Chapter 5: Fabric Hunt with a Tiny Consultant
The warehouse air was cool and smelled of dust and damp cotton, a cavernous space where sound got lost between the towering shelves. Calum moved through the narrow aisles with a tailor’s absent-minded grace, one hand trailing along the edge of a bolt of crimson velvet. In his breast pocket, Tyler shifted, a slight redistribution of weight against Calum’s heart.
“Left,” Tyler’s voice was a muffled instruction from the pocket. “The jerseys are supposed to be on the left, near the loading doors.”
“You memorized the layout?”
“I looked it up while you were driving. You get twitchy in new places.It’s cute.”
Calum scoffed but turned left. The industrial fans high above cycled on with a metallic groan, sending a wave of cooler air down the aisle that made the lighter fabrics flutter like ghosts. He found the jersey section: rolls of fabric in every weight and blend, from heavy interlock to tissue-thin mesh.
He pulled a swatch card from a nearby bin, a little booklet of clipped samples.He held it up for Tyler to see. A tiny hand emerged from the pocket, fingering the first square: a synthetic polyester blend.
“No,” Tyler said immediately, recoiling.“Too scratchy.I’d chafe. You’d have a tiny, grumpy sandpaper rash on your chest. Not a good look.”
Calum smiled and flipped to the next sample: a bamboo-rayon. Tyler’s hand emerged again, this time stroking it thoughtfully. He pushed himself up, bracing his elbows on the pocket’s edge to get a better look, his grey hair catching the stark fluorescent light.“Better. But let me feel the actual bolt.Might be too slick.”
They found the full roll. Calum unfurled a corner, holding it out like an offering. Tyler climbed fully out of the pocket, scaling the fabric down to the concrete floor. He walked across the width of the unrolled section, his bare feet—he’d kicked off his miniature sneakers in the car—sinking into the weave. He knelt, rubbing his cheek against it. He lay down on his back, staring up at the distant ceiling, stretching his arms and legs like he was making a snow angel in the soft grey fabric.
“Well?” Calum asked, his voice low.
“It’s good,” Tyler called up. He rolled onto his stomach, inhaling deeply. “It breathes.It’s soft. Not as soft as my hoodie, but… it already smells a bit like you. Just by proximity. I like it.”
A warm flush spread through Calum’s chest at the observation. “So this one?”
“This one,” Tyler confirmed, standing and brushing off his knees. “Get… a lot of it. For your project.” He looked up, his amber eyes knowing and yet deliberately opaque.He wasn’t asking.He was leaving the door wide open.
Calum nodded, a quick, sharp gesture. He carefully lifted Tyler back to his shoulder, where Tyler took up his perch, legs dangling against Calum’s collarbone. Calum flagged down a warehouse attendant, a bored-looking teenager with a forklift license, and ordered four yards of the bamboo-cotton jersey.At the cutting counter, under the harsh light, other details beckoned. Spools of thread hung like metallic rain. He found what he needed: a fine, smoke-colored monofilament, nearly invisible.He added it to the pile. Then his eyes landed on a plastic bin of closures.Buttons, zippers, hooks. And there, in the back: small, strong neodymium magnets, sandwiched between discs of black polyester. They were used for handbag clasps, for fancy cushion covers.They were silent.They were secure.
He plucked a pair from the bin, their weight insignificant in his palm.
“Magnetic snaps?” Tyler said, leaning over to look.
Tyler said, leaning over to look.
“Yeah.” Calum dropped them into the small basket with the fabric and thread.“For security. A clean closure.”
“For the barn-shouldered man’s emergency escape hatch?”
“I’m trying something different with this project.” Calum replied, his voice carefully neutral. He paid in cash, the crisp bills feeling like a transaction for something illicit. The heavy plastic bag containing his secret swung from his hand as they walked back to the truck.The drive home was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Tyler, back in the passenger seat foothold, scrolled through his tablet, occasionally making a soft hum at something he read. Calum’s mind was already drafting the pattern, his fingers tapping a silent, calculated rhythm on the steering wheel.He could feel the shape of it under his skin, a phantom pressure against his sternum.
Back at the cabin, the late afternoon light bled gold across the wooden floors. Calum headed straight to their bedroom, the bag crackling with every step. He sat on the edge of the bed and opened his palm.Tyler stepped onto it, his weight a familiar and perfect anchor.
“I’m going to work on my project for a few hours,” Calum said, his thumb stroking the curve of Tyler’s back.He nodded toward the hall. “My door will be open a crack. If you need me.”
Tyler studied his face, the keen amber eyes missing nothing—the focused energy, the slight flush on Calum’s neck, the way he was already leaning toward the office.“Okay,” Tyler said simply. He leaned up, pressing a kiss to the pad of Calum’s thumb.“Try not to prick your finger. I’m the only one allowed to make you bleed.”
He jumped down onto the quilt, already reaching for his own tiny charging cable. The dismissal was graceful, giving Calum the space he hadn’t asked for but desperately needed.
In the office, Calum spread the bamboo jersey on his work table, the soft grey fabric drinking the light from the lamp.His design was fairly simple. It wouldn’t be the full harness shape of the baby wrap he’d seen. It was an adjustable sash that would be slim-fitting to his chest if he wanted to wear it out under his clothes, or more of a hammock for when he wore it around the house. Either way, there would be a pocket built in and kept closed by the magnet clasps, though allowing Tyler to touch his skin.
He measured, his chalk leaving faint blue lines on the fabric. The geometry was intimate, based on the span of his own chest, the curve of his pectoral, the exact spot where Tyler’s head would rest if he curled up inside. He cut the main panel with steady shears, the sound a sharp whisper in the quiet room.
He sewed the pocket first, a small rectangle with one open side.He reinforced the seams twice, his stitches minute and even. He attached the magnetic snaps inside the opening, testing them over and over. They made a soft, satisfying click, secure but easily parted from within.
The long straps came next, wide bands of the jersey that would cross in the back. He added sliders and loops for adjustment, the mechanics mundane but suddenly charged with meaning. Every pull of the thread, every backstitch, was a physical plea, a question sewn into fabric.
He worked for two hours, the world narrowing to the path of the needle and the growing form in his hands.He didn’t hear Tyler approach. He only saw a shadow block the light from the hall, the door nudged open a little wider.
Calum didn’t look up.His fingers kept moving, attaching the final strap to the main panel. He heard the soft patter of feet on wood, then felt the gentle weight as Tyler climbed the stool beside the table.Tyler didn’t speak. He watched Calum’s hands, watched the pale, capable fingers guide the dark grey fabric under the presser foot. He watched the birth of the thing meant for him.Finally, Calum snipped the last thread.He held the sash up. It was elegant in its simplicity: a long, clever contraption of soft grey, with a discrete, flat pouch at its center.He looked at Tyler, whose expression was unreadable.
Without a word, Calum stood and took off his shirt. He unfolded the sash, looped it over his head, and crossed the straps behind his back, pulling them snug. He fumbled with the sliders for a moment, his fingers thick with anticipation. The main panel settled flush against his skin, just left of center.The empty pocket lay warm over his heart.
He looked down at it, then at Tyler.He unclicked the magnetic closure. The pouch opened, revealing the dark, soft interior waiting to be filled.Tyler’s breath caught, a tiny, sharp sound. His eyes flicked from the open pouch to Calum’s face, understanding dawning, bright and overwhelming.It wasn’t for a barn-shouldered man.It was a nest. A mobile, secret nest.Calum said nothing. He just stood there, shirtless and vulnerable, offering the open pocket on his chest like a question. The silence between them stretched, taut and full, charged with everything they’d never needed to say until now.
The silence between them stretched, taut and full, charged with everything they’d never needed to say until now.
Tyler didn’t move from the stool. He just stared at the open pouch, his expression shifting from shock to a slow, dawning wonder. Then, without a word, he climbed down and crossed the floor. He approached Calum, his steps silent on the wood, and began to ascend, using the waistband of Calum’s jeans as a foothold. His tiny hand unintentionally tickled the bare skin lightly as he pulled himself up, traversing the terrain of Calum’s stomach and chest.
He took a closer look. It was like a sash, going over one of Calum’s shoulders and looping around behind, coming back to the front at the base of the human’s ribs. The pocket space rested right over his boyfriend’s dark nipple. There was another strap attached just above the pocket that went across to the other side, also with a pocket over the other nipple. Overall, it looked like those armour belt things. A band around the ribs that dipped up in the front, making an inverted “V” that attaches to another band going over the shoulder, making it more of an inverted “Y”.
“It’s a harness,” Tyler finally said, his voice hushed. He traced a finger along the strap crossing Calum’s clavicle. “You made a harness. For me.”
“For us,” Calum corrected, the words sticking in his dry throat.
Tyler’s finger paused over the magnetic clasp. “Invisible thread?”
“I wanted the seams to disappear.”
“Against your skin.” Tyler stated it softly, a fact. He leaned forward, peering into the open pocket. Then he pressed his palm flat against Calum’s chest, right beside it, feeling the heartbeat underneath. “You’ve been thinking about this since the shop. Since the baby.”
“Yes.”
Tyler looked up, his amber eyes gleaming. “You want to carry me around like a kangaroo.”
A shaky laugh escaped Calum. “I want you to be able to be there. If you want to be. While I do the dishes. Or work. Or just… exist. Without you having to climb or I have to hold out my hand. A secure pocket of warmth.” He echoed his own earlier thought, the private poetry of it now laid bare.
“You hate asking for things,” Tyler whispered, his thumb stroking the skin just below Calum’s nipple.
“I’m not asking.” Calum’s voice was rough. “I’m offering.”
Tyler considered this, his gaze drifting over the clever lines of the harness. He tapped the second, empty pocket over Calum’s right nipple. “What’s this one for?”
“Options,” Calum said, a flush creeping up his neck. “Or balance. Or… I don’t know. I just built it.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across Tyler’s face. It was the smile that usually preceded a specific kind of teasing. “So I could be on the left. Or the right. Or,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “if I was feeling particularly adventurous, I could switch sides halfway through the day. Keep you guessing.”
Calum swallowed. “Theoretically.”
Tyler’s smile softened. He hooked his fingers into the open pouch and, with effortless grace, pulled himself inside. He settled into the space, his back against Calum’s chest, his legs curling up. He reached up and pulled the magnetic flap closed from the inside with a soft, definitive click.
The world shifted.
Calum gasped. The weight was insignificant, barely more than his phone, but the psychological reality of it was profound. Tyler was there, a warm, living pressure sealed against his sternum, a hidden heartbeat over his own. He could feel the faint shift of Tyler’s body as he breathed, a subtle expansion against his skin.
“Okay,” Tyler said, his voice now muffled and intimate, vibrating directly through bone and muscle. “Walk.”
“What?”
“Walk. To the kitchen. I want to see what the motion is like. Is it swingy? Or stable?”
Calum, guided by the voice from his chest, walked out of the office and down the short hall. The harness moved with him, the fabric flexing. Tyler’s weight remained snug and centered, a gentle, constant reminder.
“It’s good,” Tyler announced, his tone clinical, assessing. “No sway. The cross-back distributes it. It’s… it’s really secure.” The clinical tone cracked on the last word, betraying a surge of emotion.
Calum stopped in the middle of the living room, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. He looked down at the slight, grey bulge against his chest. “Ty?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it… okay?”
From inside the pouch, he felt Tyler turn, pressing his face and both hands flat against Calum’s skin. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Calum felt a warmth spread where Tyler’s cheek rested, a dampness that wasn’t sweat.
“It’s the least okay thing anyone has ever made for me,” Tyler said, his voice thick and smothered by fabric and flesh. “It’s perfect.”
Relief, warm and solid, flooded Calum’s veins. He brought a hand up, covering the pouch from the outside, cradling the shape of the man within.
“The other pocket’s empty,” Tyler mumbled after a moment, the playful edge returning to his voice. “Feels asymmetrical. Wasted potential.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting,” Tyler said, and Calum could hear the grin, “that you take the rest of that bamboo jersey and make a very tiny, very angry teddy bear to put in the other side. For balance. And to give me someone to talk to when you’re being boring.”
Calum laughed, a real, full-bodied sound that made his chest shake. Tyler laughed with him, the sensation buzzing wonderfully against Calum’s skin.
“Or,” Tyler said, his voice dipping again, becoming a hot, private whisper against Calum’s pec, “you could just put your own hand in there. Keep me company. Since you went to all this trouble to keep your hands free.”
Calum’s breath hitched. He stood in the quiet living room, the evening light fading to blue beyond the windows, a living heart sealed against his own. He slid his hand under the strap and into the empty right-hand pocket, his fingers finding nothing but warm fabric and his own waiting skin.
“Later,” he promised, his voice low.
He felt Tyler’s open-mouthed kiss then, right through the thin layer of jersey, a damp, deliberate press over his left nipple. The touch shot through him, electric and sweet. It was a claim, an approval, a preview.
“Good,” Tyler sighed, settling in. “Now, about those dishes you mentioned. Let’s test the field conditions. And I’m not helping. I’m supervisory personnel.”
Calum’s laugh rumbled through his chest, a vibration Tyler felt from the inside. “Supervisory personnel gets hazard pay,” Calum said, walking toward the kitchen. “Mostly in the form of not being squished.”
“Generous union,” Tyler muttered, his voice a warm hum against bone.
The kitchen was a landscape of gently towering shapes in the low evening light. Calum flicked on the under-cabinet lights, casting a warm glow over the sink piled with their breakfast plates and the mugs from earlier. He ran the tap, the sound of water a sudden roar in the quiet. Steam began to fog the window overlooking the darkening trees.
From his secure pouch, Tyler watched the world move in a steady, rhythmic way. The flex of Calum’s torso as he reached for the soap, the shift of muscles under skin. It was profoundly different from the squirrel-like scramble of a climb or the precarious perch on a shoulder. This was seamless. He was incorporated.
“Water’s hot,” Calum warned, plunging his hands into the sink.
“I’m in a bamboo fortress,” Tyler said, tapping the fabric from inside. “I’m insulated from your domestic dramas.” He shifted, getting comfortable, his back fully supported. He could feel the deep, regular thud of Calum’s heart against his spine. It was better than any documentary.
Calum washed with a mechanic’s efficiency, a rhythm born of repetition. Plate, scrub, rinse, rack. Mug, scrub, rinse, rack. The steam coated his forearms, beading in the fine hairs. Tyler watched the patterns of soap swirl down the drain. The ordinary act felt monumental, like they had discovered a new room in their shared life.
“You’re quiet in there,” Calum said after a while, his voice a low register Tyler felt more than heard.
“Just observing the workflow. It’s adequate. A little heavy on the rinse cycle, but I’ll allow it.”
Calum snorted. He picked up a large ceramic bowl, submerging it. His movements caused a gentle, swaying motion in the pouch, a soft rocking that made Tyler’s eyelids feel heavy. It was incredibly peaceful. Safe. Then a mischievous thought, warm and insistent, uncurled in his mind. Peace was overrated.
He waited for Calum to be holding a slippery, soap-slicked plate in both hands. Then Tyler slowly turned himself within the pouch, maneuvering until he was facing Calum’s chest. The magnetic closure was simple, a gentle push from inside. He nudged it open just an inch, creating a narrow vertical slit in the fabric.
A wave of steam and the sharp green scent of lemon soap wafted in. And there, an inch from his face, was Calum’s left nipple, pebbled slightly from the cool kitchen air against his wet skin.
Tyler didn’t hesitate. He pressed his open mouth against it, a soft, damp circle of heat.
Calum froze. The plate clattered against the stainless steel sink.
“Ty.” The word was a strangled note, half-question, half-plea.
Tyler answered by darting his tongue out, a quick, slick stripe over the tight bud. He felt the muscle beneath him jump, a full-body flinch that made the harness straps pull taut. Calum’s hands, still submerged in hot water, gripped the edge of the sink. His knuckles were white.
“What are you doing?” Calum breathed, not moving.
“Quality control,” Tyler murmured against his skin, his words muffled and hot. “Testing the… accessibility features.” He did it again, slower this time, a languid, circling lick followed by a gentle suck.
A sharp, ragged gasp tore from Calum’s throat. His head dropped forward, ginger hair falling around his flushed face. He was immobilized, trapped between the heat of the sink and the sharper, more insistent heat on his chest. Every nerve was focused on that tiny, devastating point of contact.
“You… the dishes…” Calum managed, his voice wrecked.
“They’ll wait.” Tyler released the nipple with a soft pop, blowing a cool stream of air over the wet skin. He felt the shiver that racked Calum’s frame. “This is more important. Supervisor’s prerogative.”
He closed his teeth, ever so gently, around the pebbled flesh.
Calum moaned. It was a low, helpless sound that seemed to rise from the soles of his feet. His hips jerked forward, pressing against the cool counter. One soapy hand lifted from the water, hovering, shaking, before settling on the countertop for support.
“See?” Tyler whispered, kissing the oversensitive spot now. “Hands-free. You’re still doing the dishes. Technically.” He could taste the clean, salty skin, feel the frantic pound of Calum’s heart just beneath his lips. The power was dizzying, an intimate sabotage of an ordinary moment.
“You’re a menace,” Calum choked out, but he pushed his chest minutely forward, into the warmth of Tyler’s mouth.
“Your menace.”
Tyler switched tactics, abandoning the gentle teasing for a more focused assault. He used the flat of his tongue, then the very tip, flicking rapidly. He alternated between soft, open-mouthed kisses and sharp, precise sucks. He learned the rhythm that made Calum’s breath catch, the specific pressure that made his legs tremble.
Calum was shuddering now, his grip on the countertop unforgiving. Water dripped from his elbows onto the floor, a steady pat-pat-pat counterpoint to his ragged breathing. The rest of the world—the cooling dishwater, the dark window, the waiting chores—had dissolved. There was only the sink holding him up and the exquisite, maddening attention being paid to him.
“Tyler, please…” It was a whisper, stripped bare.
“Please what?” Tyler asked innocently, pausing his ministrations, his breath hot on the wet skin.
Calum was silent, his pride and his need warring. The silence stretched, filled only by the drip from the tap and his own labored breaths. Tyler waited, a smile against his chest.
“Please don’t stop,” Calum finally gritted out, the admission costing him.
“Was that so hard?” Tyler murmured. He rewarded him by closing his lips over the nipple again and sucking, deep and slow.
Calum cried out, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the tiles. His body bowed, pressing Tyler deeper into the harness. The last of his resistance shattered. He was adrift in the sensation, completely at the mercy of the tiny, devastating mouth sealed against him.
Tyler kept at it, relentless, until Calum was trembling on the edge, his every muscle locked. Then, with one final, sucking kiss, he pulled away. He nudged the magnetic flap closed with his forehead, sealing himself back in the dark, warm pouch.
He leaned back, listening to the hurricane of Calum’s heartbeat. It was a frantic, beautiful drum against his back.
For a long moment, Calum didn’t move. He stayed braced against the sink, head down, breathing as if he’d just run a mile. Slowly, so slowly, he pulled his hands from the now-lukewarm water. He didn’t look at his chest. He just stared at the half-washed bowl, seeing none of it.
“The dishes,” he said finally, his voice raw and wondering.
“Are done,” Tyler finished for him, his own voice smug and saturated with affection. He patted Calum’s chest from inside the pouch. “You can rinse that bowl later. Right now, I think your hands are needed elsewhere.”
Calum turned off the tap. The sudden silence was profound. He looked down at the grey fabric clinging to his skin, at the subtle shape within it. A slow, dazed smile spread across his face, cutting through the haze of pleasure.
He didn’t dry his hands. He simply turned from the sink, water dripping from his fingertips onto the floor, and walked toward the dark hallway and their waiting bedroom, one hand coming up to cradle the precious, mischievous weight against his heart.