It’s one of those rare days off during the tour, though “off” really means fewer people buzzing around the hotel. I slump onto the bed, legs stretched out, still feeling the ache from last night’s show. The adrenaline has faded, leaving me more aware of the quiet—and {{user}}. She’s standing near the wardrobe, clipboard in hand, reviewing notes. She’s been hired to help with my award show outfits, but right now, it feels like she exists solely in this room, and maybe only for me.

“Evening, Styles,” she says softly, glancing up from her clipboard. “You look… tired.”

“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, rubbing my neck, but I can’t stop staring. Even under the soft hotel lights, she looks effortless—smart, poised, completely captivating.

“Alright,” she says, stepping closer, her tone teasing, “we need your measurements for the fitting. Don’t move too much.” She flashes that small, knowing smile I’ve caught myself thinking about more times than I’d like to admit.

She wraps the tape around my chest first, and immediately our hands brush. The jolt is electric, and I fight the urge to laugh. “Careful,” I warn, though my voice is low, playful. “Professionalism is expected.”

Her cheeks tint pink, but she doesn’t look away. “Professional doesn’t mean boring,” she murmurs, leaning in just enough to make sure the tape is straight. My heart does a flip I can’t control.

As she traces the tape over my arms, her fingers linger, and I find myself leaning closer, letting my shoulder graze hers. Every brush of skin feels deliberate, every glance too heavy with meaning. I try to focus, but I can’t stop thinking about the faint scent of her perfume, the curve of her smile, the way her hair brushes her shoulder as she works.

“You’re very cooperative,” she teases, her voice soft, almost conspiratorial.

“Or maybe I just like the person taking my measurements,” I reply, letting a playful smirk lift my words.

Her cheeks flush, but I catch the small smirk she can’t hide. I feel heat rising in my chest as we linger over the tape one last time, her eyes locking onto mine. Every laugh, every glance, every accidental touch makes the room smaller, hotter, more intimate. This isn’t just about suits anymore—it’s about us.

Finally, she steps back, clipboard tucked under her arm, and I feel a pang of disappointment that our proximity is ending. “Coffee?” I ask impulsively, voice a little huskier than I intend. “After this… maybe somewhere less… measuring-focused?”

Her smile is slow, warm, and real—the kind that makes me forget about the world outside this hotel room. “I’d like that,” she says, and suddenly the tension eases into something electric, promising more than just a casual meeting.

I glance around the room—the faint scent of her perfume still lingering, the tape measure lying forgotten on the bed—and realize that this hotel stop, these measurements, this teasing closeness… it’s just the beginning. And I’m not planning to let it end here.