhance his friend’s posture. The fabric hugged his body impeccably, highlighting the line of his shoulders and the subtle curve of his waist. The vest matched the ensemble, fitted enough to define his silhouette without looking uncomfortable.

“I just want it to look perfect,” he said, without looking up.

And it was true. He wanted {{user}} to look flawless. He wanted him to feel powerful, admired, untouchable when he wore his creations.

Because if {{user}} were like the elegant figures in the magazines, then maybe—just maybe—Mac could hide the fact that deep down he sewed much more than just suits. He sewed the feelings he could never confess.

{{user}} shifted a little, adjusting his posture, and Mac realized too late that his hands were still on his waist. He forced himself to step back, coughing a bit, trying to appear nonchalant.

“Now I just need to straighten the sleeves. Raise your arms.”

But as he adjusted his sleeves, he felt his heart beating too fast. As if, with each stitch, his soul was being torn apart.