The Seam of Leadership

Five people complimented Craig on how nice he smelled before nine o'clock. The first had been Sandra from accounting. She'd barely made it ten steps through the front door before stopping beside Craig's desk and smiling.

"You smell wonderful this morning."

Craig had nearly dropped the mug he was washing.

"Oh. Uh. Thanks."

Sandra smiled again, then continued toward her office as if she'd merely commented on the weather. The second compliment came fifteen minutes later from one of the warehouse supervisors.

Then another.

Then another.

By the fifth, Craig was considering hiding inside the laundry room for the rest of the day.

The worst part wasn't the embarrassment. The worst part was that they were right. Every now and then the scent drifted back toward him from his wrists or the collar of his top. Something floral. Something soft. Expensive. Refined. Feminine.

His stomach sank.

Pleasant.

He didn't want to enjoy it. Didn't want to agree with them. Didn't want the little spark of satisfaction that appeared every single time somebody noticed. Yet there it was.A tiny rush of pride. A feeling that people were admiring him. That they thought he looked nice.

The sensation lasted only a second before being crushed beneath a wave of frustration.

This is Eros. This is the magic. This is how it starts. A little reward here. A little satisfaction there. A siren song dressed up as confidence and self-care. Give in enough times and eventually he'd stop fighting. Stop questioning. Stop noticing. And one day he'd wake up completely comfortable with all of it.

The thought made his stomach twist. Unfortunately, he'd had nearly two full hours to dwell on it.

Getting to work ridiculously early had advantages. It also gave a man entirely too much time alone with his thoughts. At least he'd been productive.

The first order of business had been his nails.

Again.

The polish had swapped out overnight.

Again.

Pink bottles had been waiting for him on the corner of the glass desk when he'd arrived. Pink top. Pink nails. Apparently somebody in the universe cared about colour coordination.

Craig sat with his fingers spread carefully apart, examining the finished result. The application was flawless. Smooth. Even. Professional. They looked beautiful. His smile appeared before he realized what he was thinking.

The smile vanished immediately.

"No," he muttered.

Beautiful wasn't a word he should be using to describe his fingernails.

The rest of the morning had only become stranger. The kitchen had contained ingredients and recipes waiting for him. Three dozen cookies. One birthday cake. No instructions. No explanation. Just an expectation that he'd somehow know exactly what needed doing.

Which, infuriatingly, he had.

Flour measured. Batter mixed. Icing prepared. Everything flowed naturally beneath his hands. The entire process had felt familiar despite the fact that a few weeks ago he'd considered microwave popcorn a culinary achievement.

The lunches annoyed him more than the birthday cake. Anybody could bake a cake. At least there was a skill involved. The lunches felt personal. Domestic. Motherly.

The note pinned to the refrigerator contained exactly two names and no further instructions. Craig had stared at it for nearly thirty seconds. Then his body had simply... moved. Bread appeared on the counter. Peanut butter. Jam. A knife. Before long he was assembling sandwiches with the confidence of somebody who'd packed thousands of them.

That realization bothered him enough that he almost put the knife down.

Almost.

Instead he found himself trimming crusts. Why am I trimming crusts? The answer never came.

A few minutes later he was portioning carrot sticks into little reusable containers. Then juice boxes. Then Wagon Wheels.

Everything fit neatly into two paper lunch bags. Finished. Done. Craig exhaled and reached for a marker to label them. A minute later he was staring at two hand-drawn hearts. One on each bag, just below the names of the recipients.

"Oh, come on."

Laundry had followed. Towels folded. Lint trap cleaned. Supplies organized.

By the time the first employees arrived, everything was finished.

Everything.

Craig had been sitting behind his desk for fifteen minutes with absolutely nothing left to do. And the worst part? The completion of every task had left him feeling oddly satisfied. Like he'd accomplished something meaningful. That feeling bothered him almost as much as the perfume.

The hours that followed passed slowly. A handful of emails. Questions from warehouse staff about stain removal. One executive looking for a recipe. Several customers seeking makeup advice. Craig answered every single one. Apparently he knew far more about cosmetics than any human being should.

The rest of his attention drifted repeatedly back toward the previous morning's discovery. The pole. The streaming setup. The camera.

Pole dancing lessons were bad enough. A practice studio in his apartment was worse. A camera suggested something else entirely. Something on a whole new level. An expectation of performance, of putting himself on display. Not just for his instructor, but for the whole world.

No chance. Not happening. Nothing in the world could convince him to turn that thing on. Nothing.

By the time Daniel Mercer finally arrived, Craig had exhausted every task he could find. The sight of his boss was almost a relief. Coffee was already waiting. Phone messages had been organized. Appointments had been listed neatly on a printed schedule. Daniel accepted everything with an approving smile.

"Good morning, Craig."

"Morning."

"Looks like you've been busy."

"I ran out of things to do."

Daniel laughed.

"That's a rare problem around here."

Then the office door closed behind him. Craig returned to his desk. And immediately found himself with nothing to do again. The morning dragged. Should he repaint his nails? Should he see if anyone needed their office cleaned?

The phones stayed quiet. No new emails arrived. Nobody needed cookies. Nobody needed laundry. Nobody needed advice. Restless energy eventually drove Craig from his chair.

A quick walk through the office revealed absolutely nothing requiring attention.

Laundry room? Empty.

Kitchen? Spotless.

The strange little boy's bedroom? Perfectly organized.

Back to the desk. Back to sitting. Back to wondering how exactly any of this qualified as management training. Not that it really mattered in the moment. He felt like ants were crawling under his skin. He needed to be productive. He needed to accomplish something. All this sitting around was more than he could handle.

Why hadn't anyone started actually mentoring him on leadership? Weren't there tasks to be done? Logistics? Organization? HR?

Then his phone buzzed.

Thank God.

Daniel: I'm having an emergency! I need your help! Are you free??

Craig smiled. At last!

Craig: How can I help?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Daniel: I'm locked into a virtual meeting. I present in a second. Just realized I tore the crotch in my pants. Client meeting right after this. Help!

Craig stared at the text for half a second before sighing. In a way this was exactly what he was hoping for. Something to do. Something to be productive with. But of course it was more of the same. Domestic work. Sewing some torn pants. Next he'll be tucking Daniel in for the night and kissing him on the forehead.

Five minutes ago he'd been wondering why nobody trusted him with actual management responsibilities. Now his boss was texting him because he'd ripped his pants and needed emergency wardrobe assistance.

Maybe he'd been wrong all along. Maybe this was actually management. Maybe every executive in the company secretly spent their days getting their clothes stitched back together by division heads.

With his luck, that was probably the lesson.

Stiletto heels clicking on the tiled floor, Craig crossed the office toward Daniel's door and knocked softly before stepping inside.

Daniel barely looked away from the screen. The large monitor on his desk was filled with faces in tiny boxes. A dozen people stared back from various offices and boardrooms while Daniel stood beside his desk delivering what sounded like a quarterly update.

"...and if we look at the projected numbers for Q3..."

One hand gestured confidently toward the screen.

The other pointed directly at his crotch.

Craig stopped. For a moment he simply stared. Daniel nodded encouragingly. Apparently this was happening.

Trying to stay below the camera's field of view, Craig moved around the side of the desk. The tear was easy enough to spot once he got close. A split along the seam just beneath the zipper. Not enormous, but large enough that it would definitely be noticeable during an in-person meeting.

Daniel continued speaking as though nothing unusual was happening.

"...which should improve efficiency across all distribution channels..."

Another subtle gesture downward.

Craig rubbed at his forehead. Right. Fine. Whatever. The problem was that assessing the damage required getting closer. Far closer.

Carefully, Craig gathered the front of his skirt and began lowering himself toward the floor. He moved gently, carefully, not wanting to tear his pantyhose. The office carpet wasn't exactly rough, but neither was it particularly friendly toward delicate fabric. Last thing he needed was to snag a hole in them. He'd only put the pair on that morning.

Because apparently that was something he worried about now.

Wonderful.

Slowly, Craig bent his knees and eased himself downward. Years of warehouse work would've normally had him dropping into a squat without thinking about it, but warehouse workers generally weren't wearing heels and dark sheer stockings.

One hand braced against the desk. The other smoothed his skirt. Down he went. Careful. Controlled. Ridiculous.

By the time both knees touched the carpet, Craig was questioning nearly every decision that had led him to this moment. Ten days ago he'd unloaded pallets. Ten days ago he'd worn steel-toed boots. Ten days ago the most complicated part of his morning had been deciding whether to buy a coffee before work.

Now?

Now he was kneeling between his manager's legs while wearing a peach top, a black skirt, glossy heels, and freshly painted nails.

A laugh threatened to escape. Not because it was funny. Because it was insane.

Daniel shifted slightly in his chair. The movement brought Craig's attention back to the task.

Right.

Pants.

Repair the pants.

The rest of the world could collapse later.

Daniel spread his legs a little wider without interrupting his presentation.

"...and our leadership team has been very proactive..."

Craig swallowed. From this angle, the torn seam was impossible to miss. So was everything else. Close enough now to smell Daniel's cologne, Craig found himself intensely focused on the damaged fabric. Looking literally anywhere else seemed like a bad idea.

The sewing kit was still sitting in his desk drawer. A needle near someone's groin while they were gesturing enthusiastically during a presentation felt like an even worse idea. Which left only one option.

Craig reached upward. His fingers found Daniel's belt buckle. The leather slid loose with a soft click. Not a single flicker of surprise crossed Daniel's face. If anything, the man looked relieved.

"...excellent work from the entire team..."

Next came the button. Then the zipper. Craig's face felt warm. This was absurd. Utterly absurd.

Yet somehow Daniel continued presenting to a room full of executives as though having an employee unfasten his trousers beneath the desk was a perfectly ordinary part of corporate culture.

Maybe it was.

The zipper slid down. Daniel lifted his hips slightly. Just enough. Craig grabbed the waistband and carefully tugged. The dress pants slipped downward. An appreciative smile briefly crossed Daniel's face before he returned his attention fully to the meeting.

"There we go," Craig muttered under his breath.

Pants in hand, he rose carefully back to his feet, checked that he hadn't damaged his stockings, then turned and headed for the door.

Because apparently his morning now involved emergency crotch reconstruction.

And, disturbingly enough, he already knew exactly which stitch would work best.