He stood and slipped it on. It fit like it had been made for him. Because it had.
He looked at himself in the cracked mirror, then at me in the reflection.
“Well?” he asked.
“It’s good,” I said, and my voice was soft. “You look —”
“Don’t say dangerous,” he said, half-smiling.
“Handsome,” I said. “You look handsome, Noah Moretti.”
He turned to me. He was so close the wool brushed my dress.
“Elena,” he said, and he lifted his hand, hesitated, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered. “Can I —”
I answered by stepping closer, onto the fitting platform, so we were eye to eye. The measuring tape was still on the table where I’d left it. The pins were in their cushion. The envelope of money was still there, untouched.
“Yes,” I said, and this time I meant it differently than before.
He leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to change my mind, and kissed me.
It was gentle at first, careful, a question. His hand cupped my cheek, his thumb stroking my jaw. I rose on my toes and pressed closer, my hands finding his lapels, the new suit warm from his body. The kiss deepened, and I tasted rain and espresso and something that was only him, and the bell above the door never jingled because no one else was coming.
When we parted, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine. His hands were on my waist, holding me steady on the platform.
“Not yet,” he whispered against my lips, teasing, remembering.
I laughed, breathless, and wrapped my arms around his neck. The shop was quiet and warm and ours.
“Not anymore,” I whispered back.
Outside, Fourth Street glistened under the streetlights, empty and clean after the rain. Inside, the lamp glowed amber over bolts of wool and spools of thread, over two people standing on a worn fitting platform, holding each other like they’d finally, after a lifetime of waiting, come home.
And in the morning, when the deed arrived and my father hung it on the wall beside my mother’s photograph, Noah was already there, sleeves rolled up, learning how to thread a needle under my hands, his gold lighter cold and forgotten in his pocket, his eyes never leaving mine.
