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stitch by stitch

✸request: hello i really love your work. its so satisfying for some reason and i feel so peaceful whenever i read those. so i got a request and i hope thats okay. So imagine you're a fashion designing student and for your assignment you wanted a model and since you cant afford a real model you wanted to go for a uni student (the same uni). And her friends who knew that she had a crush on nicholas the captain of the sports team they encourage her to ask him. and a romance based on that? like she's so introverted and insecure of herself and him slowly healing her and without knowing she's also healing him from the loud world? Anyways its fine if you dont wanna do this one, stay healthy ☺️💗💗💗

✸synopsis: you, an introverted fashion student, convinces the campus sports captain, nicholas, to model for your final project, sparking a slow-burning romance that heals both of your hidden insecurities. through quiet moments, shared vulnerabilities, and gentle patience, you build a world together stitched with trust, tenderness, and unspoken understanding.

✸genre: one-shot, uni/college!au, fluff

✸pairing: wang yixiang x reader / nicholas x reader

✸content warnings: mutual pinning

✸wc: 6.1k

✸an: lower case intended, no use of y/n, fem!reader / this is such a great idea! thank you so much for submitting your request, i hope i did it justice! ٩(◕‿◕)۶

[now playing: you make loving fun — fleetwood mac]

m.list

─────

you should’ve known something was wrong the moment your professor smiled.

not the kind, encouraging smile he gives when someone presents a good sketch. no — the evil, assignment-dropping, career-ending kind of smile.

“your final,” he says, pacing in front of the class like a general preparing to send you into battle, “will be a complete look. garment, styling, presentation… and a live model.”

the class groans. you, specifically, feel your soul leave your body.

a live model.

as in a human. a human you have to recruit. a human you have to ask.

your stomach drops through the floor. your bank account flashes before your eyes — a barren desert with a tiny tumbleweed rolling by. there’s no way you can afford a real model. not even a cheap one. not even a volunteer who works for scraps.

you’re doomed.

the moment class ends, chae-won links her arm through yours like she’s catching a runaway criminal.

“you’re thinking dramatic thoughts,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “don’t lie. your face does that thing where it collapses.”

“it doesn’t collapse,” you mutter.

“it absolutely collapses,” she insists, steering you toward the studio. “but! i know a solution.”

you give her a flat look. “unless it involves someone magically paying my fees—”

“it involves nicholas.”

you stop dead in the hallway. chae-won turns around slowly, smiling like she just dropped the biggest bomb of the century. “why not ask him?”

you sputter. “chae-won. be serious.”

“i am serious,” she says, delighted. “you need a model. he has… you know.” she makes a vague gesture at her entire body. “body.”

you bury your face in your hands. “i can’t ask nicholas. he’s — he’s nicholas.”

the sports captain. campus darling. towering, annoyingly handsome, universally adored nicholas.

the boy you may or may not have accidentally stared at during freshman orientation. once. (maybe twice.) and then definitely avoided for the rest of your academic career.

“nope,” you say. “not happening. i’ll just — i’ll figure something else out.”

chae-won plants herself in front of you like she’s blocking the path to self-sabotage. “you have a crush on him.”

“i do not.”

she lifts her eyebrows.

“…okay, maybe a little.”

“a little?” she snorts. “you turn into a stunned goldfish whenever he breathes in your general direction.”

you groan. “this is the worst day of my life.”

“correction,” she says brightly. “this is the day you take a risk and maybe get a model and a date.”

you blink at her with a disbelieving scoff. “you think nicholas wang is going to date me?”

“i think,” she says, linking arms with you again, “that you underestimate how adorable you are and overestimate how terrifying he is.” then she adds, quietly, “but also… you need to believe you deserve help sometimes.”

that part hits a little too close, so you pretend not to hear it.

back at the studio, you stare at your sketches, fingers trembling. the ideas are solid — maybe even good. but none of it matters without a model.

and you can’t stop hearing your professor’s voice echo in your head.

a live model.

you look down at your phone. nicholas’s name sits innocently in the student directory.

chae-won watches you from across the table, arms crossed, foot tapping. “do it. text him.”

“i can’t.”

“you can.”

you take a breath. you don’t text him. instead, you close your eyes, press your palms to your warm face, and whisper, “…i’ll ask him. tomorrow.”

chae-won squeals so loudly, half the studio jumps. “yes! character development!”

you groan again — louder this time — because tomorrow suddenly feels like a death sentence.

but somewhere beneath the dread, deep in the quiet part of your chest… a tiny spark flickers. hope. terror. possibility.

and because life has a sense of humor, tomorrow is coming fast.

─────

you try every excuse in the world.

you tell chae-won you’re sick. she hands you a cough drop.

you tell her you’re too busy. she reminds you the deadline is two weeks away.

you tell her you can’t feel your legs. she grabs your wrist and starts pulling you down the hallway.

“come on,” she whines dramatically, heels clicking. “if i let you run away now, i’m failing as a friend and as a woman of romance.”

“this isn’t romance,” you hiss, stumbling after her.

“it could be,” she sings.

eventually, it’s not just her dragging you — two more friends join in. you don’t even remember agreeing to this intervention. one moment you’re in the studio, the next your entire support group has formed a physical and emotional blockade that marches you across campus toward the athletics building.

by the time you reach the double doors, your palms are sweating, your heart is tap-dancing in your throat, and your soul is halfway to the afterlife.

“i can’t do this,” you whisper.

chae-won tightens her grip on your shoulders from behind. “yes, you can. and if you try to run, i will tackle you. emotionally and physically.”

you roll your eyes, but your knees are shaking so hard, you’re grateful for her hand at your back.

the smell hits you first — gym rubber, fresh turf, the faint metallic tang of weights. it’s cool inside, echoey, too quiet. practice must be over.

you peek around the corner of the hallway that leads to the indoor field. and there he is.

nicholas.

alone.

he’s kneeling, stretching his hamstring with one hand braced on the ground. sweat dampens the ends of his hair, sticking to his forehead. his lips are parted slightly as he breathes, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. he looks… soft in a way you’ve never seen before — not the loud, adored captain everyone sees in public. more human. more tired. more real.

your breath catches.

“go,” chae-won whispers, giving you a sharp nudge.

you stumble forward and immediately want to evaporate. nicholas hears the sound of your shoe squeaking and looks up.

his eyes are warm brown, a little curious, a little surprised. he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm but doesn’t stand yet.

“oh,” he says, breath still steadying. “hey.”

you freeze. completely. like a mouse caught in the world’s gentlest spotlight.

“hi,” you squeak. god. horrible.

he stands slowly, stretching his back, rolling his shoulders. the movement is fluid, practiced — athletic. but he softens his posture when he faces you, like he’s trying not to intimidate you.

“what’s up?” he asks, grabbing his water bottle.

your mind goes blank. blank like a wiped hard drive. blank like a fresh page. blank like you’ve never spoken to another human before.

“i — uh — project,” you blurt.

he blinks. “project?”

you nod too many times. perfect. you’re malfunctioning.

“it’s for my fashion design class,” you manage. “my final project. i, um… i need a model. a real one. and i don’t— i can’t— i mean, i was wondering if — if maybe… you might consider… if you’re not too busy or—”

your voice shakes. your fingers shake. your entire body is basically a vibrating phone.

nicholas straightens a little. not taller — just more attentive.

he looks at you. really looks. not like he’s confused or amused, but like he’s trying to understand you. his eyes move from your face to your hands and back again, quietly registering the nerves you’re failing miserably to hide.

then he smiles.

not the big, confident one he gives crowds. a small one. soft. almost shy.

“okay,” he says simply. “i’ll do it.”

you stop breathing.

he takes a sip of water, like he didn’t just shatter your internal universe.

“when do you need me?” he adds.

you blink. twice. you stare at him like you’re trying to decode a foreign language.

“you’ll… do it?” you whisper.

“yeah.” he tilts his head slightly, a strand of damp hair falling over his forehead. “just tell me when to show up.”

you’re convinced you’re hallucinating. maybe you fainted. maybe this is a stress dream. maybe nicholas is actually a figment of mass campus delusion.

“are — are you sure?” you ask.

he gives a tiny laugh under his breath. “if i wasn’t, i wouldn’t have said yes.”

he throws his towel over his shoulder and gestures lightly toward the hallway. “walk with me? it’s freezing in here.”

you nod numbly. you’re pretty sure your feet move, but you feel nothing.

you walk beside him as he chats casually — asking what your project is about, what kind of pieces you’ve been making this semester, even complimenting the tote bag you customized.

you barely keep up.

by the time you reach the entrance, the others are gone — thankfully — and nicholas is pushing the door open for you.

“so,” he says, leaning slightly against the frame, “send me the details later?”

you swallow hard. “yes. i mean — yeah. i will.”

he gives you another one of those small, soft smiles. “looking forward to it.”

and he walks away.

you stand there. frozen. speechless. brain completely empty except for one overwhelming thought. there is no way that just happened.

and yet… it did.

nicholas wang agreed to model for you.

and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, your chest doesn’t feel tight. for the first time, you feel something else quietly bloom inside you. ambition.

─────

you spend the entire morning cleaning the design studio.

it doesn’t need cleaning — at least not to the degree you’re doing it — but anxiety demands ritual, and apparently today’s ritual involves rearranging fabric bolts by color, refolding muslin, and lint-rolling a mannequin.

you smooth your hair. check the time. smooth your hair again. check the time again.

he won’t come, you tell yourself. he’s busy. he’ll forget. he’ll change his mind. you’ll get a text apologizing, saying something came up —

a knock echoes through the open doorway.

you jump, nearly stabbing yourself with a pin.

nicholas stands there with one hand resting lightly on the door frame, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp like he just showered. he’s wearing a dark sweatshirt and joggers, casual but somehow cinematic.

“hey,” he says, voice soft. “am i early?”

you look at the clock. he’s exactly on time.

“no—! no, you’re perfect—i mean, it’s perfect. the timing. not you. i mean — you are — but — i —”

you want to curl into a ball and roll under the nearest sewing machine.

nicholas bites back a smile, stepping inside. “i gotcha. good timing.”

you nod so hard, your hair moves.

he drops his bag to the side and looks around the studio like he’s entering a different world — curious eyes scanning the racks, the sketches pinned to the walls, the chaos of fabric and thread.

“this is… really cool,” he says, sincere awe in his voice.

that throws you off. most people glance at your workspace and see “mess.” nicholas sees something else.

“thanks,” you murmur, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

you show him the garment — the early draft of the piece he’ll be modeling — and as you speak, you feel yourself shrinking, making yourself small out of habit.

“so, um… this is rough. like, very rough. i’m sorry it’s not — i didn’t have time to — i should’ve finished the collar —”

“hey,” nicholas interrupts gently. “you don’t have to apologize.”

you freeze. he says it casually, but his tone is warm, steady. reassuring in a way you’re not used to.

you swallow. “sorry. i —”

you stop, catching yourself. nicholas’s eyes soften.

he steps closer, but not too close — just enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“can i look?” he asks, nodding toward the garment.

you hand it over with shaking hands. he studies it seriously, not pretending to understand fashion, not faking enthusiasm — actually absorbing the details.

“you made all this?” he asks.

“yeah.”

his brow lifts. “it’s really impressive.”

your brain short-circuits again.

he shrugs a little when he sees your expression, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “i mean it.”

you turn away, pretending to fix a pin cushion just to hide how flustered you are.

as he changes into the piece behind a makeshift curtain, you try to breathe. you try to remember how measuring tape works. you try not to imagine his shoulders or his collarbones or anything at all, actually.

when he steps out wearing your garment — even half-finished — something inside you flips over.

he looks… good. strong lines softened by fabric you draped yourself. effortless. like the design was made for him.

“okay,” he says. “what do you need me to do?”

you move around him, adjusting the seams, pinning loose fabric. every time your fingers brush his arm or shoulder, you feel his breath catch just slightly. not enough to embarrass either of you — just enough to make your heart do dangerous things.

then it happens.

a sudden slam from the hallway — someone dropping a box outside.

nicholas flinches. not big, not dramatic — but noticeable. barely a twitch of his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes. like he’s so used to noise, yet worn thin by it.

you look up. he tries to cover it with a practiced smile.

“you okay?” you ask quietly.

he nods, a little too quick. “just… tired.”

you don’t push — but the way he says it lingers.

you see it now, clearer than before — the exhaustion carved into the corners of his eyes, the tightness in his posture, the heaviness beneath the charming exterior everyone loves so much.

he watches you too — really watches — when you wince after pricking your finger on a pin, when you overthink every movement, when your voice stays small even though you’re in your own workspace.

“does that hurt?” he asks when he notices the tiny bead of blood on your fingertip.

“no, it’s fine,” you whisper, wiping it away.

he frowns, not convinced.

you both return to your tasks in a quiet that feels strangely… comfortable.

every time you adjust a seam, he steadies himself so you don’t have to reach. every time you hesitate, he steps back in sync with your rhythm. every time you start to apologize, he gives a tiny shake of his head, almost imperceptible, a silent you don’t have to.

by the time the fitting ends, something has shifted — small, fragile, impossible to name. nicholas hands the garment back carefully, like it’s something delicate. something valuable.

“thanks,” he says, voice softer now. “for letting me help.”

you blink, surprised. “i should be thanking you.”

he smiles again — that small, real one — and lifts his bag. “same time next week?”

“yeah,” you breathe.

he walks toward the door, then pauses, glancing back at you. “i had a good time.”

you don’t know what to say. you barely remember how breathing works. and yet, somehow, you whisper back, “me too.”

nicholas leaves, and the studio feels different — warmer, fuller, as if something sacred just happened.

a tiny crack. a tiny opening. the beginning of something neither of you can name yet.

─────

you don’t expect him to come back.

even though he said he would. even though he’d smiled like he meant it. even though part of you — small and trembling — wants to believe him.

people don’t usually stay, not when they get a glimpse of how anxious you are, how easily spooked you become, how quickly you fold yourself into the corners of a room.

so all week, you prepare yourself for him not showing up. you rehearse excuses in your head — it’s fine, I get it, he’s busy, why would someone like him make time for someone like you?

but then the door to the studio creaks open right on time. and there he is. wearing a hoodie, hair slightly messy from the weather outside, holding two drinks — one iced, one hot — like he wasn’t sure which you’d prefer.

his eyes land on you, and his whole face softens.

“hey,” he says. “i, uh… guessed you might like something sweet?”

your heart stops.

he sets the drinks on your workstation, a little shy, like he’s not used to doing small, thoughtful things for people outside his team or friend circle.

you stare at the drinks, at him, back at the drinks.

“i… thank you,” you whisper.

“you don’t have to drink it,” he adds quickly. “i just — you seemed nervous last time, so i thought maybe — never mind.”

he’s rambling. nicholas wang is rambling.

you take the drink before he can overthink it further. “no, i… i really appreciate it.”

his shoulders relax.

the fitting starts the same as last time — him slipping behind the curtain, you pretending to reorganize markers to hide how flustered you are — but the air feels different.

he talks more now. not loudly. not performatively. just… easily.

“practice has been brutal this week,” he says as he steps out in the garment. “coach wants us ready for the championship, but honestly? i think half the team’s already halfway to burnout.”

you adjust the hem lightly, nodding. “you seem tired.”

he chuckles under his breath. “everyone seems to think that lately.”

you glance up. “are they wrong?”

he opens his mouth, then closes it. his expression shifts — defenses pulling tight, then slowly loosening again as he exhales.

“…no,” he admits. “i don’t think they are.”

it’s the first real crack. the first moment where he lets you see behind the bright, perfect captain mask.

he sits on the edge of your worktable as you pin fabric along his sleeve, fingers steadying the cloth.

“i get overwhelmed,” he says quietly. “people think i like attention. the noise. the pressure. all those cameras during games? it’s… it’s a lot.”

you pause, stunned he’s telling you any of this. most people would kill to hear their campus golden boy open up like this. but here he is, offering the truth like it’s something fragile.

you swallow. “you don’t have to pretend with me.”

he looks at you then — really looks — like the thought had never occurred to him before.

“…yeah,” he murmurs. “i’m starting to get that.”

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it’s warm. shared. steady.

as you move around him, measuring and pinning, his eyes follow you — not in a heavy, intense way, but in a gentle, attentive way. like he’s memorizing how you move, how you focus when you’re working.

but he sees your cracks too.

when you flinch at a sudden noise from the hallway. when you automatically shrink your posture after giving a suggestion. when you start to apologize for the third time before catching yourself.

“you do that a lot,” he says softly.

“do what?”

“disappear,” he says, almost whispering. “like you’re scared to take space.”

you freeze. his voice is gentle, not accusing. not judging. just… noticing.

you clear your throat nervously. “i’m not— i just don’t want to be annoying.”

nicholas shakes his head slowly. “you’re not annoying.”

his tone is firm. certain. like he means every word and then some.

“you’re not invisible either,” he adds. and it hits you deeper than you expect.

you focus on the stitches, trying to hide the warm sting in your eyes.

he doesn't push. he simply waits — present, patient — in a way that makes your chest ache. when the fitting ends, nicholas changes and comes back out holding the garment gently in his arms. he sets it on the mannequin, then turns to you with a small, sincere smile.

“i like being here,” he says. “it’s… quiet. in a good way.”

your breath catches. “you don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

“i’m not,” he answers immediately. “i meant it.”

you can tell. you feel it.

he picks up his bag, slinging it over one shoulder.

“next week?” he asks.

“yeah,” you whisper in confirmation.

he steps toward the door, then pauses — hand resting lightly on the frame.

“and…” he hesitates, eyes flicking to yours. “thanks for listening today.”

you nod sincerely. “anytime.”

he gives a faint, relieved smile and slips out.

the door closes. and for a long moment, you stand alone in the studio, heart fluttering, breath soft, a warmth settling into your chest like someone finally opened a window in a stuffy room.

you didn’t just see his cracks today. he saw yours, too.

and he didn’t look away.

─────

it starts slowly — a few curious looks when nicholas walks into the fashion building again, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from practice.

but then people start talking.

by the end of the week, you can feel the whispers chasing you down the hallway.

“why is he going there so much?”

“is he dating someone from design?”

“her? no way, right?”

you pretend not to hear, but your skin prickles every time. your chest tightens. you duck your head lower and lower, shoulders curling in like you’re trying to disappear into yourself.

nicholas has no idea.

or maybe he does — but he keeps showing up anyway.

he brings iced coffees. a snack the next time. then nothing at all, just himself, laughing softly as he pushes open the studio doors like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and every time he walks in, the whispers get louder.

until you can’t take it.

you start leaving earlier. slipping out back doors. taking different routes across campus. anything to avoid being seen walking with him or even near him.

you think you’re doing a good job.

you’re wrong.

it happens on a thursday — a dull, heavy afternoon where your head feels too full, and your heart feels too small. you’re hurrying down a side hallway when a warm hand catches your sleeve.

you freeze.

nicholas steps into your path, breath soft, eyes steady. not angry. not confused. just… gentle. so gentle it almost hurts.

“hey,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me.”

your throat locks. you look at your shoes. “n-no, i just— i’ve been busy—”

“don’t lie to me,” he says, but there’s no edge to it. only concern. “did someone say something?”

your breath stutters. your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “i… people are talking. a lot. and i don’t want to make trouble for you or — or look stupid or — embarrass you.”

nicholas goes still. then he takes a slow step closer.

“if i didn’t want to be here,” he says quietly, “i wouldn’t be.”

your breath catches.

he tilts his head, trying to meet your eyes as gently as possible. “you’re not chasing me. you’re not embarrassing me. you’re not… anything they’re saying.”

“but the rumors—”

“they don’t matter to me.” his voice drops further, almost a whisper. “you do.”

your chest squeezes so tight it’s almost painful.

he lifts a hand — stops before touching you, waiting for permission — and when you don’t pull away, he brushes his thumb lightly along your sleeve where he caught you earlier.

“don’t let them chase you from me,” he murmurs. “please.”

you inhale shakily. the hallway feels too small, too warm. his closeness feels like a confession he hasn’t fully said yet.

“i wasn’t trying to,” you whisper.

“i know.” his smile is soft, relieved. “just… don’t disappear on me again.”

and when he lets your sleeve go, your skin feels strangely cold — like you didn’t realize how warm his hand was until it wasn’t there anymore.

─────

the next fitting feels different.

maybe it’s because the whispers got quieter after nicholas started walking beside you again — unbothered, steady, solid in a way you still can’t fathom. maybe it’s because he smiles when he sees you, slow and warm and real.

or maybe it’s because you have changed, just a little.

the studio is quiet, the afternoon light slanting gold across his shoulders as he steps onto the platform. he lifts his arms without being asked, already relaxed in the space that once made him tense.

you try to breathe normally.

you fail.

you’re working on the mock-up jacket today — crisp muslin, pinned at the seams, delicate enough to tear if handled wrong. he holds still, watching you with that focused softness he seems to reserve only for you.

you reach for the collar, and your fingers graze his collarbone. it’s barely a touch — barely anything — but his breath breaks in the middle, a soft inhale he tries to disguise.

you pretend not to notice. you absolutely notice.

you adjust the seam carefully, eyes fixed on the fabric because looking at him feels too dangerous. too intimate.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. but the air between you tightens, charged with something warm and fragile.

“turn a little,” you murmur.

he does, moving slowly, deliberately. like he’s afraid any sudden motion will startle you.

you step around him, smoothing the fabric down his back. the muscles between his shoulders shift as he exhales — a sound that almost feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding too long.

“you’re good at this,” he says softly.

you swallow. “it’s just a fitting.”

“it’s not,” he replies. “not when it’s you.”

your heart stumbles. you don’t know what to say, so you focus on adjusting the last seam. but the space feels smaller, your pulse loud enough you’re sure he must hear it.

when you circle back in front of him, he’s watching you. not staring. studying. like he’s trying to memorize the way your hands move, the way your hair falls, the way you avoid his gaze like it’s both a shield and a confession.

your fingers brush his wrist, a tiny accidental touch. this time, he doesn’t hide the reaction — a quiet, sharp inhale before he goes still again.

you drop your hand quickly. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he murmurs. and the softness in his voice nearly undoes you.

you step back, needing space you suddenly can’t find, and start scribbling notes in your sketchbook. you can feel him watching you — not intrusive, not heavy, just attentive. present.

you think the moment is over.

it isn’t.

as he steps down from the platform, he says your name. just your name. soft. careful. like he’s holding it gently in his mouth.

you look up instinctively — and the look he gives you is so quietly intense your breath catches.

it’s not a confession. not yet. but it’s something. something warm. something real.

“see you next time,” he murmurs.

when he leaves, the room feels colder.

that night, when you lie in bed, replaying every second, one thing echoes louder than anything else — your name. the way he said it.

the way it felt.

─────

you don’t hear him at first.

you feel him — the slam of the studio door against the wall, the sharp crack of wood hitting plaster, the sudden rush of heat into the quiet room.

you jump, heart jolting.

nicholas stands in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. his jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. his hair is a mess, half stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides.

you’ve never seen him like this. not confident. not composed. not steady. just… unraveling.

he doesn’t look at you. he looks at the floor, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together.

“nicholas?” you say softly.

he flinches. not from your voice — from everything else.

he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping abruptly like he can’t trust his own legs.

you don’t approach. not yet. you’ve seen animals in pain — the way they lash out when cornered, not out of malice but fear.

instead, you sit on your stool, slowly, gently, letting the silence settle around you both.

he notices.

and for the first time since he burst in, he breathes. not fully and not calmly. but enough.

he sinks down onto the low platform you use for fittings, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. his body is coiled tight, every muscle strained, like he’s holding back something explosive.

you wait.

minutes stretch out, soft and thin.

finally, he speaks — his voice hoarse, scraped raw.

“they just—” he stops, shakes his head. “they don’t listen. they don’t shut up. everyone wants something from me. all the time. and if i’m not perfect, if i’m not holding everything together, then i’m—”

he cuts himself off again.

you still don’t move closer. you just sit there, breathing quietly, letting him find his way through the storm.

a long silence fills the room. then, in a small, breaking voice, “i didn’t know where else to go.”

the words hit you like a physical thing. he lifts his head slightly, eyes red at the corners, breaths uneven.

“this is the only place that feels safe,” he murmurs. “here. with you.”

your own breath shakes. because he’s not looking at the room. he’s looking at you. not like you’re fragile. not like you’re someone he has to protect. but, like you’re the only calm in a world that constantly demands he be unbreakable.

you swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “you can stay here as long as you need.”

his shoulders drop — not fully relaxed, but less painfully tight. relief cracks through his expression, softening the sharp edges. he closes his eyes and just… breathes for a while.

slowly, carefully, like each inhale is stitching him back together.

and you realize something you hadn’t before — while he’s been softening your insecurities, holding space for your quietness, steadying your shaking hands…

you’ve been healing him, too.

healing the boy who never gets to fall apart. who never gets silence. who never gets softness back.

you sit there with him, no words, no pressure — just presence. and for the first time in a long time, nicholas looks like he can finally exhale.

─────

the closeness between you and nicholas lingers long after the fittings end. it settles like a weight in your chest, a warmth you don’t know how to handle. every glance, every small touch, every quiet word echoes louder than it should.

and it shakes you.

you start questioning everything. maybe you’re imagining more than there is. maybe you’re reading into the smallest gestures and inventing meaning where there is none. maybe he’s just being polite.

so you pull away.

you skip a fitting here and there. you take different routes across campus again. you avoid the studio when he’s likely to be there. you become a shadow in your own routine, retreating into safety that now feels strangely lonely.

nicholas doesn’t push.

he doesn’t demand explanations or corner you with questions. he respects the space you suddenly need. but he doesn’t abandon you either.

small gestures start to appear. a sticky note left on your workspace with a simple note.

“hope your day goes well.”

a packet of your favorite snacks, anonymously delivered while you’re distracted in class. and sometimes, quietly, he arrives early — just to sit in the studio, not saying anything, just being there.

it’s subtle. barely noticeable if you’re not paying attention. but you notice.

and slowly, you begin to realize something.

his patience isn’t passive. it’s a hand extended toward you, waiting for you to reach out in your own time. waiting for you to trust that you’re allowed to take up space, that you’re allowed to want his presence, that you’re allowed to feel safe with him.

for the first time in a long while, you feel the possibility of leaning in. not because someone told you to. not because it’s expected. but because he’s letting you choose it. and the choice feels like permission you’ve been craving without knowing it.

─────

the day of your presentation arrives faster than you’re ready for.

the studio is buzzing with energy, models adjusting their outfits, classmates fussing over last-minute details, instructors murmuring critiques to one another. your stomach twists into a tight knot as you glance at your own piece, now complete, now real, now something that has to exist in the world outside your hands.

and then you see him.

nicholas steps onto the runway, and something inside you unclenches just a little. he moves with that same effortless confidence he always carries, but there’s something different — something proud, something steady. he wears your creation like it was made for him. he smiles softly at the audience once, but it’s for you, and the weight of it lands warm in your chest.

you bite your lip, heart hammering, hands gripping your notebook like a lifeline. every step he takes is measured, deliberate, but effortless. you see the way he looks ahead, and the way he carries himself makes your pulse spike in a way you hadn’t expected.

the applause comes, rolling over you in waves, and the world suddenly feels both too loud and impossibly still.

after the show, you’re backstage, trying to calm the storm of nerves that has been building all morning. you’re pacing, tugging at your hair, trying to breathe, when he finds you.

nicholas doesn’t say a word at first. he simply reaches for your hand and guides you out of the crowd, away from the chaos. you follow, heart racing, until you’re in a narrow hallway — quiet, dim, and entirely yours.

he stops and lets go of your hand, but his presence fills the space. his eyes never leave yours, steady and soft and unyielding. for the first time today, the world outside doesn’t exist. there’s no applause, no whispers, no chaos — just the two of you, the aftertaste of adrenaline, and the small, fragile bubble you’ve somehow found in the middle of everything.

you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you know without words that he’s proud. not just of your work. not just of the show. but of you.

and somehow, that makes everything feel… possible.

the hallway feels impossibly small, impossibly still, the chaos of the fashion show fading behind the walls.

nicholas takes a careful step closer, eyes locked on yours, and for the first time, the weight of all the moments between you — the fittings, the quiet gestures, the whispered words — hangs fully in the air.

“you see me,” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering. “not the stupid captain, not the noise — me.”

your chest tightens. you’ve feared this — feared that what you feel isn’t real, that someone like him could never truly choose someone like you. but here he is, saying it. not in jest, not out of politeness, not as a favor. he’s saying it because he means it.

you swallow hard, voice trembling. “i… i’m scared. i don’t… i don’t know if i’m—worthy of—”

he interrupts with a quiet laugh, warm and tender. “i don’t want someone like you,” he says, stepping even closer, so near that you can see the faintest glint in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw. “i want you.”

every word lands like a pulse in your chest. the air between you hums with heat and anticipation.

then he leans in. slowly. carefully. his lips brush yours in a kiss that feels deliberate, like he’s asking permission with every breath, testing the space you’ve both built, making sure it’s safe.

your knees go weak. your hands lift on instinct, resting lightly against his chest. you kiss him back, and in that instant, all the fear, all the doubt, all the quiet yearning that’s been building melts into warmth.

you lean into him fully — finally allowing yourself to accept the comfort, the protection, the tenderness he’s been offering all along.

and for the first time, the world feels impossibly wide and impossibly still, all at once.

because here, in this quiet hallway, in the soft press of his lips against yours, you realize — you’ve been found. and so has he.

─────

months pass.

you notice the subtle changes in yourself first. the way you move through the studio now — confident, deliberate, unapologetic. fingers that once trembled over pins now handle fabric with quiet authority. your designs are bolder, more daring, full of the little flourishes that used to make you second-guess yourself.

nicholas changes too, in ways small but undeniable. he’s calmer, less brittle around the edges. the weight of expectations doesn’t disappear, but he carries it differently now, grounded in the quiet corners you share. you watch him laugh more freely, pause more often, and notice the little details of the world without rushing past them.

together, you have built something delicate and strong. a world stitched from quiet moments — notes left on worktables, soft smiles across the studio, hands brushing accidentally, slowly, deliberately, until neither of you can imagine letting go.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not loud. it’s ordinary in the most extraordinary way.

your world is yours.

and it is stitched slowly, gently, intentionally — thread by thread, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath. you realize that this — this quiet, imperfect, steady, soft world — is exactly what you’ve been waiting for all along.

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