This is an older story that I've built up and rewritten from first word to last.
Chapter One: Butch Blooms
The late afternoon sun reflected off the glass storefronts of the Mission with a glare that made Sam squint. He looked at the sign above the door: Butch Blooms. He wiped his palms on the thighs of his Carhartts, letting out a low, preemptive grumble.
Sam had never even heard of this place until Max got it in his head that it was where he wanted to buy his suit for the big day.
Sam assumed they’d go to a big department store—somewhere with fluorescent lights and a clerk who didn't look at you twice. But Max was set on this "boutique" shop, as he called it. Even the word "boutique" felt expensive, rolling around in Sam’s mouth like something he didn’t want and couldn’t afford.
But he could hardly say no now, not after all his urging and cajoling of Max had finally paid off.
He’d even checked the place out with a smartly dressed gay couple he was doing some fine carpentry for—two guys in a restored Victorian who were well-traveled and had jackets that looked like they cost more than Sam’s entire wardrobe.
"Oh, Butch Blooms is fantastic, Sam," the taller one had said, running a finger over a dovetail joint Sam had just finished. "It’ll set you back—but for the fit? It’s worth it."
That had made Sam wince. He knew what he was charging them for custom walnut built-ins, and if they thought a place would "set you back," he was walking into a financial ambush. In the end, he had to admit he made enough money from customers like them that he could afford to splurge, and Max wanted it.
The transition into the storefront was physical. The roar of San Francisco traffic vanished, replaced by a sudden, pristine quiet that was almost eerie to Sam. The lighting was soft and perfectly calibrated to the shop's dark fabrics, which only made Sam scream out of place. The pumpkin-colored canvas of his work pants was broken, but still thick enough to hold the stubborn dust of a work site. His henley felt too faded, too snug, his belly too middle-aged.
The shop was nearly empty, but for two figures. One Sam took to be a salesman—slim, draped in a slate suit, standing behind a small, freestanding mahogany station.
The man’s hair was swept back and glossy, no doubt held by some fancy, expensive product. His beard was trimmed with a precision that made Sam think of a finishing plane. He looked up at Sam, the subtlest of nods—a little tic of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips—and then looked back down to his work.
The other man had his back to the door, focused intently on a display case of cufflinks. Sam would know that posture anywhere. Even in those big jeans Max insisted were the style now, Sam could trace the youthful build, the slim hips, and that mess of dark, curly hair.
Sam walked up and gave him a two-handed clap on the ass. "Hey there."
Max jumped, spinning around. "There you are. You're late."
"Sorry, buddy. Got held up at the shop," Sam said. He pulled Max into a quick hug, instinctively leaning down to smell the top of the younger man's head—God, how he loved that smell.
"Quit it," Max hissed, squirming out of Sam’s arms.
Sam chuckled affectionately, reaching out to straighten the shirt Max had worn for trying on suits. "Just saying hello. Your collar's a little messed up."
Max shrugged his touch away, but not before the salesman’s eyes flicked to the couple, the younger man chastising the older. "Stop that. Seriously, they’re just about to close."
Sam stepped back and sighed. He remembered how they used to walk together holding hands, and now he could barely touch him in public without Max squirming away. Sam absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over the gold band on his ring finger—the partner to the one Max wore, cast from the same metal.
Relationships change, he told himself. It just seemed the changes were coming faster for Max than for Sam these days.
"Well, if they're closing, we can just postpone the whole suit," Sam offered, genuinely not minding the idea. If they left now, he might still have time to maneuver Max into a cheaper option somewhere else.
But the salesman had already stepped smoothly out of the deeper shadows of the shop, approaching them. He extended a creamy cardstock business card. Sam glanced down, his eyes catching the crisp calligraphy: Jakob.
"I'm Jakob," the man said. Up close, Sam could see his hair was a dark auburn, and that the dark slate of his suit was actually shot through with a faint, rich plum thread. It was anchored perfectly by a textured, dark plum tie pulled flush to his collar. A crisp, white linen square peeked from his breast pocket. His jaw was angular, his amber eyes clever and watchful—like a fox.
Max jumped right in, talking shop and firing off questions. Max didn't really know any more about suits than Sam did, but he liked the finer things. It had always been a source of friction between them—Max's champagne tastes and Sam’s beer-bottle budget, as Sam described it. Sometimes Sam won those arguments, and sometimes he gave in. Looking at the eager light in Max's eyes, Sam knew this would be one of the give-ins.
Sam watched the two younger men speaking the same language that he struggled to understand. They were so much more put together than he was at that age. Sam had spent his twenties thinking a fitted tee and a pair of jeans were all the fashion you needed. You didn't live in San Francisco as long as he had without realizing the perks of having a build like his shown off that way. It opened doors all on its own. He’d never owned a suit. He’d tied a tie maybe twice in his life, and both times it had felt like a leash.
"Look, Jakob," Sam interrupted gently. "Sorry we got here late. We can come back."
Jakob stopped. His eyes dropped from Sam’s face, taking in the snug henley, the full chest and scuffed boots, sizing him up with a slow, calculating gaze.
"Nonsense. There’s no time like the present," he said smoothly. He turned to the door, flipped the open sign to closed—the lettering painted in an elegant but masculine script—and the lock clicked. "The place is ours."
Max turned on Sam, triumphant. "See? You're not getting out of this." Max gave Sam's faded, sawdust-dusted clothes a slow, distinctly unimpressed once-over. "Maybe if you actually dressed better yourself—."
Sam shot Max a silencing look, his eyes pleading: Don't embarrass me in front of a stranger.
Sam stepped back, putting some distance between himself and the unfamiliar jargon of Italian wools and lapels. He was entirely out of his element, but there had to be some organizing principle, a code he could crack.
He looked at the racks. They weren't sorted by patterns or colors. Some suits looked finished, complete, while others had visible white threads basting the lapels, as if they were in process. That suggested custom work, and in his business, the more custom the job, the higher the price tag. He'd be sure to steer Max away from those.
He selected a basic navy suit from a nearby rack. That looked simple enough. He flipped over the handwritten amount on the price tag dangling from the sleeve and felt a sudden, cold sweat break out across his neck.
Jesus fuck. That was a down payment on a truck.
His hand flew up to wipe the sudden moisture at his hairline with his rough palm. He forced himself to nod, bunching his chin, projecting an air of Not bad, about what I expected. He backed away quickly, half afraid he’d have to pay a fee just for touching the wool, and turned his attention back to Jakob. His eyes trailed down the salesman's slate trousers, suddenly realizing the man wore no visible socks. Bare skin showed in the break between his hem and his leather shoes.
Sam had to suppress a groan. Is that a thing? he wondered. At these prices, they ought to at least throw in socks—cover your bare skin and the faint hairs. Max, what did you get us into?
But then Sam looked back up at the suit itself, studying how perfectly it flattered Jakob's build. Slim but athletic. The suit didn’t advertise the body beneath it—it flattered it. That took some real restraint, something Sam could appreciate. And then there was the fine, subtle pattern of the weave. The checks, the way they locked together, resembled an ashlar pattern he’d always admired in masonry—something he thought he might use himself on a high-end job for the right customer.
Sam relaxed a fraction. High-waters or not, this Jakob looked like he knew what he was doing. But as the quiet of the locked shop settled over him, Sam found himself looking back down. It felt like he was seeing something intimate, though they were only ankles.
Chapter Two: Forty Regular
Sam watched Max’s eyes roaming the expensive wools. He knew he needed to intervene before he had to pay for Max buying half the store.
"Son, we're looking for a suit for my partner here," Sam said, pitching his voice a little deeper. Calling Jakob "son" was a tactical move, an attempt to grab some high ground in a room where he felt entirely outflanked.
Max didn't even notice the maneuver. He was already distracted, his attention caught by another rack of charcoal and navy wool along the far wall.
Jakob didn't flinch at the condescension. His amber eyes shifted from Sam to Max with a polite warmth.
"Of course. And are we thinking ready-to-wear, made-to-measure, or bespoke?"
Both Sam and Max were caught flat-footed. Max paused, his hand hovering over a lapel, while Sam just stared. Sensing the sudden vacuum in the room, Jakob deftly rode to the rescue.
"Forgive me, it's just jargon. Ready-to-wear is exactly what it sounds like—suits cut to standard sizes that we tailor to finish. Made-to-measure uses a base pattern but is adjusted to your specific proportions before cutting. Bespoke is built from the ground up, entirely from scratch."
"Ready-to-wear," Sam seized on it immediately, recognizing the safety of a standard. “That one.”
"What about—bespoke?" Max asked, turning back, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of something custom.
Sam felt a familiar groan building. He knew an upsell when he saw one. He was a fine carpenter, after all; he'd pitched his fair share of premium walnut built-ins and intricate joinery to homeowners with deep pockets. He liked pitching them a hell of a lot more than being on the receiving end.
But Jakob surprised him. He stepped toward Max, his gaze sweeping over the younger man's frame with professional approval.
"Bespoke is a wonderful indulgence, but honestly? It would be wasted on you. You're very symmetrical. A ready-to-wear garment will drape beautifully on you with only minor alterations."
Sam felt a sudden wave of relief at the dodged expense—but right on its heels came a hot, gnawing flicker of irritation at the way Jakob flattered Max.
He caught himself immediately. Don't be an idiot, he scolded his own reflection in a nearby mirror.
He could hardly resent Max getting flattered for his looks. Max was gorgeous. That people recognized it reflected well on Sam, after all.
And it wasn't as if Sam hadn't made the absolute most of that exact kind of attention when he was Max's age.
He could almost laugh, remembering hitching his way out of Georgia to San Francisco at nineteen, standing on the shoulder of the highway in a midriff shirt and frayed jeans, letting his six-pack and the cut of his Adonis belt do the thumbing for him.
Later, when he started his carpentry business, he knew exactly what he was doing when he wore muscle shirts in the summer, or let his tool belt drag his work pants low enough to show his gay clients a tantalizing hint of pubic hair. It had paid for his first truck in tips and referrals alone.
He was still beefy now—heavy pecs, dense shoulders, and biceps with considerably more heft than his hitchhiking days—but gravity and time were collecting their dues. His belly had a distinct, middle-aged curve to it. The blond hair he still kept was coarse and flyaway, refusing to look styled no matter what he did.
Still, he had some good years left. So what if Max was getting his day in the sun?
Of all Max's admirers, Sam was first in line. He’d fallen for Max on sight. Max was the one who had finally taught him how to really love. He couldn't begrudge anyone else adoring Max, because he knew damn well how easy it was to do.
"Forty regular?" Jakob's voice cut through his reverie.
"I just turned forty-one," Sam replied automatically.
He realized his mistake the second the words left his mouth. Max rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but Jakob smoothly absorbed the blunder, completely sparing Sam the embarrassment.
"A very good year," Jakob murmured tactfully. "And as it happens, forty is exactly the chest measurement I'd estimate for your partner here, making him a forty regular in a jacket."
He let his gaze drift slowly over Sam's frame. "Though I'd peg you for a forty-eight, to accommodate that build."
Sam was entirely caught off guard by the sudden focus of the man's attention. His thumb found his gold ring and rubbed it like a worry stone.
"Given your youth and build," Jakob continued, turning to Max, "we could look at a separate sportscoat and slacks? Have some fun?"
Naturally, Max perked up at “fun”—but Sam intervened.
"No," he declared, his voice louder than he intended. "This is the big day. I've waited a long time for this, and I want him in something… suitable. A real suit."
Jakob nodded in understanding, abandoning the sportscoat idea immediately. "A full suit, then. The most important thing is getting the shoulders right. The shoulder is the architecture of the coat. We can send it out to the master tailor for the rest of the alterations, but if the shoulder doesn't fit, nothing else will matter."
Max looked alarmed, his amateur status suddenly showing. "Send it out? I can't just buy it and take it today?"
"We have to send it out to our tailor to be finished," Jakob explained patiently. "But I can take all your measurements and pin it up for you today. When is the big day?"
"June twentieth," Sam provided.
"Ah. Plenty of time," Jakob assured them. He stepped up behind Max and rested his hands lightly on the younger man's deltoids, pressing his thumbs into the joints. A suit size was dictated by the chest, but it hung entirely on the frame. "Yes. A forty."
Max stepped out of Jakob's grip and gravitated toward a forward-facing display rack. His hands landed on a striking, highly contrasted suit with an oversized houndstooth pattern.
"What about this?" Max asked, holding the sleeve up to his chest. "It's cool."
Jakob walked over, his expression thoughtful. He looked at the bold pattern, then up at Max's thick dark curls and striking features.
"An exaggerated houndstooth," Jakob murmured, his tone appreciative. "It is incredibly bold. And you would look absolutely stunning in it."
Max shot Sam a triumphant, see-I-told-you grin.
"However," Jakob continued smoothly, reaching out to gently take the hanger from Max's hand. "A pattern that loud is a statement piece. It’s the suit people remember. If you wear it twice, everyone will notice. A man's first tailored suit should never be a statement piece."
Jakob guided the hanger back onto the display rack with a soft, definitive clack.
"It should be a foundational garment," Jakob explained, holding Max's gaze with professional authority. "Something versatile enough for a nice dinner out, a job interview—or a wedding, of course, depending on how you style the shirt and tie. You build the foundation first. Then, you build the wardrobe."
Max looked slightly disappointed, but the sheer expertise in Jakob's tone made him nod in concession.
Jakob stepped away to a specific rack, his hands gliding over the wool until he pulled out a jacket. It was a rich midnight blue in a textured birdseye weave—classic enough for a foundational suit, but the pattern sharp and young enough to suit Max perfectly.
Sam watched in silence as Jakob helped Max slide his arms into the silk-lined sleeves, noting how easily Max took to being handled, lifting his chin so Jakob could adjust the collar—the same collar he’d chided Sam for trying to fix earlier.
Then, Max turned around to face the mirrors, and Jakob smoothly stepped back, clearing Sam’s view.
Sam’s heart gave a heavy, singular thud.
Max looked incredible. The fabric sat cleanly across his shoulders and tapered at his waist, elevating him from a handsome young man into a striking one.
"Max..." Sam breathed, his voice thick. "Look at you."
Without thinking, Sam pulled his hand from his pocket and raised it, showing the simple gold band on his ring finger. In the mirror, Max caught his eye. For the first time since Sam arrived, a soft, genuine smile broke across the younger man's face, and he raised his own left hand in return, the matching gold catching the soft light of the shop.
It landed sweet and warm in Sam that even this stranger must see they belonged to each other. At that moment, he didn't care what the price tag said. He would have paid double.
"It's a beautiful fit," Jakob noted. He pulled a matching pair of slacks from the hanger, moved to a nearby cabinet and withdrew a crisp white dress shirt still pinned to its cardboard backing, and handed both to Max. "You'll need a proper collar and cuff to check the jacket length. The dressing room is right through there. Try these on, and I'll find a pair of dress shoes in your size so we can measure the break of the pant."
Max beamed at his reflection one last time before taking the clothes and walking over to the dressing room, the paneled door clicking shut behind him.
Suddenly, it was just Sam and Jakob, and the shop felt overwhelmingly quiet.
A polished walnut railing separated the elevated fitting area from the rest of the showroom floor. Sam walked over, grateful for a place to anchor himself, and rested his rear against the thick wood.
Jakob stepped right up beside him, leaning his own weight against the railing so their shoulders were practically brushing. Jakob turned his head to look at him. "Do you like the suit?"
"How could I not?" Sam said, still staring toward the closed door. He finally turned his head to look at Jakob.
Up close, leaning shoulder to shoulder, Sam realized Jakob wasn't quite as young as he had initially thought. There was a mature depth to his features—fine lines around his amber eyes, a certain weathered intelligence in his expression that Max wouldn't grow into for years. His trimmed auburn beard was full, nothing like the patchy scruff Max could occasionally manage. And there was a slight musicality to his vowels, a faint, rolling rhythm. Slavic, Sam guessed.
"So. June twentieth," Jakob said, his voice a low, intimate murmur.
"Yeah," Sam said. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and looked down at his own gold ring, resting his hand on his thigh.
The thought of Max dressing up, how he’d look when the day came, made Sam uncharacteristically loose-lipped. "It's funny—you can wait so long for something... and then, when it's right in front of you, you can feel so unsure that you're ready."
Jakob shifted, turning his weight inward along the railing.
"It may be none of my business," Jakob murmured, his gaze dropping to Sam's mouth before meeting his eyes again, "but—in suits—you want to be sure it's the right fit."
The double meaning hung between them.
Sam's gaze drifted lower, catching sight of Jakob’s leather loafers and those lean, bare ankles again. It was such a strange, intimate detail, and being this close to it sent a sudden, irrational flutter through his stomach.
Jakob leaned in. Standing shoulder to shoulder as they were, the pivot of his body was so smooth, so entirely natural. The quiet gravity of the salesman seemed to pull Sam in, too, even though the voice in his head admonished, He’s right in the next room. This was supposed to be about the biggest milestone of their life together.
Their faces were so close Sam could feel Jakob’s shallow breath against his own lips. His blood pounded in his ears, beating over the voice in his head. Sam’s nose just barely grazed the side of Jakob's, leaning into the intoxicating heat of it, waiting for the final fraction of an inch to close.
Click.
The dressing room door handle turned. Sam jerked back so hard his boots scrambled on the carpet. His heart was hammering against his ribs.
Sam, what the hell are you doing?
Chapter Three: Cradle Robber
Max stepped out, holding up one pant leg to keep the unhemmed bottom from dragging on the carpet. He paused, his brow furrowing as his gaze darted between the two older men.
The air in the shop was suddenly thick enough to cut with a pull saw.
"What's going on?" Max asked, sensing the strange frequency in the room.
"Nothing," Jakob said, breezily. His voice betrayed absolutely none of the electricity that had just arced between him and Sam. "Just talking shop.”
Max turned to look at himself in the three-way mirror, checking the angles of the midnight blue wool. Jakob waited in respectful silence. After a long moment, Max gave a firm nod. “This is it.”
"It'll break my heart if it's not," Sam rasped out. It wasn’t just his earlier hurry. He’d never seen Max look so handsome before.
Jakob offered a smile of genuine professional approval. “First instinct, best instinct.” He retrieved a pair of sleek leather dress shoes from a nearby cabinet and handed them to the teenager. "Put these on. We need a proper heel to judge the length of the trouser."
He then gestured toward an elevated platform in front of a bank of mirrors, brightly lit from all sides. "Step up here. I need you to stand straight, arms at your sides. That’s called ‘natural stance’.”
He guided Max’s arms into place, and Max asked, “Like this? Are you sure? It doesn’t feel natural.”
Jakob murmured, “No, it doesn’t. But if the suit doesn’t fit well in this stance, it’s not going to move comfortably with your body either.”
Max let out a breath as he bounced slightly on his toes, trying to settle his weight into a normal slouch.
"Better. Let's get to work.”
Jakob unbuttoned his slate suit jacket. Sam watched, entirely transfixed, as Jakob slid the fine, plum-tinged wool off his shoulders and draped it carefully over a nearby chair. Underneath, he wore a tailored vest that hugged the architectural V of his torso, perfectly highlighting the way his lats narrowed down to his waist. Then, Jakob reached for his cuffs. Slowly, methodically, he unfastened one and then the other, and rolled the crisp white cotton of his sleeves back two turns each.
Jakob's forearms were a marvel—lean, shifting muscle and tendon, topped with fine, dark hair.
When Jakob dropped into a fluid crouch at Max's feet, the sheer physical control of the movement made Sam feel like he might actually tip over.
"You look like you're in shape," Sam blurted out. He couldn't stop himself; the words just bypassed his brain entirely. "Sports?"
Jakob looked up from Max's hem, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "CrossFit. It's San Francisco. Everyone does CrossFit."
Sam imagined taking his good tape measure and wrapping it around that waist. He guessed it was a perfect thirty inches. He wondered what the rest of that sculpted torso looked like under the pressed cotton shirt. He had to force himself to look at the ceiling for a second, swallowing hard to clear his head.
"You are very symmetrical," Jakob explained to Max, pulling a small silver tin of tailor's pins from his vest pocket. "But no one is completely. Most men have one shoulder slightly lower than the other, or one arm a fraction longer. For instance, your right shoulder drops just a fraction of an inch lower than your left—perfectly normal for a right-handed athlete. We make micro-adjustments to hide that."
Jakob stood up, moving behind Max. His long fingers worked with expert speed as he slid pins into the fabric, sculpting the wool to the line of Max's back.
"Because you're young, you're likely going to fill out across the chest and shoulders over the next few years. When we send this out, I'll have the master tailor leave some extra fabric in the seams just in case we need to let it out later."
Jakob paused, his eyes flicking up to catch Sam's gaze in the mirror.
"We don't want to make any permanent alterations you later regret."
Sam felt his cheeks burn at Jakob’s tight, imperceptible nod.
Jakob dropped back down to the floor. He showed Max how the waistband of the trousers should fit just two fingers inside, explaining that the suit should rest on the natural hips, not rely on a belt to hold the pants up. Then, he pointed to the puddle of wool around Max's borrowed shoes.
"This is the break," Jakob said. He shifted his weight, gesturing to his own leg to show the sharp, clean line of his hem over his bare ankle and the leather loafer. "You want a slight break where the trouser meets the shoe. Just a kiss of fabric. Not pooling over the laces."
Sam's eyes were instantly drawn back down to that exposed sliver of skin on Jakob's ankle. Seeing it now, after having just been mere millimeters from the man's lips, made it feel a hundred times harder to not imagine his hands on them, holding those legs spread open.
Jakob rose smoothly to his feet again. "This right here is why celebrities always look so good on and off the red carpet. They get everything tailored specifically to their bodies, down to the t-shirts."
He moved to Max's front, adjusting the lapels. "Now, you don't have to keep the jacket buttoned. It looks great open. But when you do button it—always the top, never the bottom—with your build, buttoning it here is going to carve out an amazing silhouette. And once it's fitted, you add a bit of tie flair right here at the collar, and a silk square in the breast pocket."
Jakob smoothed the lapel flat. "Just remember: never match the pocket square exactly to the tie. They should converse with each other, not repeat. It anchors the whole look."
Max blinked, looking at his crisp, empty white collar in the mirror. He shot a quick, wide-eyed look over at Sam. "I don’t even have a tie."
"We'll get you one," Jakob said, not missing a beat.
As Jakob continued, telling Max about the care and keeping of the suit, Sam backed away, putting some much-needed distance between himself and the salesman. He stopped at a large display table in the center of the room. Ties were laid out in a massive, overlapping spiral, like a luxurious Pantone deck of silks, knits, and wools.
His eyes scanned the colors, skipping over the bright blues and harsh yellows, finally snagging on a textured, woven silk tie. It was a rich, complex mix of brick red, pink, warm brown, and burnt orange. It immediately reminded him of his favorite reclaimed red cedar—the deep, swirling grain and the dark knots. Customers usually wanted freshly lumbered wood for their modern builds—everything clean and uniform. But Sam always preferred reclaimed timber. With its wear and tear, its history, and even a little damage, it was so much more interesting.
He slid the tie from the display and walked it back over to the fitting area, holding it up between Jakob and Max. "What about this one?"
Jakob stepped back, his amber eyes darting between the textured silk, the subtle sheen of the midnight blue suit, and Max's dark coloring. He nodded. "Excellent eye. The texture of the tie balances the wool perfectly."
Jakob reached out to take the tie, but Sam pushed his way in—trading places with Jakob, cozied up right behind Max. He reached around Max’s shoulders to flip up the white collar. "I've got this."
Please don't let me fuck this up, Sam prayed silently.
As he worked the fabric from a distant muscle memory, he could see all the ways it could go wrong—the lengths pulling unevenly, the knot misshapen. As he worked, he caught his own reflection in the mirror. He was standing close behind Max, while Jakob watched them both from a few feet away. Sam wondered who he was trying to impress right now. Max? Or Jakob?
But he forced himself to slow down, looking at it like a carpenter, analyzing the mechanics of the loop, the length of the elements and the friction of the fine silk. He pulled the fabric carefully, the flat front longer—but not too much longer—than the slim tail, pinching the silk to create a perfect dimple with his thumb, and folded the collar back down.
He smoothed his hands over Max's shoulders, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He leaned forward and pressed a quick, affectionate peck to the side of Max's head.
Sam’s head tilted a fraction of an inch to the right in pure, unfiltered adoration. Right below him in the glass, Max's head tilted to the exact same angle—an unconscious mirrored behavior.
"I didn't know you knew how to do that," Max said under his breath, admiring his own reflection.
Sam gave him a hopeful smile in the glass. "I know things."
But Sam’s eyes strayed to Jakob in the mirror, arms folded across his chest, an approving smile on his lips. Sam pictured his heavier body trying to fit together with Jakob’s lean, sculpted lines, remembering the hot, frantic breath they had just shared.
His face went visibly red at the thought of what Max would think if he knew that Sam was entertaining such thoughts right here in the middle of his fitting.
"It really is a stunning fit. It will be a wonderful look for your wedding."
The silence in the shop was sudden and absolute, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning.
"Wedding??" Max and Sam blurted out at the exact same time.
Max turned to Jakob, his head slightly cocked in bewilderment. "I'm graduating. High school."
"Valedictorian," Sam added.
Jakob’s professional mask slipped entirely. A hot flush crept from Jakob’s collar up his handsome features—slow at first, then fast and then complete, to the roots of his auburn hair.
He gestured helplessly toward their left hands. "But... your rings. When you looked in the mirror earlier. I thought you were—"
"You thought I was marrying MY DAD?!" Max shrieked.
Sam rubbed his scruffy chin, slowly crossed his arms, and leaned back on his heels, suddenly deciding to settle in and thoroughly enjoy this spectacular trainwreck.
"My dad?!" Max repeated, gesturing at Sam's chest. "He's…OLD!!"
"A cradle robber, apparently," Sam chuckled. The knot of anxiety that had been suffocating him since the near-kiss evaporated into thin air. “Max is eighteen.”
Jakob’s clever eyes widened, his gaze darting between the two of them as the horrified realization dawned on his face. He swallowed hard, looking like he wanted the plush carpet to open up and swallow him whole. “I thought…”
They could practically see the pieces clicking together in his mind: Max squirming away from his dad, the matching rings, the friction over the budget and the clothes. How different it must have looked if you thought…
Sam and Max traded a look in the mirror—a silent communication they had perfected over the years: Should we take pity on him?
Max sighed, his shoulders dropping to an easier posture. He held up his left hand, looking at the gold band. "It was my mom's. I've been wearing it since she died. Six years ago."
Jakob practically shrank into his vest. "I am... I am so incredibly sorry. I cannot apologize enough."
"Hey," Sam said softly. He closed the distance, and rested a rough, heavy hand firmly on Jakob's shoulder. "It's okay. Really. We're good."
Max reached out and clapped his hand onto Jakob's other shoulder. For a long moment, the three of them just stood there, anchored together by the physical contact, the misunderstanding washing away into the quiet of the shop.
Then, Max broke the silence, his voice a disbelieving whisper. "Seriously, though. My dad??"
Sam let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the mahogany and glass. "Not even in San Francisco, kid."
Jakob managed a weak, deeply embarrassed chuckle, the tension bleeding out of his frame as the father and son shook their heads.
Sam grinned, rubbing his jaw again, realizing how nice it was to see the smooth, unflappable Jakob take a little ribbing. And, it was nice to laugh so hard. It had been a very long time.
Chapter Four: Sleight of Hand
When the laughter finally subsided, leaving a comfortable, easy quiet in the shop, Sam leaned back against the walnut railing and just looked at his kid.
He had to admit it was flattering that Jakob had assumed a young looker like Max was marrying him—a guy more than twice his age, rough around the edges, with sawdust in his boots. It made Sam wonder, a little uncomfortably, how often people actually thought that.
So many people couldn’t see the family resemblance. When they went out for dinners, sitting across from each other in dim restaurants, did the waiters assume it was a not-so-innocent date? Maybe that was why Max didn’t hold his hand anymore. Not just teenage rebellion, but self-preservation in a city that made its own assumptions.
Sam sighed.
None of this—the boutique, the graduation, the kid himself—was what Sam had expected when he first hitched his way to San Francisco from Georgia, with absolutely nothing to his name but his body and his looks and a little cunning.
Back then he’d been nineteen, sun-bleached blond hair always a mess from the wind, shoulders and chest carved hard from summers hauling lumber and working construction. The kind of easy, muscled good looks that turned heads without him even trying—and Sam had never been shy about letting them.
He hadn’t exactly planned the departure. He’d left his hometown in a breathless hurry after a particularly sweaty afternoon involving the lumber mill owner and the mill owner’s girlfriend in the bed of a Chevy Silverado. It had been a wildly good time—the girlfriend giggling and pulling Sam down for a messy kiss while the owner groaned behind him, all three of them chasing the same finish—right up until the girlfriend’s husband—who happened to be the county sheriff—shined a Maglite through the camper shell.
Sam hadn’t even gone home to pack a bag. He had just grabbed his boots, jumped the tailgate, and hit the interstate. He wanted more than feed-store hookups and sideways glances. He wanted a city big enough that nobody cared who he fucked or how loud he laughed doing it.
He made the cross-country trek in a pair of beat-up jeans and a tight tank top or cut-off, or no shirt at all, letting the sun and the highway do the rest.
The first ride was a married trucker heading west. Ten miles later they were pulled over, panting in the cab. When it was over the guy let out a cummy burp, clapped Sam on the shoulder, handed him a cold Coke, and said, “Kid, you keep smiling like that and the whole damn country’s gonna open up for you.”
When he finally hit The City, he took whatever odd jobs he could find. He crashed wherever he could find a mattress or a couch, which was easy enough for a guy with his build and his flexible standards. He dove headfirst into men and women and every combination in between. There weren’t many sexual stones left unturned in those days.
It was a hungry, reckless time, and Sam ate it up with a good-natured, raunchy enthusiasm. He remembered sweaty weekends tangled up in sprawling South of Market orgies, where there were so many mouths and holes he didn't know who he was inside half the time—and didn't much care, as long as everybody was having a good time.
In fact, he’d met Cass right in the middle of one of those wild weekends. They were both stripped down to nothing, Cass pinned right underneath him while a guy took turns riding them—a guy whose name neither of them ever caught. Sam distinctly remembered bracing his forearms on the mattress, panting hard through a particularly deep thrust, and looking down at the dark-haired girl beneath him.
"I'm Sam, by the way," he'd gasped out.
"Cass," she'd groaned back, flashing him a wild, breathless grin.
Then came the news that she was pregnant. Sam had his doubts. Given exactly how they met, they both knew any of a dozen guys from that exact same party might be the father, even if Cass swore she felt it in her gut that it was him.
Sam was twenty-two. His life was just starting. He didn't see a single good reason why he should take the fall for a wild guess. He seriously considered packing his duffel bag and hitting the road again.
But late one night, a thought caught hold of him and wouldn't let go: If it IS my kid, and I run, what does that make me?
He decided he would stick around, just to see.
When the baby was born, Sam stood over the plastic hospital bassinet, studying the squalling newborn's red face. The baby had a shock of dark, thick hair so unlike his own and eyes that were already settling into a deep, unequivocal brown, rather than his cornflower blue. It gave him a sinking pause of pure doubt.
But then a tiny, impossibly small hand shot out and grabbed his thick index finger. The grip was startlingly strong. Sam looked at their hands joined together, feeling a sudden, physical click in his chest. The way they fit.
He looked back down at the baby's scrunched face, looking harder this time, searching until he found it. And yes, it was right there—the slope of the brow looked just like Sam's older brother, and the stubborn set of the jaw was definitely his own. It was his boy.
A week later, Sam went to a craftsman buddy of his who worked with metals and asked him to fashion a pair of rings. They were thin, nothing fancy, poured from simple gold. He took them back to the apartment and proposed to Cass.
It was a romantic sleight of hand. Neither of them harbored any illusions—they wouldn't ever have gotten married if not for the baby. But Sam had grown up without a safety net, and it seemed to him that the boy ought to have married parents.
Genes were a funny thing. Cass's DNA was definitely in there, accounting for Max's darker coloring, his thick curls, and his vastly different build, gifting the kid with long limbs. Most people didn't see much of Sam in the mix, but to him the resemblance was glaringly obvious. It was the way they both let out the exact same loud, booming bark of a laugh. And it was the way they both cocked their heads to the side when they were confused or listening closely, a physical tic Max had picked up like a second language. The specific, heavy way they sighed when they were frustrated.
They were even the exact same height—when they were standing, anyway. It changed the second they sat down, owing to Sam's long, thick torso and shorter legs, while Max was all leg.
Knowing he was a father meant deciding he needed to be a provider. Sam parlayed some basic, homegrown woodworking skills and a seductive smile into a carpentry gig, and eventually, his own business.
Looking back, he had to laugh at what a complete amateur he had been. He only half-knew what he was doing on those early job sites. Fake it till you make it had been his six-word business plan. And while he faked it, he learned quickly that a little show of muscle—and brazen, boyish charm—made up for a whole lot of missing expertise.
He knew exactly how to carry his toolboxes to show off the swell of his biceps and the broad cut of his shoulders. He made sure his shirts rode just high enough to show the gleam of sweat on his lower back, and he let his tool belt sit low enough to give a show of ass cleavage when he bent over a sawhorse.
Cass used to laugh at him when he came home with pockets full of cash, calling it his "plumber's crack special."
He remembered a bored housewife in Sea Cliff who kept "accidentally" dropping her unrolled blueprints just to watch him bend over and retrieve them. After the third time, he'd just picked up the plans, flashed her a bright, shameless grin, and asked if she wanted him to demonstrate the load-bearing capacity of the new kitchen island. Then he’d stripped his work shirt off entirely, laid her out right over it, and made damn sure she left that kitchen smiling even wider than he did.
He was just as accommodating for the husbands. He distinctly remembered a Tuesday in a Pacific Heights Victorian, getting backed straight into a half-finished pantry cupboard by a wealthy, highly appreciative male client. Sam had leaned his back against the raw pine, still holding his Makita power drill.
"Hope you don't mind the sawdust," he'd teased with a wink, looking straight down to watch the guy drop to his knees, yank open the fly of Sam's work pants, and swallow him whole. When Sam finally came, his hand had clamped down so hard he’d accidentally squeezed the trigger of the Makita, the sudden high-pitched whine of the drill overlaying the sound of the man gulping down his load. They’d both laughed so hard they almost fell over.
There had been a simple deck-building job that ended with him sandwiched between the husband and the wife in their king-sized bed, taking turns making each other feel good until nobody could move. And a long restoration on a mid-century high-rise for an older gay couple. They would regularly invite him to stay after hours. Sam knew exactly how to play it—rubbing the back of his sweaty neck, flashing a bashful grin, and muttering, “Aw, gosh guys, I’d hate to get drywall dust on your nice leather,” right before letting them push him back into their Eames lounge chair, happily letting them take turns on him before he’d even unlaced his work boots.
It was never about power or conquest for Sam. It was about the shared sweat, the low laughter, and making sure everybody walked away grinning just as wide as he did.
Cass was endlessly practical about it. The marriage had always been a structural agreement about raising the kid, not about holding each other to monogamous commitments they never would have made otherwise.
By the time Cass passed away, Max was twelve, and the business was fully legit. Sam had the skills to back up his invoices, and he couldn't even recall the last time he’d had to use his body to distract a client from a sloppy joint.
He hadn't meant to stay unattached after she died. It just sort of happened. The days were long, but the years were short.
Somewhere along the line, the guy who happily got blown on remodel jobs had been replaced by the guy who checked algebra homework and made sure there was two-percent milk in the fridge. The two versions of himself must have passed each other unnoticed in the dark.
He had Max, and he had work. Max had school, and then track, and then college applications. They fell into their own deep, worn patterns—splitting the housework, taking turns cooking, navigating the same repeating squabbles about the grocery bill or the thermostat.
Looking at Max now, straightening his tie in the three-way mirror, Sam felt a sudden ache in his throat. As funny as Jakob's mistake had been, it wasn't just the matching gold rings that had thrown the salesman off. In a way, Sam and Max had been a little bit married for the last six years.
Max had been on him about dating for months now—ever since the college acceptances started rolling in. “You know I’m leaving in the fall, right?” he’d say, half-teasing, half-serious, like he couldn’t stand the idea of his dad rattling around an empty house alone.
And though Sam had never been monogamous with Cass, he and Max had been a closed, functioning unit of two.
But now, Max was graduating. In the fall, he would pack his bags and go away to school, leaving the house quiet and empty. Everything was about to change all over again, and standing in the hushed, expensive air of the boutique, Sam wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to do with whatever came next.
Chapter Five: Alpaca
The comfortable quiet was broken by the smooth shhhk of a zipper. Max re-emerged from the small changing room back into the brightly lit, mirrored fitting area, having swapped his jeans back.
He wandered over to another rack, trailing his hand over the shoulders of the jackets, his attention already drifting.
Jakob turned his focus from Max back to the man leaning against the walnut railing. "And what will you be wearing for the big day?"
Sam waved a hand in dismissal. "Don't even start. We're not here shopping for me. I've got a decent blazer in the back of my closet." He didn't mention it was the black, shapeless one he’d bought for Cass's funeral six years ago, but as far as he was concerned, it still fit fine.
"You should get something, Dad," Max chimed in, holding a charcoal jacket up to his own chest and checking the mirror. "If you actually dressed up for once, you might get a date."
Sam rolled his eyes at the tired refrain. "Worry about your own dates, kid."
But Jakob had gone completely still, his eyes locked on Sam. He was studying him with that same calculating intensity he had used on Max earlier, visually dismantling Sam's proportions. Sam felt like a custom-joinery puzzle being assessed by a master craftsman.
"What?" Sam asked, suddenly feeling entirely exposed—stripped bare by the salesman's focus.
"It's difficult to size you up," Jakob murmured. He stepped a few inches closer, his eyes sweeping slowly from the shelf of Sam's shoulders down to his scuffed work boots. "I would have initially pegged you for a forty-eight Regular, but you're quite long in the arms... you'd likely need a Long jacket."
"Hey, I said I'm not buying anything," Sam said, holding his hands up to fend off both the salesman's pitch and his son's inevitable teasing.
Jakob ignored the protest, stepping around to view Sam from a slight angle. "Quite full through the chest but... a little short in the leg."
Max snorted loudly from across the room. Sam shot him a withering, preemptive glare. Sam's top-heavy, bulldog build had been a favorite target of Max's teasing ever since the kid hit his teenage growth spurt and shot past Sam's inseam.
"Careful," Sam warned, pointing a calloused finger between the two of them. "Don't gang up on the old man, or the kid graduates in Levi's and you lose a commission."
"Oh, I assure you, I'm not laughing," Jakob said. He didn't look at Sam; instead, he turned his head to address Max with total seriousness. "There are a thousand men in San Francisco who would kill for a date with your father."
The words hit Sam like a physical blow to the sternum, caught off guard.
For six years, he had been just a dad. When was the last time a client had looked at his shoulders and genuinely wondered how they'd feel pinned against a kitchen island? When was the last time a client had asked him about a railing as prelude to a good “railing?” These days, they only ever meant it literally.
Hearing his appeal stated as an objective, undeniable fact by a man who looked like Jakob—and to Max, of all people—fundamentally shifted the gravity in the room.
Jakob turned on his heel and walked over to a narrow display. His hands slowly glided over the garments until he withdrew a jacket. It was a dark navy wool, with a subtle, slate-grey windowpane pattern. He walked back and held it up against Sam's chest.
"Super 150s Italian wool," Jakob whispered. His knuckles brushed the faded cotton of Sam's henley, just where it opened to show a curl of dirty blond chest hair.
"It's not what you're used to," Jakob’s voice dropping an octave, his clever eyes flicking up to Sam's. "But I think you'll like it."
Sam swallowed hard. I think I might like it quite a bit, he thought.
Jakob lowered the jacket. His eyes locked on Sam, but his words were for Max. "I'm going to take him into the back for a private fitting."
Max dropped the charcoal blazer he was holding. "How come I didn't get a private fitting?"
Jakob didn't miss a beat. He shot Max a mild, chastising look. "Max, don't be petulant. Your build is an athletic standard. Your father requires a much more specialized approach."
Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a snicker. Seeing someone else effortlessly handle Max's teenage entitlement was a rare and beautiful thing.
Before ducking toward the paneled door at the back of the mirrored fitting area, Jakob pointed toward a long rack of coats in the far corner. "Max, I have an assignment for you. Look through that rack. Your size is right in the middle. I want you to examine the construction of the single-breasted topcoats. Try the glen plaid. And see if you can locate the pure baby alpaca blend. It's a very specific hand-feel. Take your time."
"Which one is the glen plaid?" Max asked, already walking toward it, fully hooked by the idea of a specific, luxurious mission.
"Just try them all," Jakob instructed, gesturing toward the back room with a polite sweep of his arm, indicating for Sam to lead the way.
Sam pushed off the walnut railing and walked toward the dressing room, a slow appreciation blooming in his chest. Jakob had clocked Max's restless teenage mind and his deep appreciation for fine things, and used them both to wind the kid up and point him in the exact opposite direction.
It was a flawless, strategic distraction. And Sam, having orchestrated a few after-hours “consultations” in his own time, knew exactly what it looked like when a professional cleared the room to buy them time alone.
Just as Sam stepped across the threshold into the smaller, enclosed dressing room, he glanced back over his shoulder. Max had reached the rack. He was completely mesmerized, running his hands over a row of overcoats, entirely oblivious to the rest of the world.
As the door closed behind him, Sam could literally see the kid's lips moving in quiet reverence as he touched the sleeve of a camel-colored coat.
Alpaca, Max was mouthing to himself, his eyes wide. Al-pac-a. Allllpaaacaaa.
Chapter Six: Reverse Striptease
Sam leaned his broad back against the walnut door, crossing his arms over his chest. A slow smile spread across his face. He’d done this dance more than a few times, and even though it had been a few years, he knew the steps.
He shifted his weight, discreetly hooking a thumb into his waistband to adjust his work pants and his underwear, suddenly highly aware of the thick, heavy weight pressing against his canvas fly.
He fully expected Jakob to finally drop the professional veneer, close the distance, and reach straight for his belt.
Instead, Jakob stepped over to a mahogany wardrobe and opened the doors. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes dropping to Sam's scuffed work boots.
"Twelve?" Jakob asked smoothly, mixing business effortlessly into the charged air.
"Thirteen," Sam replied, putting a low, rough rumble in his voice, like the sound of a sturdy zipper coming down.
Sam was slightly surprised when Jakob turned back around, a pair of dark leather dress shoes dangling casually from his manicured fingertips.
"I really did think the two of you were a couple out there," Jakob murmured softly.
Sam’s smile widened. "Honestly? I decided to just take it as flattering."
Jakob’s amber eyes tracked the movement of Sam's smile. "It was meant to be."
"Though," Sam added, testing the waters, "I figured a guy like you would be more likely to be interested in Max."
"Max is a very handsome young man," Jakob said. He turned back to the wardrobe to pull out a folded white shirt, then faced Sam again. "But he is... young. He has no history. I've always preferred a more classic piece."
The heat in the room dialed up ten degrees. Sam let out a low, breathy chuckle, feeling out Jakob’s game.
"If you'd like to change," Jakob murmured, arching an eyebrow, nodding toward the corner, "there’s a privacy screen just behind—"
Sam didn't bother with the screen. He reached down, grabbed the hem of his henley, and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion. He tossed the work shirt onto a nearby leather chair—a direct move.
Jakob dropped the dress shoes. Thud. They hit the plush carpet heavily as the salesman simply stared.
Sam stood there, feeling the cool air on his exposed torso. The exposed pale skin contrasted with the weathered bronze of his neck and lower arms—a distinct, tradesman's tanline. His chest was lightly dusted with blond hair that cupped his pecs. He hadn't had a six-pack in a decade—he carried a solid gut. But it wasn't flabby, it was substantial—a working man's core built by beer and heavy lifting. The blond hair trailed down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his Carhartts in a faint, tantalizing line.
Jakob cleared his throat, his eyes glued to Sam's chest. "Do you... do you have any idea what your neck size is? A seventeen, perhaps?"
"You got me," Sam shrugged as he reached for his leather belt. "Army Navy surplus never asks."
Jakob's eyes darkened. "They're missing out."
Sam kicked off his work boots without breaking eye contact. THUD. THUD. He unbuckled his belt, popped the button, and shoved the canvas down his thighs. He stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
Standing there in just his thick work socks and his white cotton briefs, he felt the cool air rush against his legs. These weren't suntanned thighs of his youth; they were thick and pale, made dense by decades of labor. But as he met Jakob's eyes, he felt a different kind of power in them—and the undeniable weight of his cock against his underwear. He might be an amateur at bespoke tailoring, but he still knew how to use his body, and the sheer hunger in the salesman's gaze was doing half the work for him.
Jakob stepped forward, producing a shirt he’d selected. It was a crisp, brilliant white, but up close, Sam could see it was woven with a faint, almost invisible windowpane pattern.
"It features a traditional collar," Jakob explained, his voice forcing into a professional murmur that felt completely at odds with the way his eyes tracked the bulge in Sam's briefs. "Very structured. Fitting for a traditional man."
Sam reached out and took the folded shirt, his rough fingers intentionally brushing Jakob's. "Not that traditional, son."
With a casual flick, Sam snapped the crisp cotton open. He slid his thick arms into the fine sleeves. The fabric was incredibly soft, gliding over his skin like water. He began working the small, pearl buttons up his chest, deliberately leaving the top few open.
"’A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men,’" Sam quoted quietly.
Jakob tilted his head, watching Sam's fingers work the buttons. "Shakespeare?"
Sam chuckled. "Willy Wonka."
A sudden wave of bemusement washed over him. Here he was, standing in his work socks and boxer briefs, using his kid's bedtime reading to flirt with a man who possessed a flawlessly tight thirty-inch waist and a wicked, calculating grin.
It had been years since he had read that book to Max, sitting on the edge of a twin bed and doing the voices until the boy fell asleep. Looking back, Sam realized he hadn't had much nonsense in his own life, lately. It had been all work, all responsibility, all Dad keeping the lights on.
But standing half-naked in a luxury boutique with a beautiful man staring at him like he was a feast, the blood thrumming steadily south, Sam felt the distinct sensation that things were about to change.
Jakob stepped closer, his eyes still dark with intent, but instead of reaching for Sam, he pushed a pair of navy trousers into his hands.
Sam took them, feeling a flicker of surprise. He’d only agreed to the fitting first to appease Max, and then used it as an excuse to get into this room alone with Jakob. He’d fully expected the clothes to be completely abandoned by now. Being made to actually cover himself back up felt like a strange reverse striptease.
But as he stepped into the legs, pulling the wool up over the hair on his thighs and fastening the waist, he had to admit there was a thrilling difference between this and his usual stiff canvas workwear. Even with the extra fabric pooling around his thick work socks, the pants were airy, perfectly cut to accommodate his thick thighs and heavy ass without restricting him. It almost felt like he wasn't wearing any pants at all, leaving his waiting erection frighteningly sensitive to the smooth slide of the Italian wool.
Jakob picked up the tailored vest. Instead of handing it to Sam, he stepped behind Sam.
"Arms up," Jakob murmured.
Sam raised his arms, and Jakob slid the vest over his shoulders. Jakob's hands flattened against Sam's shoulder blades, smoothing down the plane of his broad back. He stood so close that Sam could feel the slow, hot exhale of his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck.
Jakob reached around under Sam’s arms to fasten the buttons up front. When he finished, he slid his hands up, intentionally cupping the meat of Sam's pec. His thumbs brushed right over Sam's nipples through the fabric.
A jolt went straight to Sam's groin, pushing him from a rolling simmer to a painful, rigid ache.
"Is that too much?" Jakob whispered, his breath hot against Sam's ear.
"No," Sam rasped. "Just... used to dressing myself."
Jakob smoothed his hands down Sam's sides and gave the vest a sharp tug down before stepping away to retrieve the navy windowpane jacket.
"Let's finish the look."
Jakob whipped the jacket open with a smooth, fluid flourish, holding the garment out like a matador inviting the charge.
Sam shook his head at the sheer, unashamed theatricality of it—but he backed up and slid his arms into the silk-lined sleeves to wrap things up. As he did, he had to admit he found the cool, frictionless glide of the silk intensely, sexually enjoyable.
Jakob adjusted the shoulders, pulling the collar into place and smoothing the lapels flat against Sam's chest. The weight of the fine Italian wool settled over him perfectly.
Between the sensation of the clothes, the flattery, and the pressure of Jakob's hands, Sam's body was reacting on pure, uncontrolled instinct. Hidden beneath the trousers, he was fully, achingly hard, his erection pressing obviously against the zipper as he subtly shifted his hips to find some comfort.
Jakob took half a step back.
"Now," he whispered, eyes laden with intent. "Turn around."
Sam turned to face the full-length mirror.
Chapter Seven: A Little Nonsense
Sam stared. He genuinely couldn't help it.
Even with the unshaven scruff shadowing his heavy jaw and the top buttons of the crisp white shirt left undone, the transformation was absolute. The fine wool didn't try to hide his mass. It exalted it.
The sharp cut of the windowpane jacket drew the eye straight up his chest to the width of his shoulders. He didn't look like a guy who drove a beat-up Ford and haggled over two-by-fours. Even the tufts of his flyaway blond hair up front seemed to catch the light in a way that completed the fit—he looked like a king.
"You sized me up right," Sam rasped, his voice rougher than he intended.
Jakob took a slow step back, resting a knuckle beneath his auburn beard as he studied their image in the glass. "Some people say the suit makes the man. I say it reveals him."
Sam noted the echoing pattern on the jacket and shirt. “Windowpane on windowpane…?”
“Bold. You carry it well.”
Sam’s eyes raked over his reflection. "I’ll take it."
"This one retails for five thousand," Jakob murmured softly. "I put you in this one to show you what I could do with your proportions. We have others that are—"
"I don't care," Sam interrupted, letting out a low, breathy chuckle as he felt the thrum of his own pulse. He turned to face Jakob, his thick eyebrows pitching up in a silent plea, to close the deal. "Or are you gonna make me beg for it?"
Jakob didn't answer with words. Instead, he glided forward and dropped smoothly to his knees. It was the exact, practiced motion he had used out on the showroom floor to measure the break of the pants, but this time, his hands didn't go anywhere near Sam’s ankles—they reached straight for the waistband of Sam’s trousers.
Sam’s hand instantly shot out, gripping Jakob’s shoulder to issue the reminder. "Max is out there."
Jakob looked up, his face inches from Sam’s crotch. "We can be very quiet," he whispered.
Sam thought of Max just a few feet away out there, and Jakob right in here. The sheer thrill of it spiked his blood pressure.
"Right," Sam breathed, his fingers digging into the firm muscle of Jakob’s shoulder. "But quiet."
Jakob looked up at him, a dark, wicked smile crossing his lips. He coiled his strength and pounced.
Sam slammed against the thick paneled door with a loud, wall-shaking THUD. The impact rattled the solid wood in its frame and sent a metallic clatter through the brass knob.
“Dad?” Max’s voice filtered through the wood, suddenly sounding far too close. “Are you okay in there??”
Sam shot Jakob a mock admonishing glare, but he couldn’t quite kill the grin tugging at his mouth. He forced his voice to stay level. “Yeah! Just tripped on my pants!”
He rested his full weight back against the solid walnut of the door, heart hammering. Jakob’s eyes danced with the sheer thrill of the torment, and he closed the remaining inches between them, coming in for a kiss.
God, Sam had always loved the first kiss—the sudden wet heat, the slide of tongue, the discovery of what someone was all about. Jakob tasted like mint and mischief, and Sam kissed him back with the same giddy grin he used to wear in every South of Market orgy and truck-cab romp.
Sam could have gone on kissing him like that for an hour. This fox-faced trickster was awakening something in him, a slumbering, eager giant that had been asleep for entirely too long. But Jakob didn’t stay. He broke the kiss, trailing his wet mouth down the thick column of Sam’s neck, biting lightly at the exposed collarbone before dropping smoothly back down to his knees.
With deft fingers, Jakob unfastened the waist and lowered the zipper of the fine wool trousers. He reached inside the cotton of Sam’s briefs, pulling out the aching heft of him and his heavy balls, taking them in his manicured hands.
Before Sam could fully feel the heat of the contact, Jakob leaned in and took Sam’s cock into his wet mouth. It was incredibly, instantly heady. The heat, the instant friction, and the sheer risk of it hit Sam like a drug.
It wasn’t just the thrill of doing it in a luxury dressing room; it was the danger of doing it with Max so close, just on the other side of a wooden door. Sam had been so good for so long—had been nothing but a dad for six solid years, burying the up-for-anything, boyish flirt under a mountain of algebra homework and college applications. The sudden reversal was intoxicating.
A little nonsense now and then, Sam thought, his eyes fluttering shut as Jakob’s mouth choked down his length.
Jakob was an absolute expert. The room was filled with the rhythmic sounds of his labor—the wet, slurping suction as he pulled Sam deep, then lapped back up to take exquisite care of the crown of his cock, swirling his tongue with a maddening, slow precision before plunging down again.
Sam let his head roll back against the door, his eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, you’re good at that,” Sam breathed. A low, delighted chuckle slipped out. Unconsciously, his hand began to tap an irregular rhythm against the wood of the door, knuckles keeping time with the slide of Jakob’s mouth.
Tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
The brass doorknob suddenly jiggled, the metal clicking as Max tried to turn it from the other side.
“Dad? Let me see the jacket.”
Sam locked into place, throwing his two-hundred-twenty pounds against the door. His Dad-Brain screamed, He’s right there. Snap out of it. But the King just grinned, hips rolling forward, into that hot, sweet mouth.
“Give us a minute!” Sam called out. He widened his stance, socks sliding against the plush carpet, completely barricading the door with his body.
He looked down. “Suck it harder,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a vibration in the quiet room. “Please.”
Jakob hummed a muffled note of agreement against Sam’s skin and tightened his lips, pulling harder. The slurping intensified—a messy, private sound that also seemed impossibly loud. A stream of saliva ran down Sam’s balls, dripping from the blond hairs to the carpet below.
Tremors of agonizing pleasure wracked Sam’s frame, the vibrations shuddering right through his broad back and echoing into the solid wood of the door.
“What’s taking so long?” Max rattled the knob again.
“The zipper’s… being difficult!” Sam yelled back to the door. He bit his bottom lip to contain his gasps.
The salesman’s eyes turned up, tracking every wince and shudder on Sam’s face as he worked. A quiet, messy gluck-gluck escaped every time he took Sam to the back of his throat.
“Lips tight,” Sam breathed, the King completely taking over as he issued the low command. “Yeah. Right there. Suck it like you mean it, son. Don’t let up.”
Dad-Brain hissed at calling Jakob ‘son’ while his actual son was two feet away—but the sheer filthy contradiction made Sam’s cock throb harder in Jakob’s throat.
Jakob’s eyes flared with dark amusement. He obeyed instantly, adjusting his jaw to keep the pressure agonizingly steady. The rhythmic gluck-gluck grew louder before he caught himself and swallowed the sound with a deliberate, muffled gulp.
He wrapped his manicured hands firmly around Sam’s trouser-covered thighs to pull Sam’s lower half closer. Sam pressed his hands against the surrounding doorframe for leverage. His feet slid on the plush carpet as they searched for purchase. Gluckgluck gluckgluck gluckgluck.
On one side, his teenage son was turning the doorknob and pushing the door. On the other, a man with a mouth like hot velvet was pulling Sam’s hips forward to fuck Jakob’s face.
His bare ass hit the door with a muffled thud on every desperate pull-back, until his thick thighs trembled violently and the climax hit him. It came in unrelenting, overlapping waves as he drove his cock into the tightest, deepest recess of Jakob’s throat.
As the climax crested and passed, he could hear the wet, greedy sounds of Jakob gulping him down—fast and heavy at first to catch the initial rush of cum, giving way to a slow, deliberate sucking as he drained Sam.
“Take it,” he whispered fiercely under his breath, letting a hand drop to Jakob’s glossy hair. “Take it all, son.”
When the last tremor finally subsided, Sam slumped against the door, his lungs burning as he fought to quiet his breathing. He let out a soft, stunned little laugh. “Still got it.”
On the other side of the door, Max let out a loud, put-upon sigh. “Fine. Whatever.”
Sam held his breath, listening intently as the squeak of Max’s sneakers finally turned and stepped away, the footsteps fading back out into the muffled silence of the showroom.
The immediate threat gone, Sam reached down. He gripped the salesman’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet, turning him around and spinning him so that Jakob was now the one pressed flat against the walnut door.
“My turn,” Sam rumbled. He dropped into a squat, grinning up at the flushed, amused face above him. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The fine Italian wool of the trousers instantly pulled taut across his thick thighs. He was encased in a masterpiece of luxury tailoring, but his zipper was still wide open, his wet cock and balls hanging completely free over the waistband of his pulled-down briefs, cooling in the air.
His hands moved with the same focused precision he used on a piece of reclaimed timber. He made quick work of the buttons and jerked the plum-lined fabric open.
He freed Jakob and took him into his mouth in one smooth motion. The salesman was already primed, leaking precum steadily that Sam caught against his tongue.
Sam was so eager after six years that his mouth was still too dry at first—the first hungry slide felt a little rough. He pulled off with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, been a minute.” He worked up a mouthful of spit and slid back down smoother, taking Jakob deeper with a low, appreciative hum.
His head bobbed, sucking with slick, hungry schlucks, lips tight while his own low, appreciative hum vibrated around the length. He let one rough hand slide up Jakob’s vest to feel the lean muscle jumping beneath the fabric.
Dad-Brain made one, last feeble plea—He’s right outside that door and you’ve got a mouth full of cock. The King just hummed happily around the thick length and shot back, Yeah… and loving every second of it. He corkscrewed his head to shift the angle and even Dad-Brain had to weigh in, Fucking take it as Sam grinned, eyes half-lidded with pure delight.
Jakob’s hands tangled in Sam’s blond hair. He tried to be quiet, to hold onto that professional control, but Sam’s focused, wet attention broke him.
His lean body spasmed, hips pumping in short, desperate thrusts into the hot hollow of Sam’s mouth as he shot. Sam swallowed hard as the surge hit the back of his throat in bursts—then slowed, milking every pulse with long, affectionate pulls until Jakob fell back against the door, spent and shuddering.
A tiny, breathless, broken sound slipped past Jakob’s lips—“Boże”—that sounded dangerously close to a prayer.
Sam pulled off gently, licked his lips, and gave Jakob’s quivering cock one last affectionate kiss on the tip before tucking him away.
He rose up with a grunt and instantly pulled Jakob close by his vest to kiss him. It was messy and wet, their saliva thickened by each other’s loads, slicking their tongues as they wrestled—a thoroughly raunchy seal on the shared release.
“So,” Max’s voice drifted in through the wood, sounding bored and impatient. “Are we buying the suit or what?”
Sam rested his forehead against Jakob’s. They were both breathless. Sam gave a low, crooked grin.
“Yeah, kid,” he said, before moving in for another kiss. “We’re buying the suit.”
Chapter Eight: Golden Hour
The walnut door finally clicked open, and Sam emerged onto the plush carpet of the showroom floor, followed closely by Jakob, who closed it tight behind them, sealing in the humidity and the rank scent of their sweat and cum.
Max was waiting for them right outside the fitting area, arms crossed over his chest. He took one look at the two of them emerging from the private room, and his dark eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion.
Sam looked only a little worse for the wear—his henley was damp at the neckline, and his hair was rumpled from Jakob's hands, but not much more than usual. But behind him, Jakob’s pristine professional armor was definitively cracked. His tie was loosened, his shirt somehow askew under his vest. A faint flush still colored his sharp cheekbones, and his lips looked thoroughly inflamed.
"Took you long enough," Max complained, his gaze darting between Sam's damp hairline and Jakob's collar as the three of them began walking toward the front of the store. "And I didn't even get to see the fit."
Sam ran a hand through his coarse blond hair, trying to smooth it down, and suppressed a deeply satisfied smirk as he looked at Jakob's lips. "Don't worry about it, kid. It fits like a glove."
"The pinning was an ordeal," Jakob chimed in, his professional composure sliding flawlessly back into place. He pivoted smoothly, appealing directly to Max’s interest. "The jacket is cut from a Super 130s Ermenegildo Zegna wool. The windowpane pattern requires absolute mathematical precision when taking it in at the waist, or the grid becomes distorted."
Sam shrugged to Max.
"You didn't even ask what I thought of it," Max grumbled as they reached the mahogany counter. "It's my graduation."
"Sorry, not sorry," Sam shot back easily, leaning his forearms against the polished surface. He bumped his shoulder against his son's. "You're the one who keeps telling me I have to get used to doing things without you."
Jakob paused behind the register, his hands resting on his ticket book. He looked up, taking in the dynamic in front of him—the mildly sulky, suspicious teenager and the thoroughly relaxed, eye-rolling father. A pursed grin twitched at his lips.
"Actually," Jakob said. "There is one more thing."
He turned to a freestanding rack behind the station and pulled a single jacket from the hanger. He whipped it open with a familiar, fluid flourish, holding it out for Sam to step into. “Textured charcoal Donegal tweed. Simple, but impeccably cut.”
Sam put his hands up immediately, backing away half a step. "No way. Absolutely not. We broke the bank already on the Zegna."
"I insist," Jakob directed. “Fashion show for Max.”
"Just try it," Max urged, his irritation instantly evaporating at the prospect of more clothes. He nudged Sam in the ribs. "Come on."
Sam sighed, but he let Jakob slide the jacket over his shoulders. He turned toward the nearest mirror.
"You see?" Jakob said, standing just behind his shoulder. "You could wear it over a dress shirt to go more formal, or throw it on exactly as you are, with jeans and a work shirt. It doesn't need a single stitch."
"He's right," Max agreed, looking at Sam's reflection. "It looks really good, Dad."
Sam had to admit, even worn over his faded work henley and his pumpkin-colored Carhartts, the jacket looked incredibly good. It elevated the rough workwear into something intentional.
He rubbed his scruffy jaw, feeling the textured weight on his shoulders. He let out a resigned breath. "Alright. How much?"
Jakob held his gaze in the mirror. "It's on the house."
Sam frowned, turning around to face the salesman. The easy banter vanished. "I don't take charity, Jakob. I can't take something and not pay for it."
"It's not charity," Jakob explained smoothly. "It's an orphan. The trousers to this suit were irreparably damaged over a year ago, making it unsellable. I couldn't bear to just throw the jacket away. It's been waiting for someone with the build to pull it off as a standalone piece. It deserves to go somewhere."
Sam looked back at the mirror, studying the broad set of his shoulders, his practical mind catching onto the timeline. "Hanging around for a year? Is it too conservative? Am I going to look dated?"
Jakob picked up the alteration tickets from the counter and slid the stiff paper directly into Sam's palm, his manicured fingers pressing deliberately against Sam's knuckles. His voice dropped to a low, intimate hum. "Classic, not old-fashioned. But I assure you... you will be dated."
A jolt of heat spiked straight down Sam’s spine. As his fingers curled tightly around the tickets, he felt the old, easy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—the same one that used to get him into—and out of—trouble all over town.
"Can we go?" Max asked loudly, his voice cutting through the tension. He looked highly irritated, thoroughly done with whatever weird, vibrating undercurrent was happening between the two men.
Jakob blinked, smoothly stepping back into his professional distance. "Of course. You can pay for the tailoring at pickup."
As they stood there in the waning, golden hour light streaming through the front windows, Sam caught the movement out of the corner of his eye—Max’s head tilting a fraction of an inch as he observed the subtle, magnetic lean of Sam's posture toward the counter, and the soft, bruised smile Jakob gave him in return.
Sam cleared his throat and pocketed the tickets. "Alright. We'll see you in a few weeks, Jakob."
"I look forward to it," Jakob said softly.
Sam pushed the glass door open, and they stepped out into the crisp San Francisco air. The noise of the city rushed in to fill the silence as they began walking down the steep incline of the sidewalk.
They made it half a block before Max spoke.
“That was fun,” Max said casually, kicking at a stray piece of gravel. “Jakob’s nice. Weird, but nice. Don’t you think he’s nice?”
Sam kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, the tweed keeping him surprisingly warm against the coastal wind. “Yup.”
“And good-looking, too,” Max continued, his tone overly conversational.
“Yup,” Sam said.
Max shoved his hands into his pockets. “He’s a little… fancy, though.”
Sam stopped walking. He turned to look at his son, seeing the stubborn jaw from who knew where, and Cass’s dark, intelligent eyes. “Son, is there something you need to say?”
Max stopped too, shuffling his sneakers on the concrete. He looked away, watching the traffic roll past for a moment. "I'm just getting my head around it. Sometimes you want something... but then the way it happens isn't how you thought it would be. You know?"
Sam let out a loud, booming bark of a laugh. "Yeah, kid. I know exactly what you mean."
Max finally looked up, offering a small, familiar smile. "But if you liked someone like that... it would be kind of cool." Max paused, studying Sam's face intently. "Do you like him?"
Sam thought about the dressing room. He thought about the cut of the windowpane wool, the tease of Jakob's eyes, and the sudden, undeniable feeling of waking up after a six-year sleep.
"Yeah," Sam said softly, his voice rough but incredibly steady. "I kinda do."
Max nodded, seeming satisfied with the answer. He stood there for a second longer, the waning sunlight catching the gold band on his hand. Then, without a word, Max held his hand out.
Sam reached out without a thought and wrapped his thick, calloused fingers around Max's hand, feeling the surprising strength of his son's grip. It was still a perfect fit.
They turned and walked, holding hands the rest of the way down the steep San Francisco street.
END
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