They went on a Thursday.

  Michael chose the time carefully—late afternoon, after the lunch rush had faded and before the town began to fill again. Not because he feared being seen with her, but because crowds made Willow fold inward, her shoulders tightening as though bracing for something unseen.

  He noticed those things.

  The shop sat just off the harbour road, its windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. Dresses hung like quiet promises, fabrics in soft rows of colour and shadow. Willow paused at the threshold, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

  “We don’t have to do this now,” Michael said gently.

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I want to.”

  That mattered to him. He nodded once and held the door.

  Inside, the air smelled faintly of linen and perfume. A woman greeted them with a professional smile, her eyes flicking—briefly, politely—between them.

  “We’re just looking,” Michael said. “Getting an idea.”

  The woman nodded and drifted away, giving them space.

  Willow moved slowly, fingertips grazing fabrics as though they might bite. She lingered on darker colours, blues and blacks, textures with weight. Michael watched without staring, leaning against a rack with his hands in his pockets, giving her room.

  She stopped in front of a mirror eventually, holding a dress up to herself and frowning.

  “I don’t know if this would work,” she murmured.

  He tilted his head, considering—not her body, but how she stood, how the fabric fell against her. “It might,” he said. “But we don’t have to guess.”

  She looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  He hesitated, then spoke carefully. “If you’re comfortable… we could get your measurements. Just so we know what we’re working with.”

  Her face warmed instantly. “You want to… know my measurements?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Only for this,” he said quickly. “And only if you want. I can give you mine too. Fair’s fair.”

  She laughed despite herself. “You’re very serious about fairness.”

  “I try to be,” he replied.

  They asked for a private fitting room. The assistant returned with a tape measure and a clipboard, her movements efficient, unintrusive. Michael stepped back, turning slightly away, eyes fixed on the far wall.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Willow said softly.

  “I know,” he replied. “But I want to.”

  The assistant worked quickly, calling out numbers as she went.

  Bust: 38 inches.

  Waist: 25 inches.

  Hips: 35 inches.

  Willow stared determinedly at the floor, mortified in a way that felt both childish and intimate.

  When it was done, the assistant smiled and left them alone again.

  Willow crossed her arms. “You’re not allowed to remember those.”

  Michael raised an eyebrow. “Too late.”

  She groaned. “I can’t believe you know that now.”

  He smiled, then surprised her by saying, “My turn.”

  “What?”

  “Waist: thirty-two,” he said calmly. “Suit: forty-two regular. Shoes: eleven.”

  She blinked. “You just… have those ready?”

  “I live in kitchens,” he replied. “We measure everything.”

  She laughed again, the tension dissolving.

  They wandered on, lighter now. That was when Willow spotted the jacket.

  Black. Soft leather. Structured but forgiving.

  “I want to try that,” she said.

  “Go for it.”

  She slipped it on, turning toward the mirror. It fit—almost. As she zipped it up, the leather caught beneath her chest, tugging awkwardly and stopping short.

  She froze.

  Michael looked away immediately. Too quickly. As though the movement had been instinct, not choice.

  Willow saw it anyway.

  She glanced at his ears—red, unmistakably so—and felt something warm bloom in her chest.

  “Well,” she said lightly, tugging at the zipper. “Sometimes double Ds just get in the way.”

  His blush deepened, creeping down his neck.

  “I—what?” he said, clearly not understanding a word she’d just said.

  She grinned. “Nothing.”

  She unzipped the jacket and handed it back, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

  He took it carefully, clearing his throat. “It looks… good on you.”

  “I know,” she replied. And then, softer, “Thank you.”

  They left the shop with nothing in hand but something unspoken between them—an ease that hadn’t been there before. Trust, folding into flirtation without fear.

  Outside, the sky had begun to darken, the sea reflecting a deeper blue.

  Michael held the door for her again.

  She stepped through, smiling.

  Neither of them knew that the measurements taken that day would become something else entirely.

  Willow’s Diary

  I didn’t feel watched.

  I felt seen.

  There’s a difference, and I don’t think I understood it until today.

  He looks away when he should. And stays when it matters.

  Poem — In Inches and Silence

  He learned my shape

  without taking it.

  Numbers spoken aloud,

  hands that never lingered.

  If this is desire,

  it is kind.

  And if this is trust—

  I am already standing inside it.