Tailored to Fit Her

Chapter 1- clean lines

Devon didn’t just wear suits—she built them.

Every stitch, every fold, every sharp shoulder and tapered seam came from her own hands. In her tucked-away studio, far from the drone of fast fashion, she created custom pieces for people who wanted to feel powerful. For those who didn’t see themselves on department store mannequins. For queers, trans folks, nonbinary professionals—anyone who wanted to be seen on their terms.

She understood that instinct better than most.

Tonight, though, she wasn’t at the workbench. She was at a gallery launch in Midtown, sipping sparkling water she didn’t ask for, tolerating polite conversation she didn’t start, and adjusting her vest one too many times.

It wasn’t tight.

She just hated standing still.

And she especially hated feeling watched.

Which is exactly how she felt the moment Rhea locked eyes with her from across the room.

She came in wearing color.

Peach silk, soft curls, lipstick that matched the wine she carried like an afterthought. She didn’t scan the room—she floated through it. Like nothing could touch her. Like she belonged in the frame of some old European painting with a fan in one hand and a secret in the other.

Devon looked away.

Too late.

Rhea saw her. Smiled.

And walked over like it wasn’t even a question.

“You look like you hate it here,” Rhea said, voice warm but curious.

Devon glanced sideways. “I don’t like crowds.”

“Or people?”

Devon shrugged. “Depends on the person.”

Rhea’s smile widened. “And what’s your verdict so far?”

Devon took a sip of her water instead of answering.

“I’m Rhea,” she said, extending her hand.

Devon looked at it for a beat longer than was polite before finally shaking it. “Devon.”

“Devon,” Rhea repeated, rolling the name once, like trying it on. “Strong name. Tailored, even.”

Devon raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the kind of person who cuts away anything that doesn’t fit.”

Devon blinked. “You always walk up to strangers and start reading them like fortune cookies?”

“Only the ones in bulletproof vests.”

Devon chuckled. It slipped out before she could stop it.

Rhea tilted her head. “So? What do you do?”

Devon hesitated.

Then: “I tailor suits.”

“Of course you do,” Rhea said, delighted.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re the most put-together person in the room, and I bet you spend all day helping other people feel powerful while pretending you don’t need anything yourself.”

Devon stiffened slightly. “What do you do?”

“I run a wellness consultancy,” Rhea replied, casually sipping her wine. “Mostly soft things. Food, rest, boundaries.”

Devon smirked. “Sounds like something people pay for when they want to feel coddled.”

Rhea didn’t blink. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m not into all that gentle living stuff.”

“I figured,” Rhea said. “But I also think people like you don’t realize how much you need it until someone gives it to you.”

Devon’s throat tightened.


Devon had planned to leave.

The gallery opening wasn’t her thing—too many people pretending to be casual in shoes that cost more than her sewing machine. She’d made her rounds, nodded to the artist who’d invited her, and even suffered through a miniature quiche. She was halfway to the door when she heard that voice again.

“You never loosened the tie.”

Devon turned, unsurprised to see Rhea leaning against a pillar, wine in hand, looking like she belonged there more than any of the art.

“I like the tie,” Devon said. “It keeps people from talking to me.”

Rhea smiled. “Then it’s failing spectacularly.”

Devon almost smiled. Almost. “You following me?”

“No,” Rhea said, pushing off the pillar. “Just good at finding people worth talking to.”

She strolled beside Devon, glancing briefly at the gallery walls before looking back at her. “So. You’re the tailor?”

Devon raised an eyebrow. “You’re asking now?”

“I was confirming. I googled you after you walked away.”

Devon exhaled a laugh, short and surprised. “You don’t waste time.”

“I’m efficient,” Rhea said. “And curious.”

They paused near a large installation made of twisted metal and silk. Rhea gestured toward it. “What do you think it means?”

Devon didn’t even look. “Probably ‘capitalism is a disease’ and also ‘my dad didn’t hug me.’”

Rhea laughed. It was low and warm, and Devon felt it in her chest like pressure. For a second, neither of them spoke. Then Rhea tilted her head, measuring her.

“You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.”

“You work with your hands. You don’t like sitting still. Your suit fits so well it makes other people self-conscious. And you don’t date often.”

Devon blinked. “That last one was a guess.”

“It was a good one,” Rhea said, smiling. “I’m intuitive.”

Devon shifted, uncomfortable now. “Listen, you’re… charming, and kind of intense, and very not my usual type.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t really—” Devon hesitated. “I don’t do quick flings.”

Rhea nodded. “Neither do I.”

Devon studied her. “So what’s this?”

Rhea reached into her small clutch and pulled out a card. Sleek. Matte. Elegant.

“You said you’re a tailor. Consider this a consult request.”

She handed it to Devon, along with a folded scrap of paper.

“My number’s on the back. So is the time I’m free next week.”

Devon took it, fingers brushing hers.

“You want me to measure you?”

Rhea smiled with one shoulder.

“I want to see what you do when someone lets you take your time.”

Then she turned.

And walked away.

Devon stood there a long moment, staring at the card in her hand.

Then—like a reflex—she loosened her tie.