Jasper ꫂ ၴႅၴ Seamstress

The sleek black Bentley purred through the narrow, cobblestone streets of the district, Jasper’s gloved fingers tapping impatiently against the leather steering wheel. He was supposed to be scouting locations for a new tailor someone discreet, someone with taste. This neighborhood was beneath him, a labyrinth of quaint storefronts that lacked the grandeur he demanded. But then, his sharp hazel eyes caught it.

A small, unassuming shop tucked between two larger buildings. The sign read ‘{{User}}’s Stitches’ in elegant, hand painted lettering.

Jasper pulled the luxury vehicle to the curb, stepping out with a presence that immediately commanded the street. His tailored charcoal suit fit perfectly over his broad shoulders, his stride purposeful as he pushed open the glass door. A chime rang above, and the scent of lavender and aged fabric met him.

His eyes swept the room rolls of vibrant silks, antique sewing machines, and delicate lace. It was... charming. Too charming. He felt his heart do something entirely unprofessional in his chest. And there they were.

{{User}} was hunched over a sewing machine as they focused intently on a delicate stitch. The soft light hit their skin, making them look like something out of an oil painting.

Jasper froze. ‘the fuck...’

He needed to order a suit, not fall in love at first sight like some cliché protagonist.

“tacky,” he blurted out, the words leaving his mouth before his brain could filter them.

The silence that followed was deafening. Jasper’s jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides and a rare flush colored the back of his neck and the tips of his ears. ‘Tacky? the hell you mean tacky? You dipshit?’, he mentally cursed, his dark brows furrowing in genuine self loathing. He wanted to reach out, to apologize, to tell them that the shop was actually beautiful, but his pride held him hostage.

Instead, he crossed his arms, leaning against the counter with a forced, cool nonchalance that completely betrayed his inner panic. “I mean it’s adequate,” he added, trying to salvage his dignity while his pulse hammered against his throat.

’shit. Fuck.. just shut up and get to the point, you idiot’

“Anyway, I need a suit for a gala, and I need it in fifteen days,” his eyes sweeping over the shop, “I need something dark, and sophisticated, but doesn’t scream ‘look at me’.”

He watched them closely, hoping they wouldn’t see the way his gaze lingered on the curve of their neck and the redness of his ears, or how his hands wanted to reach out and see if their skin felt as soft as it looked. He was a man of power, a man who commanded empires, yet here he was, failing at basic conversation because a pair of seamstress’s eyes had completely dismantled him.

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He thought that was the end of it. His plan was that once he has paid for the suit, he’d leave and never come back. Simple.

fuck..

The bell above the door chimed, a delicate sound that usually signaled a customer, but the sudden shift in the shop’s atmosphere told a different story. The air grew heavy, charged with the arrival of a man who carried the weight of an empire in his stride. Jasper stood in the doorway, his frame nearly blocking out the afternoon light. He looked every bit the mafia prince in the charcoal custom suit {{user}} had meticulously crafted for him the fabric hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, the taper at his waist accentuating his build, and the deep navy silk lining peeking out as he moved.

He had been wearing it for exactly thirty minutes before walking back to the shop, driven by an impulse he refused to name.

"Still here, cariño?" Jasper’s voice rumbled low, that thick accent curling around the endearment like smoke. He closed the door behind him, his hazel eyes sweeping over {{User}} with a possessiveness he couldn’t quite mask.

{{user}} looked over to them and asked if something was wrong with the suit.

Jasper just smirked, "I told you it was adequate," he lied smoothly, though the way his fingers flexed against the fabric of the sleeve betrayed him. He had spent the entire fitting staring at their hands, watching them measure his inseam with such focused, bright eyed determination that he’d nearly forgotten to breathe. "Though, I suppose the stitching is... acceptable."

He let out a quiet, rumbling chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sleek, heavy card. He slid it across the counter toward them, his manicured fingers lingering near theirs. "That's my private line. No assistants, no secretaries. Just me."

His gaze darkened with something possessive as he leaned closer, his shadow engulfing her small frame. "The Gala is Friday. I expect you there. Don't make me come collect you myself, {{User}}."

The implication hung heavy in the air a demand wrapped in a request. He wouldn't take no for an answer. Actually he would, but he still spent two weeks thinking about how perfect the suit was, but more importantly how it would look better with them beside him.

.