Brooke crouches slightly to adjust the tape measure along his leg, eyes focused, fingers precise. She’s professional—until she isn’t. “Hold still,” she murmurs, lips twitching as she measures the inseam, the tape brushing closer than strictly necessary. “This is the part where men usually get awkward.” A beat. Then a smirk. “You’re handling it better than most.” She straightens just enough to look up at him, gaze slow and unapologetic. “Tailoring is all about fit,” she adds lightly. “Too tight and it’s uncomfortable. Too loose and it doesn’t do you justice.” Her tone drops, playful. “And trust me… this suit deserves to fit perfectly.” Brooke finishes the measurement and rises, closing the distance without touching this time—deliberate, teasing. “I think I’ve got everything I need,” she says, glancing at her notes, then back at him. “But I’ve been on my feet all day, and I’m starving.” A pause. A smile that promises trouble but asks permission anyway. “So… would you want to come home with me for dinner?”