#the one

The foyer swallowed you whole the second you stepped inside the venue, the world outside evaporating behind glass. Andre was in training tonight, but it almost didn’t matter, this was a names-only room, a Dior invitation that didn’t make space for boyfriends or plus ones.

London dusk turned syrupy and gilded, bleeding through the cathedral-high windows of the building, painting the space in layers of molten gold and pale pink. Chandeliers scattered prisms onto marble and silk, gilding every edge; champagne fizzed in flutes, silk and pearl buttons winked beneath shifting light, laughter rising and falling in warm waves. Perfume clung to the air, blends of jasmine, amber, citrus, and a smokier scent like incense still burning from last night’s dreams.

You let the doors thud closed behind you, moving forward because the alternative, lingering, or freezing, felt like admitting how much this all overwhelmed you. Every step was choreography. Shoulders back, spine tall, chin tipped up the way Camille had sculpted you in her mirror that morning; a living moodboard, confidence hooked on like another gold chain. The clutch in your hand felt like an anchor, your dress whispering against your legs with each slow, steady stride. Camera shutters popped somewhere behind you; glasses chimed like a prelude to secrets. You slipped into the current, letting the luxury brush past without sticking, everything so effortless it almost hurt.

You gave the room a scan, eyes flicking from familiar faces, to the unknown, from the sharp jawed editors to the diamond draped socialites who orbited these events with inherited ease. A stylist you’d once shared a cab with in Milan, a Dior executive whose last name you’d rehearsed. A flicker of Andre in the curve of a stranger’s smile that made your heart flinch for a moment, but it was gone before it could mean anything.

“Darling!” sang an effervescent voice, as if you’d been missing from some private stage. You turned, a rehearsed smile blooming, cheeks soft yet guarded. Air kisses exchanged, compliments traded, you look divine, Dior has never looked better.

You gave back what you were supposed to give, a light laugh, a hand to a shoulder, a warmth that looked effortless from the outside, and then, just as quickly, the woman was gone, absorbed into someone else’s circle, her attention sliding away like silk off skin. No pause or follow up.

You were a natural now at the performance of it, pivoting, gliding, letting the music carry you through gaps in conversation like it was meant to, but the longer you stood there, the more you felt the thinness. The fact that if you disappeared into the bathroom and didn’t come back, nobody would notice for at least ten minutes. Maybe longer.

It should have been easy, it should have been only this, but your thoughts kept folding back to Lewis’ message still glowing faintly on your phone, filed away in that half-lit place where you kept things too sharp to touch for long:

I’ll be in London this week.

Think it’s about time I returned it.

Your heart had jumped at the words. You’d pictured it happening quietly, in the wings somewhere. A corner of some restaurant, the private pause before a cab ride home, maybe a quick exchange outside his hotel. Not here. 

You waded deeper into the room, letting the crowd push you onward. Crystal chandeliers glowed like galaxies overhead, fracturing dusk into blue, gold, and starlight. You paused at a display of archived gowns, lingering over the details in the embroidery.

That was when you felt the subtle shift, the prickle beneath your skin, a magnetic current you could never quite explain.

You told yourself it was nothing. The heat, the lights, the way your nerves were already frayed from pretending you belonged here. Still, your gaze lifted anyway, sliding over faces too polished, too familiar, too wrong. You scanned without meaning to, as if you were only taking in the room, when really you were looking for a shape your heart already remembered.

For a second, you thought you’d imagined it. A laugh that wasn’t his, a silhouette that almost matched. Your heart kicked up anyway, stupidly eager, and you hated yourself for how fast you hoped.

Then, your eyes drifted again, and found him.

Lewis stood half-turned, woven into the flow of the evening. The cut of his outfit was spare, precise; his posture radiated an effortless calm. One hand held a clear drink, the other tucked into his pocket with a languor that read as confidence, rather than carelessness. His sleeves were pushed up, and there, catching the fractured chandelier light, was your bracelet. The diamonds scattered your pulse back at you in tiny, mocking flickers.

At first, your mind refused the truth of it. That small, familiar band glittered on his wrist like a mark, an invocation. Private meaning made visible under public light.

Nobody else noticed, nobody else could know, but you felt it like a hand on your throat.  It was strange, somehow, the intimacy of it, the way absence and memory lived together in the space between his wrist and your skin. 

He was angled away, speaking to a woman you didn’t recognise. She wore a sharp black dress, scarlet lips, a shape drawn in bold lines. He laughed, and you caught it in the crowd, the low roll of his voice tumbling into the thrum of the room. As he shifted, the bracelet slid lower, catching, throwing shards of light, like a signal for you alone.

You inhaled, trying to mask it. You tried to let your face relax into the smooth composure these rooms demanded, but inside, your nerves fired off in a dozen directions, hands tightening on your clutch, your other wrist tingling, bare and weightless.

Still, you moved, there was safety in the ritual. You smiled, you responded, you let your dress take the compliments meant for you, all the while your gaze returning to him, unbidden, inevitable.

Then, as though he’d felt the weight of your attention, as though the air itself bent toward you, Lewis turned. His eyes lifted, finding you through the glass and shifting bodies.

Time cinched in, the room blurring around the edges of your vision. Lewis’ expression softened into that same small smile you’d seen in photos he’d never posted publicly, the one that felt reserved for moments that weren’t meant for an audience. It reached his eyes easily, as if he hadn’t had to think about it.

Your stomach fluttered, a rush rising under your ribs, threatening to spill out into the world around you. It felt ridiculous, almost childish, shy, giddy, all nerves and hope. You looked away for a heartbeat, eyes dropping to the marble beneath your feet, breath slipping out carefully through your nose. Still, you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your own mouth.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this. Weeks of messages, check-ins that felt too soft to be harmless, a video of your bracelet in his palm, his thumb gently tracing over the clasp, photos of hotel ceilings, early breakfasts and a wrist you shouldn’t have been memorising, the back and forth that had kept you checking your phone constantly, it shouldn’t have felt like this. It was just messages, it should’ve felt like nothing.

Now though, he was right here, close enough to eclipse the noise of the room.

Lewis moved with an unrushed certainty that changed the air, as though you were the only reason for time to pass. His gaze never wavered, tracking you as he closed the distance, each step softening the clamor of the crowd until you were both breathing the same expensive air.

He stopped just in front of you, head tilting, eyes sweeping subtly down your figure, then back up. The moment stretched between you quietly, everything you hadn’t said in the last few weeks crowding into the space.

“Hey,” he greeted you finally, but wrapped in the warmth of a room you were sharing, it felt different. Familiar and new at the same time.

“Hi,” you responded, your own voice a fraction breathier than you would’ve liked. Your fingers curled, thumb brushing along the hardware of your bag, your wrist feeling suddenly, acutely bare.

“Had a feeling you’d be here.” His voice thrummed low, warmth weaving through every word. 

You lifted your chin, letting your eyes sweep over him with equal leisure, letting him feel every inch. “Did you now?”

His answer was a quiet hum, a smile tucked into the space between you. “You look-” He stopped himself like the word nearly came out too honest, too intimate for a room full of witnesses. Then, he continued softly. “Wow.”

Your eyelashes fluttered briefly, surprise rising in your chest, but you met it with a soft, genuine smile. “Thank you.”

Then, his hand lifted, and he turned his wrist, the familiar bracelet glinting beneath the lights in his palm. The clasp caught the chandelier’s fractured gold, but as he moved his fingers over it, you saw a tiny, seamless mend where the catch had once gone loose, the fix so careful you almost missed it.

“I believe this is yours.” He let the bracelet dangle between you for a moment, eyes never leaving yours. His thumb brushed over the clasp as he asked carefully. “May I?”

You nodded, barely trusting your own voice, your wrist already angling toward him before you realized you’d moved. The world shrank to the two of you, the weight of something old being made new again. A camera flash popped somewhere behind you and your stomach dropped hard, ridiculous with panic, until you realised it wasn’t for you. Still, your body didn’t unclench. 

Lewis’ warm, tattooed fingers found your wrist. He circled it with his palm, his skin sliding against yours. He traced the inside of your arm, thumb glancing across the thinnest skin, pausing for a second as if feeling the beat beneath it. Every brush of his knuckles sent delicate sparks up your arm, until you felt bare in the most beautiful way.

He worked the clasp, unclipping it and shifting it into place. The touch was featherlight over the inside of your wrist, sending a pulse of heat through you. 

“Had the clasp fixed, it was a bit loose,” he explained, voice quieter now, pitched only for you. 

His fingertips pressed delicately into the hollow of your wrist, his skin brushing softly over yours. Your heart hammered helplessly, thrumming under his hands. He shifted the bracelet, holding it against your skin, the warmed metal a sharp contrast to your feverish nerves.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered, a small catch in your voice. 

His fingers paused, thumb tracing an absentminded line over your vein before he began fastening the clasp, slow, careful, as if he was memorising every detail. The metal felt tighter, clicking into place with a faint resistance, the newness of the repair clear in the firmer snap. He pressed the clasp closed, knuckle brushing along your wrist arm, and the sensation sparked something bright and fragile behind your ribs.

“Just didn’t want you to lose it again,” he replied, his warm brown eyes meeting yours again, steady and more honest than you were ready for. 

He kept your wrist cradled in his palm for a moment, thumb running gently over the curve of the band, grounding you there in the middle of the event as if nothing else mattered. Your breath tangled in your throat, chest tight with the effort not to show how much it meant. The warmth of his skin bled through your pulse points, his touch careful, as though he was putting you back together.

“Thank you,” you managed, voice barely above a breath, raw and sincere. “For keeping it safe.”

A slow smile ghosted over his full lips. “Wasn’t mine to lose.”

You didn’t pull away yet. For a suspended moment, you both stood there, your wrist between his hands, the new clasp snug and secure. When he finally released you, his touch lingered, a phantom warmth that made you feel, just for a heartbeat, like you were exactly where you belonged.

You lowered your hand slowly, as if any sudden movement might break the spell, and let your fingers drift over the bracelet, feeling the familiar curve of each link, the cool drag of the metal now warmed by him. The clasp sat snug against your skin, stiffer than before, a tiny ridge under your thumb that hadn’t been there the last time you’d worn it.

“It feels…” You swallowed, surprised by the thickness of your own voice. You tried again, quieter. “It feels good to have it back.”

Lewis’s gaze followed the path of your fingertips, the barest hint of satisfaction settling at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t lie, I’ll miss my lucky charm.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, softer than you meant it to be. “You’ll survive,” you replied, finding your footing again in the safety of teasing. You lifted your wrist a little between you, letting the diamonds catch the chandelier light, flashing at him like a tiny, taunting lighthouse. “You’ve won plenty before stealing my jewellery.”

He huffed out a quiet, disbelieving sound, eyes flicking from the bracelet to your face. “I didn’t steal it,” he chuckled, his tone dropping into that low, amused register. “You’re the one who left it on the floor in Paris of all places. If anything…” His shoulder shifted in a small, easy shrug. “I saved it.”

The word slid through you like a warm current, tripping over too many things it could mean. You felt your mouth curve before you could stop it, fondness loosening in your chest. “Right,” you murmured, playing along because the alternative was acknowledging what it did to you. “My hero.”

That pulled a softer laugh out of him, his head dipping for a second like he was trying to hide it from the room. His eyes narrowed a touch in amusement as he shot back. “Yeah, don’t get used to it, love.”

His gaze dipped to your lips and quickly back up again, as if he was reminding you who started this game.

Your own giggle rose to meet his gently, the two sounds brushing together in the small space between you. It wasn’t that what you’d said was particularly funny though. It was the pressure of everything unsaid, the charged stillness, the way the tension had nowhere else to go. For a moment, the noise of the event fell away, just the two of you suspended there under too bright lights, your wrist still tingling, the new clasp against your pulse, everything else holding its breath.

The amusement tapered off between you, thinning into a denser quiet. You rolled your lips together, tasting the faint trace of your lipstick and nerves, trying to smooth your expression back into neutral when it wanted to tip into something else entirely. Heat curled beneath your skin, impossible to pretend away now that he was right there, your bracelet back where it belonged, his cologne threaded through the air between you.

Lewis’ eyes dipped in a short flash to your mouth before he caught himself, gaze lifting back to yours as if nothing had happened. He didn’t say anything about Paris. Didn’t mention the nights of messages, the photos, the tension in your back and forth that had made your phone feel like a live wire in your hand. You didn’t either, but it hovered between you anyway like an electric charge, stitched into the way his shoulders angled toward you, and the way your heart wouldn’t steady.

You opened your mouth, not even sure what you were going to give voice to, maybe a joke, a deflection, a question, but the moment fractured before anything could form.

“Excuse me,” a bright, yet professional voice cut in gently at your side.

You turned to find a Dior staffer hovering just within polite distance, tablet tucked against her chest, a slim earpiece glinting beneath the sweep of her hair. Her smile was warm but efficient, eyes flicking between the two of you with the calmness of someone used to rearranging rooms full of people.

“We’re about to start the welcome in the main gallery,” she explained, pitching her voice over the hum of conversation. “Please make your way there, when you are ready.”

“Of course,” you replied at the same time Lewis nodded, your voices overlapping in a soft, awkward harmony that made something in your chest twist.

“Thank you,” he added after a quick beat. The staffer smiled once more, already turning to usher another cluster of guests toward the open archway where the light pooled warmer, brighter.

The private bubble you’d been standing in seemed to dissolve with her departure, the spell dissolving ever so slightly. Lewis looked back at you, the corner of his mouth tilting, eyes searching your face as though he was memorising it all over again under this new light.

He shifted, stepping slightly to the side, closer to the direction of the gallery. “Let’s go,” he murmured, dipping his head toward the main space. His hand lifted as if he might offer you his arm, then thought better of it, fingers flexing once before he let them fall back to his side.

You nodded, your bracelet catching and scattering the chandelier light as you moved, a tiny burst of brilliance at your wrist that felt strangely loud. You fell into step beside him, shoulders almost but not quite brushing, the crowd parting in slow, shimmering waves as the two of you walked forward together into the glow of the main room.

The main gallery opened up around you in a slow unfurl of light and sound. The ceiling arched high overhead, strung with chandeliers that poured a softer, more deliberate glow over everything, less chaotic than the foyer, more curated, like stepping into the inside of a photograph. Dior silhouettes stood on raised plinths around the room, each lit from below so the fabrics seemed to float, seams and beadwork catching the light like constellations.

Guests had already begun to gather in loose clusters near the center, drinks in hand, conversation tapering into a collective murmur. A small dais waited at the far end, framed by two towering arrangements of white flowers and branches sprayed in muted gold, the Dior logo gleaming discreetly on the wall behind it.

Lewis slowed as you reached the edge of the crowd, an unspoken question in the slight tilt of his head. You found yourself nodding before you’d even thought about it, and the two of you came to a stop side by side, just close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him through the thin barrier of your dress.

Someone near the front clinked a glass lightly, a soft chime that rippled through the room. Conversations dimmed, voices folding into silence as a woman in a perfectly cut black jacket stepped up onto the dais, microphone in hand, her smile practiced and elegant as she began to speak.

You tried to listen. Phrases drifted over you in polished waves, “honored to welcome you,” “heritage and innovation,” “capsule collections,” “creative vision”, all the right words strung together in the right order, but they kept slipping past the edges of your attention, the way sound blurred underwater.

You were all too aware of the man next to you. After weeks of words and photos exchanged over a phone, he was right there.

Not touching you, not even brushing, but there. A steady presence at your side, his arm a warm line of heat just shy of your bare shoulder, his cologne a quiet thread of wood and rose that kept brushing against your awareness every time you inhaled.

You fixed your gaze on the speaker, letting your face arrange itself into attentive interest, but your nerves had other ideas. The electricity under your skin hummed more insistently, tuning itself to the particular frequency of the man beside you. Somewhere mid-sentence, “…our continued commitment to craftsmanship…” you felt a subtle shift in his attention, almost like a change in air pressure.

Lewis was looking at you.

You didn’t move though, you didn’t look back at him. You kept your eyes on the woman on the dais, eyelashes low, expression composed. But the awareness was impossible to ignore, prickling faintly along your cheek, down the side of your neck. Your fingers twitched, thumb instinctively nudging the edge of the bracelet, as if that small, familiar weight could steady you.

You inhaled quietly, letting the speaker’s words wash over you until you thought your face might give you away if you ignored him any longer. Then, carefully, you let your gaze drift, as though you were just scanning the room, no one in particular.

It was a lie, and both of you knew it.

You let your eyes slide from the dais, past the front row, over the nearest display, until finally, slowly, they found him.

He’d turned his head only slightly, enough that you could see the line of his jaw beneath the soft gallery lighting, the way it smoothed as his expression relaxed. The jacket he wore sat on him like it had been built there, precise, spare, every line clean. The open collar bared the warm column of his throat, a glimpse of ink at the edge, the glint of a necklace catching and losing the light as he breathed.

For a fleeting second, you let yourself drink him in properly, not in a split-second glimpse on a screen or a blurred still between crowd shots, but here, inches away. The slight furrow of concentration between his well groomed eyebrows, the softness at the corner of his mouth like he’d been on the verge of a smile and hadn’t quite let it stretch. 

Then, he noticed. His gaze caught yours mid-sweep, pinning you in place. There was a brief, startled beat, like you’d both been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, before his features softened, the smallest, slowest smile curving through his mouth. It wasn’t wide or showy, just a quiet shift, warmth breaking through.

You felt your face heat instantly, warmth surging up from your chest to the apples of your cheeks, simmering under your skin in a way you could only hope the low lighting disguised. Your lips tugged upward helplessly, answering his smile with one of your own, smaller, more cautious, but no less real.

The speech faded entirely for a moment. The room, the gowns, the chandeliers, all of it receded until there was only the two of you standing shoulder to shoulder in a sea of people, sharing a secret that had no words yet. Your bracelet pressed into your wrist with every pulse, the new clasp firm and sure, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but were already keeping.

The sound of your own pulse in your ears slowly bled back into the room’s softer noise. The speech reasserted itself at the edge of your awareness, words sharpening into focus just in time to catch the closing cadence. “…we do hope you enjoy this evening with us and the collections we’ve created for you.”

Polite laughter and applause rippled through the gallery, a wave that started near the front and rolled outward. The woman’s smile widened, the microphone lowered with ease. A couple of executives stepped up to shake her hand; flashes popped politely, shutters clicking like distant insects.

You straightened almost on instinct, swapping the grip of your bag in your hands. The applause faded into the rustle of movement, heels tapping on marble floors, fabrics whispering, voices lifting again as people began to peel away from their places and spill toward the surrounding displays.

“Please, feel free to explore the archive looks and new capsules at your leisure,” another voice called through the speakers, warm and professional. “Our team is here if you have any questions.”

The structure of the room loosened at once. Clusters broke apart, reformed. Guests drifted toward whichever gown or glass case or familiar face drew their eye first, the gallery humming back to life.

Beside you, Lewis shifted, a small, subtle change in the angle of his shoulders as he settled back into the room. His arm brushed the barest fraction closer to yours in a near touch that made your skin buzz, and then he turned his head, looking at you fully now, no longer caught between the speaker and you, but choosing you.

“So,” he murmured, voice dropping into that low register that threaded straight through your ribcage, “what do you think?”

You blinked once, the question landing like an anchor in the middle of your drifting thoughts. “About the speech?” you asked, buying yourself a second.

He huffed a quiet little breath through his nose, mouth tipping. “About all of it.” His gaze flicked briefly around the room at the gowns, the marble, the curated elegance, before returning to your face. “You good?”

The simplicity of it made your chest tighten. People asked if you were okay all the time, but it rarely sounded like this; like he meant you and not the version of you built for rooms like this.

You gave a small nod, feeling the truth sway between honesty and performance. “Yeah. Just…taking it all in.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, like he was weighing that answer, then he nodded too, accepting it without quite believing it. The corners of his mouth twitched, as though he wanted to say more, but a new voice cut in from somewhere to your left, calling his name with an easy familiarity.

You both glanced over to see a small knot of people looking your way, the woman in the black dress from earlier, a man in a navy jumper and wide legged jeans, and another woman with an immaculate bob and a clipboard tucked to her side. They lifted their hands in a brief wave, already beginning to angle toward you.

Lewis inhaled in a quiet, resigned sound. “I should probably…” he started, the sentence trailing off as his eyes came back to you.

“Yeah, go do your thing,” you supplied gently, mouth tilting as your chin tipped towards the awaiting group.

His expression shifted in acknowledgement, a quiet acceptance of the role waiting for him on the other side of the room. His jaw flexed once, then he gave a small nod, as if steadying himself. Then, his attention sharpened again, settling fully back on you. The edge of the moment softened, replaced by a gentleness you didn’t expect. “You know people here, yeah?”

The question caught you off guard in its care. You glanced around the room, at the editors you only knew as bylines and profile photos, the stylists you’d brushed shoulders with, the muses and muscled arms of the industry who seemed to live in these spaces. You knew faces. You knew names. That wasn’t the same as knowing people.

“Not really,” you admitted quietly, surprising yourself with the honesty of it. You gave a small shrug, trying to soften it. “Might recognise some faces, but haven’t seen anyone I know yet.”

Lewis shifted his weight, turning his body a little more fully toward you, as though to shut the rest of the room out for a moment. “You know me.”

Your heartbeat stuttered, catching on all the nights that sentence could apply to, the messages, the video, the photos of your bracelet in his palm, the way you’d started to recognise his moods in the structure of his texts alone.

You swallowed, your bracelet pressing firmly against your pulse as if to underline it. “I do,” you managed, your voice softer than you’d meant it to be.

The group was edging closer now, the Dior staffer’s polite smile already aimed in your direction. Lewis glanced over his shoulder once, then back at you, as if he was counting the seconds.

“I gotta go say hi,” he said, regret threading through the quiet. Then he dipped his head, lowering his voice to something only you could hear. “But don’t disappear on me, okay?”

Your breath snagged in your throat. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you replied, attempting an easy tone, but your words came out a fraction too earnest.

He held your gaze, like he was searching for something underneath it. “Good,” he murmured, that small, private smile returning. “Because I’d like to spend more than thirty seconds with you tonight.”

It slid over your skin like a stroke of heat. Images flashed in quick succession, your last parting in Paris, the way you’d walked away after he’d told you he wanted to get to know you, the string messages weeks later that had cracked that certainty open. Now this, here, under Dior chandeliers, like a quiet correction.

You felt your heart kick hard against your ribs, the new clasp biting gently into your skin with the force of it. For a moment, you didn’t trust your mouth, afraid that if you opened it, everything you’d been holding back might come spilling out into the space between you.

So you breathed in instead, letting the air sit heavy in your lungs. “Okay,” you nodded finally, the single word wrapped around more than it had any right to hold. “I won’t.”

The tension in his shoulders eased at that, a subtle loosening around his eyes, as though you’d given him more than just permission to find you again in the crowd. “Alright,” he grinned, almost under his breath, like an agreement with himself as much as with you.

The Dior staffer reached you then, her greeting bright and warm as she drew him into whatever orbit awaited him across the room. Lewis dipped his head in acknowledgement, then tipped it toward you one last time, eyes lingering on your face as if he was imprinting it for later.

“I’ll find you.”

You could only nod once more, your bracelet warm and steady against the frantic drum of your pulse. He turned, the small constellation of people closing in around him as he stepped away. The space he’d occupied beside you cooled immediately, the absence almost physical.

You watched his broad shoulders as he moved through the crowd, caught smiles, the way he leaned in to listen, the easy way people pivoted toward him. The gallery buzzed back into sharp focus around you; the sound of glass tipping together, the rustle of fabrics across the floor, the low swell of conversation, perfume curling in delicate clouds.

You let out a slow breath, feeling the air shiver in your chest. You were alone again, but the night no longer felt like it belonged entirely to Dior.

Soon after, you let yourself drift with the crowd, the edges of the room coming back into focus as though someone was slowly easing the blur on a lens.

A tray floated past first, balanced on a gloved hand. The faint tap of tiny plates reached you before the server did, followed by a curl of citrus and something buttery, warm. Small canapés were arranged like sculptures, circles of brioche with glistening pearls of caviar, jewel-bright beetroot folded over whipped cheeses, another dark and lacquered with soy and sesame on a fragile cracker. You took one without really thinking, more to give your fingers a purpose than out of any real hunger.

The pastry shattered delicately between your teeth, wafer-thin and crisp, the salt-butter richness blooming across your tongue. For the first time all evening, your stomach remembered it existed, tightening with a faint, belated hunger.

You turned toward one of the nearer mannequins, drawn almost at random to the fall of a skirt, and realised you weren’t alone.

A woman stood beside you, her profile turned toward the gown. You recognised her in that vague, fashion adjacent way, you’d seen her name in show rundowns, her face in tagged event photos. Her hair fell in a halo of glossy curls, cut to brush just above her shoulders, each coil defined yet soft, as if it had dropped perfectly into place and then been left alone on purpose. A few tighter spirals framed her face, catching the light when she moved, while the rest was pushed back behind one ear to reveal a small gold hoop, while her eyeliner flicked out in perfect, unbothered wings. The dress she wore was a column of black satin that caught the light like spilled ink, the neckline cutting across her collarbones in a clean, fearless line.

“Sorry,” you murmured softly, shifting just enough to give her more space at the display, even though she hadn’t actually asked for any. Your gaze snagged on the way the fabric skimmed over her shoulders. “You look incredible, by the way. That dress is…stunning.”

Her full lips curved, the compliment landing with visible satisfaction. She turned more fully toward you, eyes tracing your own dress with a quick, practised sweep. “Thank you so much.” Her gaze came back to your neckline, then down to the way the fabric hugged your waist. “You’re one to talk. I love your whole look. Wow.” She gestured lightly, a small, elegant circle with the hand holding her champagne.

Heat bloomed high in your cheeks, but this time it was easier to lean into. “Thanks.” You shifted your clutch to your other hand, bracelet glinting as you moved. “I’m-” you gave your name, the syllables feeling slightly surreal in a room like this. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Up close, the familiarity clicked into place, the name you’d seen in credits finally attaching itself to the real person in front of you. “You too. I’m Nakita,” she replied warmly, and somehow that simple exchange made the room feel marginally less like it belonged to everyone else.

You spoke for a minute or two more, your conversation skimming easily over the skirt in front of you, the cut, the way the pleats had been pressed to catch the light, as well as the collection, the venue, the small absurdities of getting ready for nights like this. You mentioned Camille in passing and watched recognition spark in her eyes; she rolled hers fondly and admitted she’d fought to book her last season. The shared language of fittings and last minute tailoring mishaps loosened your shoulders, easing you back into your own skin.

Eventually, someone called her name from a few displays over, a stylist you half recognised lifting their hand in a small wave. She glanced back at you, curls bouncing lightly as she turned. “I should get going. Enjoy the night, yeah? I’ll see you around.”

“Thanks,” you smiled in return, meaning it more than you could convey in one word. “You too.”

She slipped away, black satin and dark curls disappearing into the crowd, and the space beside you slowly filled with the soft hush of the gallery again. When you moved to continue down the collection, the air shifted against your bare shoulder, and one of your dress straps slid the slightest fraction down your arm, a slow, treacherous stretch of fabric against your skin. 

You glanced down, heartbeat ticking up for no good reason at all, and hooked a finger beneath the strap, easing it back into place along your shoulder, smoothing it flat like you could smooth yourself back into composure with it.

The space unfurled in soft segments as you continued on your way. One pocket of light held a rail of archive black and white looks, each one suspended in time with waist clinched jackets, skirts with disciplined pleats, tiny covered buttons lined up with monastic precision. Another corner was all colour and newer silhouettes, such as acidic chartreuse, melted-caramel gold, a red so deep it bordered on bruised. Shoes sat under glass like museum relics, their shadows fanning across the plinths, straps and buckles and curves designed more for fantasy than function.

Every so often, when you weren’t braced for it, you found him again.

Lewis in the distance, listening intently to a man in a dark suit, his head angled down, shoulders squared but relaxed. Lewis with a director type in wire rimmed glasses, who gestured widely at a coat while Lewis’s hand came up to the back of his own neck, fingers rubbing once at the muscles there like he was tired and trying not to show it. Lewis laughing at something the woman in the sharp black dress said, his grin tipping wide, head thrown back the tiniest bit, throat exposed, the delicate flash of a chain at his collarbone.

At one point, he glanced up mid-conversation idly, letting his eyes roam the room for a moment. His gaze skimmed past crystal, silks, shoulders, then landed on you. It caught for a brief second longer than politeness required.

His expression shifted just enough to show a flash of relief, as though he’d been checking you hadn’t vanished. You felt your own posture soften in response, an invisible exhale rolling through your shoulders. Then someone touched his elbow, pulling him back into their orbit, and the thread stretched thin again.

You circled toward the centre of the gallery, drawn almost unconsciously to one of the main displays. A mannequin stood on a raised platform, encased in a low glass barrier, dressed in a structured jacket and a matching skirt that made you stop without meaning to.

The jacket was sharp, almost architectural, nipped brutally at the waist, with clean, assertive shoulders that implied an entire posture, but it was the skirt that held you.

At first glance, it seemed simple; a sweep of pale fabric that fell from the cinched waist to just above the ankle, hanging in generous, controlled folds, but the longer you looked, the more the detail revealed itself.

There were faint, perfectly spaced parallel lines of topstitching running along the seams, catching the light in ghostly glints. The fabric itself wasn’t flat; it had a barely there texture, like the memory of a weave you could only see when the light hit at a certain angle. Where the skirt curved over an invisible hip, you could see how the weight had been balanced, how much fabric had been allowed to exist there without ever looking heavy.

You stepped a fraction closer, the marble cool and unyielding beneath your heels, and leaned in just enough to pick out the understructure. Beneath the outer shell, there was a stiffer layer, just visible at a seam, a secret scaffolding that made the whole thing hang the way it did. Hidden strength disguised under softness.

It reminded you, in a way that made something twist inside you, of the ways you’d learned to hold yourself together. Of all the invisible layers and small, invisible tugs that kept you upright in rooms where you weren’t sure you belonged.

You were so wrapped in the thought of it, that you didn’t register the change in the air behind you until it was already there, and a familiar presence settled at your side.

“What are you thinking about?” Lewis’ voice came from just over your shoulder, shaped by a smile you could hear even before you turned.

You turned your head to look at him, the question hanging between you like a loose thread. Lewis stood close, his eyes on you first, not the mannequin, open and intent without being pushy, as though he genuinely wanted to know where your mind had gone.

Your thoughts tangled for a beat, structure, under layers, the hidden scaffolding of the skirt, the bracelet snug at your wrist, the fact that he’d found you again exactly like he promised, and you heard yourself answer before you’d fully decided on the lie.

“Nothing,” you responded quietly, the word small but not flippant, slipping out on a breath that felt too careful for how casual it sounded.

One of his brows lifted by a fraction, the barest crease forming between them. He didn’t call you on it, but the look he gave you said plainly that he didn’t buy it. The corner of his mouth tugged, a faint, knowing curve that softened the edges of his disbelief.

“Yeah?” he asked, letting the single word hang there for a heartbeat, then tipped his chin toward the mannequin, giving you an easy out. “You like this one?”

Relief threaded through the tiny pivot. You turned your gaze back to the skirt, grateful to have something solid to anchor yourself to. “Yeah, I do.” You let your eyes travel down the line of it again. “It looks really simple from further away,” you went on, your voice strengthening as you followed the thought, “but up close you can see the details in the way the structure’s hidden.” You tilted your head, tracking the faint seams, the whisper of topstitching. “If you didn’t really look, you’d think it just…fell like that on its own.”

Beside you, Lewis watched your face as much as he watched the skirt, taking in the way your expression shifted, the tiny focus line between your eyebrows, the quiet intensity in your voice. When you finished, his eyes dropped to the mannequin, as if seeing it properly for the first time through your lens.

He eased a little closer to the glass, hands sliding into his pockets, shoulders angling toward the display. His focus traced the same paths yours had, down the seam, across the ghost of the stitching, along the faint suggestion of the understructure peeking at the hem. For a moment, you stood side by side in companionable quiet, the noise of the gallery thinning to a soft hum around your shared orbit.

“Mm,” he hummed after a short moment, his eyes thoughtful. He straightened slowly, gaze lingering on the skirt for a final moment before it found your face again. “You’ve got a good eye,” he concluded, filing it away with everything else he’d quietly noticed.

“It’s mostly my friend, Camille,” you replied, feeling your mouth tip before you could stop it, instinctive deflection softening the compliment before it had time to settle anywhere too deep. “She’s taught me way too much. I can’t look at anything now without thinking about all those little details, she’s drilled it into me.”

Lewis’s gaze sharpened with interest, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Camille?” he echoed, head tilting slightly. “Camille…Saban?”

You blinked, a small jolt running through you at the sound of her full name in his mouth, so casual and sure. “Yeah,” you answered, a little taken aback. “That’s the one. Do you know her?”

His response was immediate, a quiet huff of recognition leaving him as his lips curved. “Yeah, I know her,” he confirmed, like it was obvious. “The stylist. Ethan’s fiancée, right?”

Your eyes widened a fraction before you could smooth your expression out, a hundred little moments with Camille flickering through your mind in quick succession, her hands at your shoulders this morning, the way she’d said you deserved to be here, the protective line of her mouth when you told her you’d ‘lost’ the bracelet in Paris. All of it suddenly threaded to him by a line you hadn’t seen until he pointed it out.

“Of course,” you breathed, a small, disbelieving laugh loosening from your chest. It wasn’t really an answer, more an exhale that tried to wrap itself around this new fact. Your mind raced, rearranging what you knew of your life and his into a suddenly smaller map. “That…makes so much sense, actually.”

Lewis let out a low, pleased sound, like he was quietly delighted by the overlap. “Ethan’s a good friend,” he replied, gaze resting on you with a new kind of familiarity. “I’ve met her a few times too.”

“Small world.” The words slipped free. The two worlds you’d been keeping in separate boxes, Camille’s studio and everything he was, your match, suddenly folded into each other, edges overlapping.

“Really is,” he agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting. There was a new ease in his eyes now, like the discovery of shared ground had shifted something invisible between you. “She’s good people.”

“Yeah, she’s amazing.” You nodded in agreement.

For a moment, you both let it sit between you, the overlap humming quietly under the surface. Then the flow of the room brushed against you again, a pair of guests drifting past in a cloud of white florals and bergamot, the tapping of glasses on a nearby tray, a soft laugh from somewhere behind you, and the stillness softened.

Lewis moved first, angling his body so that he was no longer just beside you, but walking in the natural direction of the gallery’s curve. His shoulder tilted in a way that both invited and assumed you’d follow.

“Walk with me,” he murmured, dipping his chin along the path ahead. “Wanna hear more of your thoughts.”

You huffed out a tiny laugh at that, your lips pulling into a smile before you could stop them. Your feet were already moving, high heels catching the light as you fell into step beside him.

You stepped together through a corridor of different collections, the space narrowing slightly as the displays shifted closer. The air was cooler, stirred by the gentle hum of concealed vents. Lewis adjusted his pace without comment, slowing so that you never had to rush, your shoulders finding a rhythm where they almost, almost brushed, but never quite touched.

As you slipped past another archway, the air skimmed against your bare skin, and one of your dress straps betrayed you again. It slid the smallest fraction down your arm, a slow drag that you felt with dizzy clarity.

You felt his attention catch on it before you even looked down. The heat of his gaze brushed over the slope of your shoulder, careful yet heavy at the same time. You quickly smoothed it back into place along your shoulder, fingers pressing for a second longer than necessary, as if you could press composure back into yourself at the same time.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Lewis’ eyes flick away just as you looked up, as though he’d given you a private second to right yourself, to gather the loose threads. His jaw tightened once, then relaxed, the only hint that he’d noticed at all.

You both let it pass without comment and continued on your way, where the space opened up again ahead of you, the palette shifting almost imperceptibly. The gowns thinned, giving way to another section where the lines sharpened and the fabrics grew denser. Mannequins now stood in softly lit clusters dressed in menswear, razor edged coats, slim, meticulous trousers, shirts with collars that sat just so, alongside thick jumpers and some sportswear style pieces. A different kind of architecture.

The scent in the air changed too, leaning more into woods and musk, the faint tang of leather from a display of gloves and belts laid out like careful offerings. Spotlights caught the sheen of wool and mohair, the precise press of a crease, the barest suggestion of weight in the way a jacket hung.

Lewis slowed in front of one particular look, a long sleeved, single breasted, deep charcoal jacket, paired with matching narrow trousers. The shoulders were structured but not aggressive, the fabric dense without bulk. It was the kind of piece that whispered on the body rather than shouted. He paused, his attention dropping to the details with more intention now, before glancing sideways at you.

“What do you think of this one?” he asked, nodding toward the mannequin. His voice had that same low, conversational warmth, but there was an edge of genuine interest threaded through it, like he wasn’t just filling the silence, he genuinely wanted your answer.

Your eyes drifted over the look, letting your mind do what Camille had trained it to do, to dissect, decode, translate every detail.

“It’s clean,” you answered thoughtfully. You followed the line of the lapel, the way it sat flat without looking rigid. “I like that it’s a bit longer, not your traditional suit.”

You stepped half a pace closer to the barrier as you traced the seams with your eyes. “The closure’s interesting though,” you went on, nodding at the single breasted front. Your brows pinched gently, a small smile tugging unbidden at your mouth. “If you look at it from further back, it kind of looks like…a chef’s jacket,” you admitted, the comparison slipping out before you could catch it. “In a chic way,” you added quickly, heat pricking the back of your neck. “Like, if the chef was very rich and really hot and worked in a restaurant nobody can get a booking at.”

For a second there was silence, and then Lewis broke into a low, surprised chuckle beside you, the sound rolling out of him in a warm, unguarded wave. His head dipped, one hand lifting briefly to sit along his abdomen.

“A chef’s jacket?” he repeated, amusement roughening his voice. “Wow.” His shoulder bumped the air near yours, the almost-contact somehow making the teasing feel more intimate, not less. “That’s…interesting.”

You winced playfully, your own laugh bubbling up helplessly. “I meant it as a compliment,” you protested, turning your face toward him with a smile that felt half-apologetic, half-defensive. 

“Mhm.” He angled his body a little more toward you, eyes warm, clearly enjoying this too much. “Gonna be thinking about that every time I look at it now.”

“It’s just the way it wraps at the front, and those buttons,” you muttered, eyes sliding back to the jacket to avoid getting stuck on the curve of his mouth. 

There was a small, quiet hum from him, an approval threaded through it. For a moment you let yourself relax into the shared observation, your brain ticking neatly through proportion, texture, balance, language that felt safe, knowable, less terrifying than whatever was fizzing under your skin whenever he looked at you for too long.

Your gaze drifted down, following the line of the trousers, then lower, to where the plinth met the floor. A slim card was tucked discreetly into a groove at the base, the print small and neat, meant for people who cared enough to lean in.

The text resolved slowly as your eyes adjusted; first the line naming the capsule, then the credits beneath. The words slotted into focus one by one, your brain initially refusing to put them together, and then…

Lifestyle Capsule

Curated in collaboration with Lewis Hamilton

A wave of pure static filled your head. Your stomach dropped and flipped at the same time, heat surging up to your chest so fast you almost swayed. For a second you could see nothing but those words, your own reflection ghosted faintly over the glass, the bracelet at your wrist sparkling traitorously in the corner of your vision.

You blinked once, twice, as if that might change the letters. It didn’t.

Oh.

Your face went hot, so suddenly it made your eyes sting. You could feel the warmth blooming beneath your makeup, creeping from your throat up to your cheeks.

“Are you-” You stopped, swallowed, tried again. Your voice came out thinner than you wanted. “You’re kidding.”

Lewis glanced sideways at you, the picture of innocence, though the slight guilty twist at the edge of his mouth gave him away instantly. “What?” he asked lightly, as if nothing whatsoever was out of the ordinary.

You shifted your weight, turning to face him fully now, one hand lifting in a helpless little gesture toward the plinth. “You couldn’t have mentioned that it was yours before I talked shit?” you pressed, incredulous laughter edging into your words.

His composure cracked at that, another laugh slipping out of him, softer this time but no less pleased. “In a chic way, though, right?” he reminded you, eyes bright, the earlier teasing thrown back at you like a mirror.

You groaned quietly, dropping your head for a second as your fingers came up to cover the lower half of your face. “Oh my God,” you sighed into your palm, half horrified, half hysterical. “You set me up.”

Lewis’ grin widened with an almost boyish flicker through the amusement. “I didn’t set you up,” he countered, keeping his voice smooth, as though he was trying not to laugh and failing. “I just…didn’t wanna influence you.” His gaze flicked back to the jacket, then to you again, warm and intent. “Wanted your honest opinion.”

You squinted at him, trying to hold onto your indignation, but it was already dissolving under the way he was looking at you, equal parts entertained and genuinely curious. “Well you got it, completely unfiltered.”

“Crazy thing is…” he went on, quieter now, almost offhand as he glanced back at the piece, “I wore this to a premiere.”

You blinked, brain scrambling to catch up. “You-what?” The mental image snapped into place before you could stop it; him on a carpet somewhere, lights flashing, this exact jacket wrapped around him instead of a faceless mannequin. You knew it would’ve looked perfect on him.

He dipped his chin in a single, easy nod, eyes still on the look. His dimple peeked cheekily as he continued. “Red carpet, cameras, all of it. Got a lot of compliments on it too, actually.”

Your belly fluttered at his teasing, clearly amused by your frankness. You could imagine how the fabric would fall on his shoulders, the way the longer line would ride his frame, the closure wrapping across his chest. You wondered if you’d seen the photos, and maybe scrolled a little too quickly.

“Of course you did.” Folding your arms to hide the mortification weaving into your chest.

He finally looked back at you properly, eyes bright with mischief that softened into amused warmth. “Good thing you weren’t there, would’ve rinsed me for my chef get up.”

A helpless laugh escaped you, the sound bubbling up through your embarrassment. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” you groaned, lifting the hand that wasn’t holding your clutch to give his arm a light, instinctive swat.

Your fingers connected with the firm line of his bicep through the fabric of his jacket, the contact brief but vivid. The fabric was smooth, cool under your palm, but he was solid beneath it, warmth seeping through in that fraction of a second. Lewis rocked a half step at the nudge, more out of play than force, his grin breaking fully free now.

“Hey,” he exaggerated softly, hand flattening briefly over the spot like you’d actually hurt him. “Coming for my fit, now this? Is that the thanks I get for bringing your bracelet all that way?”

You rolled your eyes, your own smile stretching wider. “You’ll live,” you said, shaking your head, the words slipping out more fondly than you intended. 

Lewis huffed a pleased chuckle, eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. For a moment, the two of you remained there, facing one another, sharing a soft laugh the rest of the room knew nothing about. The buzz of the gallery faded to a textured backdrop of murmurs, glassware, distant footsteps on marble, while your awareness honed down to the space he took up in front of you, the way his chest rose and fell under the soft lighting, the curve of his mouth still fighting to keep from grinning too hard.

Your bracelet felt warmer against your wrist now, as though it was holding the imprint of his fingers still, tiny bursts of heat with every pulse. You could smell him in the shallow air between you, that warm woody cologne with a skin clean note that made the back of your throat feel too tight.

His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth, to the delicate glint of the bracelet, then back up, before he caught himself, the line of his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he pulled some invisible tether taut. The spell fractured at the edges soon after, his focus slipping past you, over your shoulder, the subtle shift in his attention sending a ripple through the moment. The muscles along his jaw flexed once as his gaze locked onto someone approaching from behind you.

You watched the change in real time; the micro-relaxation draining from his posture, the way his shoulders straightened a fraction, as though he was bracing to step back into the centre of the room rather than the quiet corner he’d carved out with you. The light cut differently across his face as he angled his body, still half facing you, half turned toward the incoming presence.

There was just enough time to feel the moment start to tilt before you heard the precise click of heels on marble, a soft metallic jingle, and a voice that carried even before it reached you.

“Lewis.”

Yvonne LaRue emerged into your peripheral like a headline stepping off a page, the gallery’s soft light catching in the halo of her silver curls. They framed her face in deliberate, immaculate chaos, each coil a punctuation mark that turned her expression into a full sentence. She looked just as sharp as she had in Paris.

Tonight, her suit was a deep, inky navy, the jacket cinched in at the waist, trousers falling in a clean, fluid line to her ankles. In the crook of one arm, perched with casual entitlement, was a small dog the colour of warm cream and toasted sugar, a little cloud of fur with bright, assessing eyes and a diamond collar that glittered each time she shifted.

Yvonne moved through the space as though it had been arranged around her specifically. You could feel the subtle ripple of attention as people in her orbit registered her presence, glances bending in her direction like flowers turning toward the sun.

Lewis straightened fully at the sound of her voice, the tension in his jaw easing into fondness. “Yvonne,” he greeted, warmth threading through his tone in a way that felt both respectful and entirely unforced.

She reached him first, her free hand lifting to his shoulder as she leaned in, pressing a quick, practiced kiss to one cheek, then the other. The air filled briefly with the soft, expensive scent of her perfume, jasmine, iris, with a cool polish underneath.

“There he is,” she declared, pulling back enough to look at him properly, her lips lifted into a knowing smile. “The prince of Dior. I was starting to wonder when I’d get to steal you for a moment.”

Lewis let out a quiet breath, a mix between a laugh and a resigned sigh. “Just trying to keep a low profile,” he teased, eyes glinting. “You’re making that difficult.”

“Ah, as if you’ve ever been low anything,” she returned smoothly, the words fond rather than cutting. Her gaze flicked over him in one swift, approving sweep, taking in the lines of his outfit, the ease of his posture. “You look sharp. Good. Not too much trouble.”

You felt his energy shift slightly then, turned more outward, but the soft thread between you didn’t quite snap. If anything, it tugged tighter when his focus slid back to where you stood at his side.

His hand found you as he moved to bring you into the circle, fingertips grazing the small of your back as naturally as if they belonged there. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a clean, bright line of awareness up your spine. He used that gentle pressure to angle you a fraction toward Yvonne, like he was physically placing you in the centre of the moment rather than letting you hover at the edge of it.

Lewis introduced you politely, the sound of your name on his tongue sounded almost foreign to you, a tiny flinch that reminded you it was yours. “Have you met-”

You stepped forward on reflex, heat already rising under your skin. Yvonne’s observant eyes landed on you fully, and you watched the flicker of recognition slot into place behind them.

“Of course we’ve met,” she interjected smoothly, before Lewis could finish. Her mouth curled, satisfaction colouring the expression. “Valentino, yes? You looked ethereal, darling.” The word dropped from her lips like a verdict, decisive and not up for debate.

The memory washed back in a rush, the controlled chaos of the post show cocktail hour, Cruz’s introduction, Yvonne’s quick, pointed once over before she’d delivered a compliment and moved on, leaving you stunned in her wake.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice softer than you meant it to be, but steady. “It’s…lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise,” she replied, warmth threading into the crispness of her tone now. Her gaze swept briefly between you and Lewis before she shifted the small dog in her arms, tucking the little body more securely against her chest. “And this,” she added, angling the bundle of fur a little closer, “is Mimi. She couldn’t stand to be without me tonight, and I couldn’t resist.”

Mimi blinked up at you, round dark eyes curious, her tiny nose twitching as she took in your scent, the shape of your neckline, the glint of your bracelet.

Your chest loosened with sudden, uncomplicated delight. “Hi, Mimi,” you murmured, your hand easing instinctively towards the small dog. You paused, glancing at Yvonne with a questioning tilt of your head. “Can I…?”

Yvonne gave a conspiratorial smirk. “If she lets you. She’s quite selective.”

You extended your hand slowly, letting Mimi sniff your fingers first. Her fur was impossibly soft, like touching a warm cloud, the faintest warmth radiating off her small frame. After a short moment of consideration, Mimi leaned forward, pressing into your touch with surprising trust, her little body melting toward your palm.

“Aww hi, baby.” A quiet laugh slipped out of you, unguarded, almost childlike. You smoothed your fingers just behind her ear, where the fur was finest, and she closed her eyes halfway, a tiny sigh leaving her, the diamonds at her collar tinkling faintly when she shifted. “You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?”

“Well,” Yvonne observed, one brow lifting in mild, amused surprise. “That’s rare for Mimi.” Her gaze flicked to Lewis deliberately, eyes narrowing in mock accusation. “She can barely tolerate Lewis most days.”

“No way, she loves me,” Lewis complained gently, but his eyes softened as he watched you with the dog, his smile shifting into warmth. 

He moved a fraction closer, the subtle shift narrowing the space between your bodies. His arm lifted, reaching over yours toward Mimi, and in the small span of air between the dog and hand, his fingers brushed lightly over the back of yours.

The contact was fleeting, the bare sweep of skin against skin, but it landed with the precision of a live wire. Heat sparked where you touched, a single bright point of awareness that made your breath catch in your throat. His hand lingered just long enough to let the touch register, before he slid past your fingers to scratch gently behind Mimi’s other ear.

The sight of your hand on the dog, his hand over yours, the quiet overlap, made your stomach flip again, a different kind of dizziness this time. From the outside, it would’ve looked like you belonged together. 

And in a way, you did.

“C’mon, Mimi,” Lewis murmured, directing it toward the dog, but his voice was so close to your cheek that you felt the low vibration of it more than you heard it. Mimi’s tail gave a tiny approving twitch, leaning into the both of you now, perfectly content to be adored.

Lewis dipped his head closer, enough that his chest brushed your shoulder lightly, his next words tucked low just for you. “Didn’t realise you were such a softie,” he whispered, amusement threading through his words, warm against the shell of your ear.

Your heart gave a stupid, weightless kind of lurch. You kept your gaze on Mimi, fingers still moving through her fur, and tried to keep your voice level. “I’m not,” you countered quietly, though the gentleness in your touch completely betrayed you. “Dogs don’t count.”

He leaned away again, back into the shared space, his expression smoothing into one more public as he lifted his head. “See?” he announced, this time at a normal volume, the smile breaking wide enough to show the hint of dimple. His eyes flicked from Mimi to you, then to Yvonne. “Mimi’s got great taste.”

You could feel Yvonne’s gaze sharpen, taking in the picture in front of her, the dog leaning into your touch, Lewis’s easy proximity, the quiet thread humming between you. Her mouth curved, the kind of knowing smile that suggested she was filing this moment away for later with calm, editorial precision, that could turn a moment into a narrative just by noticing it, exactly the way the cameras sometimes did.

And in that instant, the room rushed back in around you.

The sound of conversation, the glint of champagne, the way bodies angled subtly toward power without realising it. The fact that you were standing in a Dior gallery with Lewis Hamilton’s arm nearly brushing yours, your hand under his, both of you cooing over a dog like you were somewhere private, somewhere small, not in a room designed to be seen.

You weren’t anonymous here.

Andre’s girlfriend. Someone’s partner. Even when he wasn’t in the room, the label traveled with you like a shadow sewn into every seam, every glance, every potential photo that might surface days from now in someone else’s story.

The thought hit like a cold splash down your neck and behind your ribs. That label came with consequences, with optics, with screenshots, questions, DMs and articles, that particular brand of humiliation that lived in being misread publicly and having to keep breathing inside the misreading anyway. You could already see the headline versions of this moment if anyone wanted to make one, the bracelet on your wrist, the tiny dog between you, his hand over yours, his mouth too close to your ear. Lewis Hamilton cosies up with Andre Dedanovic’s girlfriend at Dior event.

Your fingers stilled in Mimi’s fur, the slow, instinctive circles you’d been drawing becoming more controlled. You kept your touch soft, because snatching your hand back would look like guilt, and guilt invited speculation. That was the last thing you could afford on your face right now.

Mimi leaned in slightly, pressing her head deeper into your palm, blissfully indifferent to human narratives.

You forced your lungs to pull in a breath, dulling the panic swelling in your belly.

You shifted half a step, a small rebalancing of weight that could easily be mistaken for an adjustment of your heel on the marble. A fraction of space opened up between your side and Lewis, the barest sliver of air reclaiming itself, enough to tuck your proximity back into something safer, less arguable. A movement that could pass for nothing.

From the outside, it would have looked like a natural realignment in a conversation. Inside your skin, it felt seismic.

Lewis’ fingers paused where they rested behind Mimi’s ear for the smallest fraction of a second. Under the cover of watching the dog, his eyes flicked quickly to you, catching the retreat, the subtle hitch in your shoulders, the way your spine seemed to brace. The way your body remembered, all at once, that it had an audience.

Understanding shaded his features so quickly it almost didn’t register as movement, a quiet awareness, a recalibration, like he’d felt the temperature of the evening drop a couple of degrees too.

He shuffled away in tandem, so smoothly it might as well have been choreography. His hand slid back from Mimi’s ear, giving you the clear line again. His stance opened out, angling a touch more toward the display and the wider room rather than just you, as though he were politely rejoining the public version of the event.

To anyone watching, he looked exactly as he always did, composed, affable, at ease. Only you felt the barely there echo of the space he’d just vacated, the warmth he’d pulled back with him. Underneath that space, now ran a thread of awareness, caution, the shared knowledge that this feeling between you existed not in a vacuum, but in a room full of eyes.

Yvonne’s knowing smile lingered for a heartbeat longer, letting the moment settle with patience, with control, with that calm editorial stillness that made other people fidget without understanding why. Mimi stayed content in her arms, blinking slowly, little paws tucked, as if she belonged at couture events as much as Yvonne did.

Yvonne’s polished smile remained in place, but her attention shifted like a spotlight you couldn’t see. She took in the way you’d rebalanced subtly, the way Lewis had followed. The way the air between you had changed temperature.

She didn’t comment though. If she'd clocked anything beyond a woman, a man, and a very content dog, she kept it to herself. Instead, she adjusted Mimi slightly higher against her forearm, the dog’s collar giving a tiny, delicate chime. Her slender, manicured fingers smoothed once along Mimi’s back with absent tenderness.

“Well,” she announced lightly, giving Mimi a tiny bounce on her hip, “I think someone’s had quite enough adoration for one night. Haven’t you, darling?” She glanced down at the little dog, whose eyes were now half-lidded with bliss. 

Mimi huffed a soft little noise, as if in agreement. 

Yvonne’s gaze dragged briefly across the room, zeroing in on another cluster of silhouettes near a gown you recognised from last season. “I still have to say hello to Maria and her team before she disappears” she went on, more to herself than to either of you.

You recognised the name, a casting director whose presence at nights like this was valid currency. The reminder slammed another little stake of reality into the moment. The networks, the quiet power plays happening just out of earshot.

Yvonne looked back to the two of you, her expression smoothing into something gently dismissive, though not unkind. “Do enjoy yourselves,” she added, the words sounding both like permission and a warning, depending on how your chest heard them. “Try not to cause too much trouble.”

“I’m always on my best behaviour.” Lewis’ mouth tipped in an easy half smile as he replied with charm.

“It was lovely to see you,” you breathed, and you meant it. Somewhere beneath the static and the nerves and the flood of awareness, you were grateful for the way her presence had made this room make a little more sense tonight.

“Likewise, darling.” Her attention landed on you for a beat, an appraising, but not unkind look passing through her expression. 

Mimi punctuated that by giving the tiniest stretch toward you, as if reluctant to fully leave your orbit. You couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that tugged at your mouth. “Bye, Mimi,” you whispered, fingers giving a small, absent wave at the small dog.

Yvonne dipped her head once crisply, then turned, the deep navy of her suit cutting a clean line through the milling guests. Her silhouette slipped back into the current of the room with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly where every camera and conversation was, Mimi nestled like a small, pampered star in her arms.

Within a few breaths, she was swallowed by the crowd, then gone behind a shimmer of sequins and the soft glow of another display. The space she left behind closed over slowly, sounds of the room swelling back into the pocket of quiet she’d vacated, the wave of conversation, the distant pop of a champagne cork, a soft peel of laughter from somewhere near the main archway, but none of it settled quite right on your skin.

The air between you and Lewis still felt charged, like it held a thread no one else could see.

He hadn’t moved far, only enough for his shoulder to angle slightly away from yours, as if he’d given the room back its line of sight, but he was still close enough that you could feel the warmth of him in the narrow strip of air between your arms, still close enough that if you lifted your hand, you knew exactly how far you’d have to reach to touch him.

You became acutely aware of everything at once. The faint hum of the hidden vents overhead, stirring the scent of floral fragrances and clean soap. The slow, measured rise and fall of Lewis’ chest in the edge of your peripheral vision, the way his jaw flexed once, then eased, like he was working something out quietly behind his teeth.

The moment stretched, delicate, yet tight. You could feel the words you weren’t allowed to say crowding behind your teeth, pressing up against your tongue, asking to be noticed.

You cleared your throat softly instead, the sound barely cutting through the fabric of the room. Your fingers flexed once, searching for something safer to latch onto.

“She’s so cute,” you remarked at last, the words slipping out on a breath that felt smaller than what you meant. You kept your eyes on the space where Yvonne had disappeared, as if Mimi might still be visible somewhere in the crowd. 

Lewis’ head tipped slightly, and you could feel his gaze slide toward you, the faintest thread of playfulness tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yvonne?” he asked lightly, letting the tease sit there between you.

You turned your face toward him with a half glare that softened by a reluctant smile, heat touching your cheeks again as you rolled your eyes. “Mimi,” you corrected, drawing out the name just a fraction, though the laughter in your voice gave you away.

“Right.” He nodded, the grin finally breaking through properly. His gaze dipped briefly to where your hand had been on the little dog moments before, then wandered out over the room. “Yeah, she is. Surprisingly well behaved tonight, actually. She’s usually a little rocket.”

You could hear the affection threaded through his tone, the fondness reserved for small, chaotic things that got away with too much. The edges of your nerves smoothed, just a little, around the shared image.

For a few steps of silence, you both let your attention drift back to the nearest display, letting the mannequins and their curated perfection act as a buffer, a place to rest your eyes that wasn’t each other’s mouths, or hands, or the memory of his fingers brushing over your skin.

But the energy radiating from him shifted almost imperceptibly again, the line of his shoulders dropping by a degree, his focus seeming to slide inward even as he kept his gaze on the room. The warmth of his earlier tease thinned, leaving a quietness in its place. You felt the slight hollowing in the air beside you, as though someone had opened a door to a cooler corridor just out of sight.

You studied his profile subtly. The smooth line of his nose, accented by small studs on either side, the sweep of his eyelashes that never looked real in photographs, but were somehow even longer up close. The tiny furrow that had appeared between his eyebrows, his eyes slightly distant.

“Hey,” you started softly, tilting your chin so your voice reached him without needing to travel far. “You alright?”

His jaw worked once, a muscle feathering at the hinge as he swallowed whatever his first instinct had been. His eyes stayed forward, tracking some invisible point just beyond the mannequins, before he finally exhaled, a slow breath that seemed to deflate his chest a fraction.

“Yeah, fine,” he replied quietly, and he wasn’t lying exactly, the word didn’t sound false, but it came wrapped in heaviness you hadn’t expected.

Another silent second passed, and then, as though the truth had been sitting just behind that first word waiting its turn, he added, even softer, “Just…makes me miss my boy, Roscoe, that’s all.”

The gentleness in his tone lingered between you, threading itself through your ribs until your chest felt too tight.

Roscoe.

The name was familiar in a way that wasn’t yours to claim, but still lived somewhere in your memory. His bulldog, with a little face you’d seen in photos over the years, tongue lolling, head tilted, sometimes tucked under his arm, sometimes sprawled in some sunlit corner of a room.

You didn’t say any of that out loud though. You kept your gaze soft on his profile instead, letting the silence be a safe place he could step into if he wanted to.

Lewis drew in a slow breath, eyes still fixed on some middle distance that wasn’t really the gallery anymore. “Lost him a little while back,” he went on eventually, voice quieter now, the edges scraped a little raw. “Feels weird even saying that out loud, still.”

His hand flexed once at his side, fingers curling briefly like he was resisting the urge to reach for something that wasn’t there. “I knew it was coming, he was an old boy, but…I still wasn’t ready,” he continued, almost to himself.

The temperature around you seemed to cool by a degree. The bright, curated noise of the room blurred again, every sharp surface and chandelier suddenly feeling like too much. You listened to the faint scrape of his tongue over his teeth as he paused, searching for the next fragment.

“I still think I’m gonna see him sometimes,” he admitted, his mouth tugging into an expression that wanted to be a smile and didn’t quite make it. “Like, I’ll open the front door and…I forget he’s not going to come barrelling down the hallway.” He huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, his eyes dropping for the first time, lashes lowering as if the words were heavy. “His stuff is all still there. His bed, toys, little bowls. Can’t bring myself to put any of it away.”

The picture formed so easily, so vividly in your mind it hurt, all that love suspended in objects that didn’t know their job was over. Your throat felt tight, the heavy hand of his grief wrapping itself around your skin.

“I’m so sorry, Lewis,” you soothed quietly, his name leaving your lips before you could decide whether it was too intimate here, in this room. It didn’t feel like enough though, not by a long shot, but it was all you had in the moment.

Your free hand moved before you’d fully thought it through, reaching across the small gap between you. Your fingertips brushed his forearm, then settled there, a gentle, instinctive touch just above his wrist. The fabric of his jacket was smooth and cool under your palm, but his warmth lingered through. Your palm rested there, offering pressure light enough that he could step away from it if he wanted to, but firm enough that he’d feel you were there.

Lewis’ eyes flicked down to where you touched him, then back up to your face. His expression eased at the contact, a subtle unwinding around his mouth, a softening at the corners of his eyes. He looked like he might lean into it for half a second.

That was before your own awareness caught up with you, the press of the room, the knowledge of who you were to the outside world. The label that would follow you into any photo. The realisation slipped in again like a small, sharp shock of cold, snapping you back into your body. You let your hand linger just a heartbeat longer, then gently lifted it away, fingers sliding back to curl around your clutch once more. The absence of contact felt bigger than it should have, your palm still tingling with residual warmth.

He’d felt both the touch and the retreat, but there was no reproach in his face when his gaze found you again. Only understanding, and that same quiet tenderness.

“Thank you,” he replied after a quiet moment, his voice low and sincere. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly in a small, worn out smile. “My camera roll’s full of him. Just wanna hold onto all the memories, you know?” His gaze dropped briefly in the direction of his pocket, like he could see the phone through the fabric. 

You felt your chest twist, a blend of grief for him and an almost painful fondness. The way he’d said it sounded like shorthand for an entire love story.

“Can I see?” you asked softly, the question leaving you before you could second guess it. There was no idle curiosity in it, just an offer, asking him to let you know him the way he did, even if it was only through a screen.

Lewis stilled for a short moment, as if surprised you’d asked. He sounded almost grateful when he replied, his eyes sparkling under the chandelier. “Yeah, of course.”

He turned more fully toward you, one hand already slipping into his pocket, fingers closing around his phone. When he drew it out, the device looked suddenly smaller in his hand, almost fragile against the breadth of his large palm.

He tapped the side button, and for a brief moment, the gallery lights caught on the glass, flaring white. The lock screen underneath came into focus, with a photo of Lewis and Roscoe together.

Lewis was in the foreground, chin resting on his forearm, and his grey hoodie up over his braids. Roscoe sat tucked into his side, face smushed and content. Lewis’s mouth was tipped into a warm unguarded smile, eyes soft and full of love for his furry companion.

The sight of them together sent a small, sharp ache through your chest, almost like nostalgia for a dog that had never been yours.

He swiped up, thumb gliding over the screen. The lock screen dissolved, and he pressed into the grid of his camera roll, before scrolling up into rows upon rows of small squares, and in almost every one, there he was. Roscoe on a sofa, Roscoe on a plane, Roscoe asleep on a pile of blankets, Roscoe in a little harness, Roscoe looking straight into the lens like he understood he was being captured in the frame.

You found yourself leaning in without even meaning to, drawn closer by the small moving window of his world. The phone hovered between you, his hand steady, your shoulder almost brushing his arm now. The noise of the room dulled, like you’d both slipped behind glass, into a small, tender universe in his hand. You could see the tiny reflections of the gallery lights freckling the glass, a couple of faint smudges where his thumb had passed over it a thousand times before. 

He opened one of the photos, and it filled the screen.

Roscoe lay sprawled out on a sun lounger, front paws kicked forward, the white of his chest almost glowing in the light. His face was tipped toward the camera, eyes closed in the bright sunlight. At the top of the picture, in bold, white, serif font, was a magazine header. DOGUE.

Lewis let out a soft laugh through his nose, the sound warm and fond. “Even got on a magazine cover,” he murmured, thumb brushing idly over the image as if he could smooth it into life again. “He knew he was famous.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, but your eyes stayed fixed on the dog. The edges of your vision blurred for a second around the utter relaxation in Roscoe’s expression. “He’s beautiful,” you whispered, and you meant it more than you realised. He really was beautiful, in that way uncomplicated happiness always was.

Lewis stilled at your choice of word, as if it landed somewhere he hadn’t expected. His gaze drifted sideways towards you, taking in your expression, the softness around your eyes, the way you were looking at his dog like you understood exactly what he meant to him.

“He really was,” he agreed quietly, before swiping again.

As he flicked through the photos, one in particular caught your interest. It was taken in a stretch of late afternoon light. In the centre frame, Roscoe stood on a patch of deep green grass, stocky legs planted firmly, chest puffed out like he owned the whole world. Beside him, was another slightly smaller bulldog, softer features, wider set eyes, a slightly softer caramel brown than Roscoe. Both dogs faced the camera, tongues hanging out, sunlight catching off their coats. It looked like you could hear the panting if you listened hard enough.

The warmth of the scene seeped straight through the screen; you could almost feel the heat of the grass against your shins, the thickness of the summer air.

“What about this one?” you asked gently, your voice barely above the hum of the room, though you were already smiling at the sight. “Aw, look at them.”

Lewis’s thumb stilled on the glass, resting lightly against the edge of the photo. His expression changed, more layered now, as though you had opened a door in him that led somewhere very specific.

“That’s Coco,” he replied, his tone dipping into tenderness as he gestured toward the smaller bulldog. “She was my princess.”

The words wrapped around you, thick, warm and aching. You glanced up at him briefly, just long enough to catch the way he was looking at the photo, as though the world inside it was still happening somewhere, right now, if he could only step back into it. You couldn’t tell if it was just the glow from his phone screen, but there was a slight glassiness to his eyes.

Your bracelet pressed into your pulse as you returned your eyes to the image, letting yourself really see them. Roscoe standing on the left, with Coco right beside him, harnesses on and enjoying their walk; the best of friends. Two dogs, two lives, anchored to the man standing beside you, their entire universe written in the way they faced his camera.

“She looks it. They both look so happy,” you added, full of a quiet awe that felt almost reverent. You shifted closer by a fraction, the scent of his cologne filling the space around you more fully now, notes that you were already starting to associate with comfort. “I’m sure they had the best life with you.”

Lewis nodded once, his throat working as he swallowed. “They did. We had some…good times.” His thumb traced the edge of the screen again, careful not to swipe away too soon, as if he owed them the courtesy of staying inside the moment a few seconds longer.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, a small, private sound that sat between a sigh and a fond smile. He lingered on the photo for a few seconds more, thumb resting lightly along the border, then gently pinched to zoom in on Coco, her little face blown up until every wrinkle and patch of colour took up the whole screen, before he slid across to Roscoe.

“They were the best,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “I miss them so much.”

You watched his mouth as he spoke, the way it curved in that particular way grief had, with both pain and gratitude. His voice, his expression, it all softened you around the edges, as though your bones had quietly turned to water.

He let the image sit there for another breath or two, then slowly zoomed back out. The photo shrank to its place in the grid. His thumb hovered, not quite ready to swipe away, as if the act of moving on from this frame might erase something he wasn’t finished holding yet. He then locked the phone, the screen going dark with a soft click that felt louder than it was. The reflection of the gallery lights appeared again, your silhouettes ghosting faintly in the glass for a moment before he lowered his hand.

Neither of you spoke immediately, but the silence between you wasn’t empty; it hummed with that piece of himself he’d just shown you, everything you’d just seen. Your pulse still fluttered faster in your chest at the proximity, and the softer part of him you’d felt come through.

“You got any pets?” Lewis asked after a breath, slipping the phone back into his pocket. It sounded almost casual, but you could hear the genuine curiosity beneath it, the way he was trying to switch the conversation onto you, without dropping the thread he’d just handed you.

You glanced at him, caught off guard by the question, then gave a small shake of your head. “No. I’ve always…wanted a dog.” Your mouth tipped in a small, wistful smile. “But Andre’s not really a dog person.”

His name tasted strange the second you said it, almost flat and metallic, as though it had been left out in the rain too long. You heard it settle between you with a quiet thud, foreign in this little pocket of softness, cutting across the warmth of Roscoe and Coco like a sharp line through a photograph. You felt it in your own body too, a faint tightening at the base of your throat, and that low, automatic flicker of guilt, of correction, trying to remind you where you belong. To remember whose girlfriend you were.

There was a tiny pause in Lewis’ breathing, the faintest tightening along his jaw. His eyes dropped to the floor and then lifted again, as if he’d had to swallow something back before it could climb too high.

“Right. Checks out,” He muttered low, almost under his breath. He didn’t immediately fill the space that followed, and didn't rush to joke it away. 

The quiet stretched between you, and in it, you could feel two realities pressing against each other, the one you were supposed to live in, and the one you were standing in right now.

His gaze slid sideways, finding your face with a careful steadiness. When he spoke again, there was a hint of dry humour threaded through the softness, as if he’d deliberately changed gears, but his eyes stayed warmer than his tone let on.

“You know they say you shouldn’t trust people who don’t like dogs, right?” he went on, a wry smile touching his mouth. 

On the surface, it was light, like a throwaway, the kind of thing anyone could say at a party. But under it, you could hear a quiet line of truth he would never admit to, as if he’d found a way to say more than he was allowed to, and still have it sound like a joke if either of you needed to pretend later.

Your lips parted on a quiet, disbelieving breath of a laugh, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “Is that so?” you asked, turning toward him fully now. The corners of your mouth pulled upward, but there was an edge of question in it, a small, testing note.

He nodded once, his smirk deepening, though his eyes stayed searching on yours. “Definitely. Dogs are great judges of character.”

The chandelier light caught the curve of his cheekbone, the small glint of the stud in his nostril, the line of his heart shaped lips hovering between amused and earnest. You could feel the thickening in the air again, that quiet slide back into the charged, impossible middle ground you kept finding with him, warm enough to feel deeper, but always wrapped in just enough humour, just enough plausibility, that either of you could deny it later if you had to. Just like the message thread you kept on your phone.

Your thumb ran along the links of your bracelet, as if you could anchor yourself there, a small hard object standing in for every boundary you were trying to remember. Your heart, the traitorous thing that it was, tugged in the opposite direction, toward the man beside you, to the quiet warmth, old dog photos and gentle humour that made the rest of the room feel suddenly too bright and too loud by comparison.

A small crowd of people drifted through the section you were stood in, silk sleeves whispering against silk sleeves, the low murmur of conversation cresting and dipping, a man’s champagne flute tilting slightly too close to your elbow. The perfume of strangers folded over itself in layers; tobacco, iris, another sweet and syrupy note, then the sharper twist of citrus as a server passed by with another tray.

The space you’d carved out together began to thin out.

You adjusted instinctively, a small sidestep to let them pass. The movement was only a shift in weight and direction, but the moment you moved, Lewis did too. He followed without hesitation, as though he’d already decided he wasn’t letting whatever sat between you snap because of someone else’s trajectory. He stayed close without touching, but you felt the brush of his warmth at your shoulder whenever the crowd pressed in, a steady presence in the tide.

You let the flow of the room dictate your steps, because standing still would’ve meant lingering in the look he’d given you a moment earlier, the one that had felt too precise, too honest, for somewhere like this. The event unfolded around you in gleaming pockets, glittering jewellery suspended under glass, a cluster of leather goods glowing under their own private spotlights, a mirrored plinth with something sculptural perched on top that you couldn’t even name. 

You glanced at him through your eyelashes, catching the wry tilt at the corner of his mouth, the faint crease that had settled between his eyebrows and never fully left. “Do you actually believe that?” you asked finally, your voice pitched quiet enough that it ribbed along just between the two of you, not for anyone who might be drifting past. “About not trusting people like that?”

Your question felt light, but in truth, it carried more weight than that. It carried Andre, it carried the quiet thud his name had made in your chest a few minutes ago, how it had dropped between you like a heavy, blunt anvil in the middle of a delicate moment.

Lewis’ gaze slipped ahead, tracking the curve of the room as if he was choosing where to place his next thought. A mannequin wearing a structured coat, a server maneuvering through with more canapés, a flash of silver from some stranger’s jewellery, all of it registered and discarded. When his eyes found yours again, they were softer, more considered.

“I don’t know, I just…” He exhaled through his nose, a small breath that wanted to be a laugh, but lost the nerve halfway out. “You’re different when he’s not around.”

Your steps didn’t stop, but your mind did. It was as if a part of you had pressed pause while the rest of you kept moving, the words turning over in your head like they were trying to fit themselves into a shape you recognised.

“Different how?” you replied carefully. The question sounded almost too even to your own ears, like you’d sanded every edge off it before letting it out.

He tilted his head slightly, as if he were seeing you and the room at the same time and trying to separate the two. You curved around a couple who’d drifted into your path, his body angling instinctively to give you space, and when the route straightened again, his attention came back to you fully.

“You’re more…you,” he answered at last. “You don’t hide yourself.”

Your throat tightened sharply, as though he’d reached into your chest and flicked a chord you’d spent years trying to play quietly. You dropped your gaze under the guise of checking your footing, your high heels whispering against the glossy marble. Your fingers found your bracelet without thinking, thumb worrying gently at the edge of it, tracing the familiar line of metal against your skin. The gesture was small, automatic, a habit so deeply ingrained that half the time you didn’t even register you were doing it.

“Maybe you’re just seeing what I want you to see.” You shrugged, eyes tracking the reflection of chandelier light on the floor instead of the man beside you. It felt safer to aim the words at your own shoes than to meet his gaze while you said them.

Lewis’s mouth softened, like sympathy and curiosity had settled into the same place. “And what’s that?”

His gaze dipped briefly to your hand at your bracelet, watching the small, repetitive motion, then lifted back up to your face. It felt like stepping under a spotlight you hadn’t asked for, but his eyes were steady rather than harsh. 

You searched for an answer, for something neat and deflecting you could hand back to him, but nothing quite fit. Every version of the truth felt too exposed for a room like this, too raw to set down between the glass and the cameras.

The sound of your heels brushed along the marble in sync now, like your bodies had unconsciously matched pace. You adjusted your grip on your clutch again, thumb smoothing over the metal clasp, buying yourself another heartbeat you still didn’t know how to use.

Up ahead, the crowd thinned slightly up ahead as you continued moving through the space, the bodies around you parting enough to reveal a softer lit pocket along the far side of the room. You smelled the change in the air, cleaner, brighter, cutting through the champagne haze. Notes of bergamot and neroli rose above everything else, threaded with a scent that was more resinous, clinging low, like incense.

Light pooled onto a small island of glass and gold.

Fragrance displays gleamed under their own halos, crystal bottles lined up like jewels, each filled with liquid that caught the light in different shades of pale amber, champagne, almost clear rose. A woman in head to toe black stood behind it with natural poise. She clocked the two of you the moment you drifted into range, her professional smile blooming as if it had been waiting for its cue.

“Would you like to try?” she offered, holding out a slim cream card between two fingers, the Dior logo pressed in gold at the top. 

The scent reached you even before the card did, a bright, sparkling bergamot, softened by another note, one that was white and petalled, a thread of neroli, a warmer hum underneath like skin kissed by late afternoon sun.

You accepted it on reflex, the card whispering against your fingertips as you took it. “Thank you,” you replied politely, your focus already narrowing to the rectangle of card in your hand.

You lifted it toward your face, and the scent hit all at once, a bright, fresh opening that unfurled across your senses in layers. Citrus fizzed at the edges, soft floral sweetness smoothed the centre, and beneath it all was a warmth that made you think of bare shoulders and light glistening across water.

Your eyelashes fluttered as you drew back, your lips curving softly, both surprise and appreciation tangling low in your chest. For a heartbeat, you forgot the rest of the room, you even forgot Andre’s name lingering like an aftertaste, and all you registered was the perfume, the man beside you, and the way every nerve in your body seemed suddenly, sharply awake.

People liked to say scents held memories, that the nose was the quickest way back to a moment you hadn’t realised you were saving. You felt it happen in real time, your lungs filling, your pulse hitching, like your body had quietly decided this day would be one it would never let you forget.

Beside you, Lewis dipped his head slightly, curiosity written in the soft line of his mouth. “Good?” 

“Yeah, it’s lovely.” You nodded, lowering the card away from your nose. Before the moment could fold in on itself, you found your hand tilting slightly toward him, the cream card angling out in a small, instinctive offering.

He leaned in, not so close that anyone would notice, but close enough that you felt the faint brush of his shoulder in your peripheral, the warmth of him ghosting along your arm. His nose hovered just above the card, his long eyelashes lowering as he drew in a slow breath. You couldn’t help but watch his reaction, instead of thinking about your own, the minute shift at the corners of his lips, the way his chest rose a fraction deeper.

“Mm,” he hummed thoughtfully, nodding once. “Really nice.”

The woman behind the display tilted her head attentively. “If you like that profile,” she added smoothly, gesturing with an open palm to the right, “we have some deeper ones by this counter. Few more wood and amber notes you might enjoy.”

Her hand indicated a longer stretch of counters beyond the small island you’d stopped at, a softer lit corner where more different shaped bottles gleamed, where the air looked almost hazy with scent and gold reflection.

You glanced in the direction she had gestured towards, more to give your eyes somewhere to go than because you’d decided anything. The perfume card hovered near your chest, the scent still radiating against the heavier incense note that lingered in the room.

Lewis glanced at the same area, before returning to you, eyebrows lifting in a silent question, as if asking if you’d like to go see it.

Your hand tightened slightly around the cream card, and you heard yourself say, “We can have a look.”

He didn’t make a big deal of it. He just gave a small nod, a pleased curve touching his mouth. “Lead the way.”

You swallowed, and your feet moved as you started towards the counter, your pace naturally syncing with his. The closer you found yourself, the cleaner the air turned, brighter, more layered, the bright bergamot giving way to a darker, thicker note that clung to skin and fabric.

The fragrance corner shimmered like a mirage, with soft gold reflections, the clicking of glass, the low hum of an orchestral tune threading beneath the buzz of elegant conversation. All around you, a variety of scents were spritzed through the air, each evoking different memories and emotions. From sweet neroli, resinous woods, to bergamot and warm ambered musk, but the only thing that cut through it now was him.

Lewis stood close, near enough that the heat of his body reached you. He plucked up a tester strip, gave it a quick spritz from a darker, rounded bottle, and watched your profile as he lifted it toward your face. His knuckles skimmed the air in front of your cheek, close enough to feel the weight of his watch brush your skin.

“What do you think?”

You tilted your chin and leaned in slowly, the scent hitting all at once. Dry woods and smoke, underscored by a sensual note of musk, gentler like sun on skin. 

Your eyelashes fluttered as you moved away from the paper. “It’s…really good.”

You heard the soft exhale through his nose, a hum of approval, and then, without hesitation, he sprayed the scent directly onto his wrist. The soft hiss of the nozzle cut through the ambient chatter, the sharp scent atomizing into the air.

He brought his other hand up and swiped his wrists together, top notes crushing into nothing, but before he could continue, you reached for him. Your hand moved faster than your thoughts, fingers shooting to catch the crook of his wrist. Warmth flooded your palm at the contact, his skin smooth under your touch, the faintest thrum of his pulse alive against your fingertips.

“No. Wait.”

He paused, his expression making your stomach dip. His eyebrows lifted just slightly, the faintest crease forming between them, while his mouth parted in surprise. His eyelashes flicked down, towards your hands, then up again like he was recalibrating, as though he hadn’t expected you to stop him, let alone touch him, and now that you had, he didn’t know where to place that feeling.

“You’re not supposed to rub it in,” you explained softly, conscious of how your thumb brushed the bone just below his palm. “It collapses the top notes, you’ll lose everything it’s meant to open with and change the whole scent.”

It was something you’d learned years ago, a forgotten article, a half remembered conversation in a beauty editor’s suite, maybe a conversation with a fragrance specialist at a department store, but it had stayed with you, like most beautiful things did.

He lifted an eyebrow in interest, listening intently to your explanation. The space between you tightened, like a string pulled too tightly, one careless movement away from snapping. His jaw shifted, as if he was holding back a smile, or a thought, maybe both. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, but his eyes warmed, intent settling in.

“Alright.” He nodded, his voice low and smooth. “Show me then.”

You guided his hand gently, tapping his wrists together in a delicate motion, letting the perfume settle naturally. He didn’t watch the movement though, keeping his eyes on you.

“There,” you breathed, but your voice dipped on the last word, catching slightly, like your body had noticed the shift before your mind had. “Better, isn’t it?”

For a moment, you both remained there. You could feel his attention on you, making your skin prickle, and your breath shallow. Then, slowly, you let go.

Your fingers slipped away from his wrist, hesitant, like your skin wasn’t ready to give him back. The air felt cooler without the contact, empty in the space where he’d been.

He lingered for a second, as though he was still holding the weight of your touch in his hand. Then he lifted his wrist toward his face, long eyelashes low as he inhaled slowly, and closed his eyes as the scent met him. There was a slight shift in his features, a quiet appreciation as he nodded.

With a content smile, you turned toward the table to pick up a rectangular bottle, fingers just brushing the cool glass when you felt the slip of fabric against your skin, a soft shift of pressure at your shoulder. The strap of your dress had fallen again.

You moved to fix it instinctively, but Lewis was faster.

His hand was warm when it touched your arm, gentle and non-invasive. His fingers caught the fallen strap, but didn’t lift it right away. You felt the pads of his fingers brush against your skin, a feather light touch that made you hyper aware of every nerve beneath it. They traced upward so slowly it felt like time had slowed with every movement, and you felt the trail of his touch first along your upper arm, then slowly up the slope of your shoulder. His palm barely skimmed you, but your breath still caught as if he’d kissed you there.

Then came his thumb, brushing over your collarbone with exquisite slowness, tracing down your skin, before smoothing over it in a line so delicate, it made your pulse thud in your ears. He adjusted the strap with care, fingers running down its length, trailing dangerously close to the  curve of your breast before they dropped away.

Too quickly, but somehow not quickly enough.

It felt as though he was gently mapping you, like he’d imagined this gesture before, a hundred times, and was only now letting himself have it, allowing himself to feel the softness of your skin.

You swallowed, the air suddenly thick. Your skin buzzed where he’d touched you, and every inch of your body was aware of him, of the scent on his skin, of the space you barely occupied between each other.

“Thank you.” Your voice came out softer than you’d intended, but it was all you could manage through the tremble of your breath.

Lewis’ hand hovered for a fraction of a second longer in the air, as if his skin hadn’t quite received the message that it was supposed to let go. Then he pulled it back, fingers flexing once at his side as if he was quietly slotting every feeling back into place. 

“Anytime.” 

The syllables were low and even, but you heard everything that wrapped inside them, before he cleared his throat in a soft, almost embarrassed sound that barely cut through the orchestral track playing overhead. 

You dropped your eyes first, your hand still held mid air where it had reached for the perfume bottle, fingers less steady than they’d been a minute ago. You curled them into your palm, willing them to behave, then reached again, this time managing to get a proper hold on the rectangular glass.

The cool weight gave your hand something practical to do. You snagged a fresh tester strip from the lacquered tray, the paper whispering against your fingers, and raised the bottle. The nozzle pressed under your fingertip with a tiny, precise resistance.

The mist bloomed out in a delicate cloud, catching the light in a brief shimmer before settling across the strip. Soft florals unfurled, heavy and powdery, a bouquet that felt too big for the space between you. Rose, maybe, something syrupy underneath, cloying at the top of your throat.

You waved it in the air briefly, before you brought it toward your face and barely had to inhale; the scent rushed at you, eager, insistent. It wasn’t bad, exactly. It was just…too much. Too bright, too floral, as though it belonged to someone else’s life, someone whose world wasn’t currently spinning, because a man who wasn’t her boyfriend had just touched her skin as though he’d been dying to know what it felt like.

Your brain tried to catalogue top notes, mid notes, and dry down, but your body refused to care, still slightly dizzy from the contact. Or maybe it was just the intensity of all the different perfumes filling the air.

“No,” you remarked simply, the word leaving you on a soft exhale.

You didn’t try to dress it up, just dipped your wrist, letting the card fall away from your face, and slid both strip and bottle back into their places on the display, your movements slightly too fast, afraid of what you might do if you stayed there with it for too long.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lewis’ mouth part, as if he wanted to ask what you’d just decided no to, whether it was the perfume, or all of this, but thought better of it. His hands were empty now, both tucked lightly at his sides, but you could still feel the phantom imprint of one of them on your shoulder, the ghost of his palm curving around the strap of your dress.

You flexed your fingers once against the edge of the counter, feeling the faint tack of your skin where adrenaline had dried. Your bracelet shifted against your wrist with the motion, whispering against your skin.

The room hummed on around you, other guests whispering softly as they compared scents, bottles chiming against the counters gently. Behind you, a server passed with a mostly empty tray, only two lonely flutes of champagne left standing, the stems clinking faintly together.

Your senses, still wound tight, started to pick up on different details now. The music had changed, sliding into a slower orchestral arrangement that sounded suspiciously like the last third of a playlist. The steady stream of people that had been flowing past earlier had thinned to a more sporadic trickle; clusters of guests now moved toward the main archway instead of deeper into the exhibit, expensive shoes and oxfords ticking decisively toward the exit.

You stole a small glance over your shoulder.

You recognised the woman from earlier, Nakita, who was shrugging into a tailored coat a few displays away, alongside a shorter man in a suit, both angled toward the door. Further back, near the first plinth you and Lewis had stopped at, a staff member in black was subtly straightening a line of jackets that no one was really paying attention to anymore.

The energy of the room had shifted; the peak had passed. You could feel it in the way conversations had dropped a notch lower, in the way people checked their phones more openly, in the gentle, unhurried efficiency of staff beginning to collect half-finished glasses from side tables.

Beside you, Lewis followed your gaze, taking in the same small signals. His shoulders loosened a fraction on the exhale, the kind of release people had when a scheduled engagement was coming to an end, when obligations were quietly packing themselves up for the night.

“Looks like they’re starting to wind it down,” he noted, more observation than suggestion.

“Yeah. I should probably…” You trailed off as you reached for your bag, fingers finding the familiar curve of the clasp. It gave under your touch with a quiet click. You slipped your hand inside, the lining cool against your knuckles, the small, comforting chaos of lipstick, keys, and your cardholder brushing your skin until your fingers closed around your phone.

The screen lit up when you pulled it free, a square of cold light cutting through the warm gold of the gallery. For a split second, before it unlocked, your lock screen stared back at you with a photo of you and Andre at some sun-washed rooftop months ago, his arm looped around your shoulders, your face tipped toward his in a smile you barely recognised anymore.

Your stomach dropped with a clean, sinking sensation, like missing a step in the dark. A reminder of your life outside of the luxurious bubble you stood in.

The time blinked up at you, later than you’d expected, the minutes stacked on top of each other like you’d misplaced whole chunks of the night somewhere between bracelet clasps, dog photos and the drag of Lewis’ fingers across your skin. 

You swallowed away the tightness that rose in your throat, thumb hovering above your screen, your reflection faint in the glass overlaid with the little icons and numbers of your life. A familiar, practical thought tried to push its way to the front.

“I should probably call for a driver,” you continued, more to your phone than to him at first. You flicked to your contacts, the motion automatic, muscle memory taking you toward the car service number you used for nights like this. “Wasn’t really sure what time this would be done.”

Saying it out loud made the evening feel suddenly finite, as though naming the end of it would make it appear.

Before you could tap the screen, Lewis’ voice slipped in, firm enough to redirect your hand without touching it.

“Take my car,” he offered, like he was offering you a mint, not upending the neat, careful line you’d just tried to draw between your life and this night.

Lewis was already reaching for his own phone as he spoke, his hand sliding into his pocket as if he’d made this decision before he’d even opened his mouth. He unlocked the screen with a quick swipe, eyes dipping briefly as a soft glow lit his face from below. You watched the faint reflection of blue white light in the dark of his pupils, and the way it sharpened the line of his jaw.

He flicked his thumb over a notification, then up to what you assumed was his driver’s app, scanning quickly.

“He’s already here.” Lewis shrugged, his mouth curved in a dry little huff. “Probably been waiting a while.”

Your thumb froze above your own screen. A quiet, internal alarm went off, small, yet insistent.

“I- no,” you protested automatically, spilling out before you could soften it. Your head shook, hair brushing the back of your neck. “I couldn’t. It’s fine, I’m sure mine won’t be far.” You forced your thumb to press back to the home screen, as if that made the decision more solid. “You’ve already done enough.”

He lifted his eyes from his phone, finding yours with steady focus. Up close like this, you could see tiny flecks of gold in the brown from the chandelier light. There was no impatience there, no theatrical chivalry, just a gentle, unwavering insistence.

“It’s late,” he said simply, tucking his phone back into his pocket with a final movement. “Can’t have you waiting out there on your own.” His tone stayed even, but there was steel threaded through the warmth. “You can take the car. I don’t mind staying longer, or I’ll just call another one.”

The way he said it, so casual about his own inconvenience, so unbothered by the logistics, made it hard to argue without sounding ungrateful. Or foolish, like you were afraid of an offer that was supposed to be kind and safe.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, a half formed protest dissolving on your tongue. In your mind, you saw two parallel images flicker: you outside on the curb under harsh streetlights, checking your phone in the chilly air while strangers spilled into black cars around you; and you stepping into his car, enclosed in soft leather, low music and the faint imprint of him clinging to everything.

Neither option felt neutral.

“I don’t want to put you out,” you tried again, but the edges of the objection were starting to fray even as you said it. “You’ve probably got-”

“You’re not,” Lewis cut in gently, not sharp but firm enough that you felt the argument slip through your fingers. His mouth pressed into a softened line of reassurance. “I’d rather know you got back safe, than wonder if you’re still standing in the cold because your car’s late.”

The thought of him picturing you like that, alone in some cold archway, hugging yourself against the night, tugged at your chest in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

You glanced around, searching for anything to ground yourself in. The staff collecting glasses, near empty trays. Groups making their way slowly towards the exit. The Dior logo repeated in soft gold at the edge of a display. Everything told the same story; this night was ending, and it was time to return to your real life. Back to Andre, who was probably home by now.

It was just a car, you told yourself, the words quiet, almost clinical. Just a ride home. Lewis was being kind, that was all. You wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.

“Where are you heading to?” he asked then, softer, as if he’d felt the battle tipping inside you and decided to redirect it instead of pushing.

“Back to my apartment,” you replied, your fingers tightening slightly around the shape of your phone. You cleared your throat, adding the name of your area, as if that made it less personal somehow. 

He nodded slowly, as if fitting that onto a mental map only he could see. “That’s pretty much on my way. My hotel’s slightly further out.” His eyes stayed on yours, steady, offering without crowding. “We can just drop you off first, then carry on. Easy.”

You opened your mouth, ready to tell him again that he didn’t have to, that you’d be fine, that your driver would be here any second…but the shape of the protest wouldn’t quite form. You knew what “any second” really meant in this city at this hour, twenty to thirty minutes at least for a car to fight its way across town, longer if traffic decided to be difficult. Twenty minutes of standing under the stone archway while the temperature dropped and your feet started to ache, twenty minutes for your phone to light up in your hand with Andre’s name, asking where you were, why you weren’t home yet, and who you were still talking to.

This wasn’t Lewis insisting you take his car alone anymore. This was a softer compromise, one that threaded the needle between practicality and all the things you weren’t letting yourself think.

And if you were honest, there was a simpler truth sitting underneath all the practical ones. It would be easier to let the night end gently beside Lewis, to fold yourself out of this Dior lit bubble in one clean line, to get home before the questions started, and to steal a few more minutes in the version of yourself you only seemed to find when he was near.

“It’s really okay,” he added gently, seeing the hesitation still flickering behind your eyes. “It’s on the way anyway.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the breath scrape past the knot in your throat, and finally slid your phone back into your bag, the clasp clicking shut with a small, decisive sound that felt louder than it should have.

“Okay,” you said, finally, your voice barely above the low hum of the room. “As long as it’s…not too out of your way.”

Lewis’ shoulders loosened by a degree, a subtle release, as though you’d unknowingly let him set a tension down he hadn’t wanted to carry away with him. “It’s really not, I promise,” he assured you, the corner of his mouth lifting into a more genuine smile this time. “Come.”

He angled his body toward the main archway, giving the fragrance counter one last glance as he stepped back. His hand didn’t touch you, didn’t reach for the small of your back the way it had earlier, but he shifted to open the path for you, as if he was holding a door that wasn’t there.

You fell into step beside him, your bracelet sliding lightly against your wrist with every movement, the faint trace of his fragrance still ghosting the air between you. As you walked, the room thinned further, conversation dimming into a softer murmur behind you. Staff dipped their heads in subtle nods as you passed.

Near the entrance, the space narrowed, guests bunching slightly as they funnelled toward the doors. That was where you saw a tall, broad shouldered man, in all black, his bald head catching a dull sheen of light, and a thick beard framing a face that didn’t really need to speak to be understood. He stood just off to one side of the archway, watching the room with the relaxed alertness of someone who’d made a career out of seeing things before they happened.

The second Lewis stepped into his orbit, the man straightened almost imperceptibly, gaze flicking over the two of you in a quick, professional sweep. Recognition passed between them in a wordless nod. He shifted smoothly into motion, turning toward the doors to take point.

Another man in the small knot of people ahead clocked Lewis at the same time you saw the security guard move. His hand went into his pocket, and came back up with a phone, thumbs already moving across his screen with curiosity sparking in his eyes. It wasn’t wide eyed fandom though, it was a different kind of interest, the instinct to document, to collect, to have proof you’d been close to something unexpected.

You watched the moment tilt, your heart leaping into your throat at what he might’ve been noting down. You weren’t doing anything wrong, you’d simply accepted an offer of a ride home, but you knew how it might look to anyone on the outside. Your stomach twisted sickly all of a sudden, guilt, shame, and regret all swirling into one. You should’ve said no, should’ve just waited in the cold.

However, before he could begin to type, the security guard stepped in front, his body creating a wall of privacy. His hand came up silently, and you couldn’t hear what he had said over the swell of the music and the murmur of conversation, but you saw the subtle shake of his head.

The man’s fingers hesitated, and his phone screen dimmed. He offered a tight little smile, in both apology, and acknowledgement of the rules, before he slid it away again as if he’d never lifted it in the first place.

A breath you hadn’t realised you were holding slipped out through your nose, silent and shaky. Your shoulders dropped by a fraction. Relief moved through you so quietly it almost felt like embarrassment at being caught caring too much about being seen.

The security guard didn’t linger on the moment. He simply resumed position, gaze forward, pace unbroken, the whole exchange vanishing as neatly as it had appeared. To anyone else, it would’ve looked like nothing more than a brief pause at the door.

You felt the echo of it though, the bubble of privacy being held up around you with quiet, controlled hands. Protected, even as you stepped closer to the threshold where the night, and everything outside this curated light, waited.

All the while, that same precarious thread ran between you and Lewis, stretching with each synchronised step toward the doors, to the chill beyond the glass and the waiting car outside.

Outside, the air felt different, cooler and sharper after the curated warmth of the gallery. The night pressed in close around the entrance, archways framing a slice of city where streetlights silvered the pavement and the distant buzz of traffic blended with the softer sounds of people saying their goodbyes.

The security man led the way, cutting a clean path down the shallow stone steps. Just beyond the rope line, a sleek car waited at the curb, engine already idling, exhaust a faint plume in the cold. The windows were tinted so dark they reflected the scene back at you, the Dior branding behind you, evening coats, the ghost of your own silhouette, before you could see anything inside.

The security man reached the car a step ahead, fingers already curling around the handle of the rear door on your side, then it swung open.

You smoothed an invisible crease down the side of your dress, and dipped your head in a quiet thank you to the security guard before you slid into the back seat. The interior greeted you with a soft wash of warmth and leather, a cocoon of dark upholstery, subtle ambient lighting glowing along the door panels, the faint scent of a clean and expensive air freshener, layered over the lingering trace of cologne.

Your dress whispered against the seat as you settled in. The door remained open for a moment longer, cold air brushing along your bare shoulders in one last shiver, until Lewis’ shadow filled the frame.

He leaned down slightly, resting a palm on the edge of the door as he spoke to the driver through the open front window, giving your area first, then his hotel. The driver nodded, both hands on the wheel, the routine clearly familiar.

Satisfied, Lewis straightened. The security guard closed your door with a muted, careful thunk, leaving you alone for a heartbeat inside the car with just your reflection and the glow of the dashboard up front. Then, the opposite rear door opened, a brief slice of night cutting in before Lewis folded himself in beside you.

The door shut again, sealing the three of you off from the street, and the driver eased the car away from the curb.

For the first few blocks, neither of you spoke.

The city slid past in darkened storefronts and pockets of light. Streetlamps streaked across the glass in gold smears, breaking over your reflection and reforming on his. The muted purr of the engine and the faint roll of tyres on asphalt filled the quiet between you steadily.

You turned your face toward the window, watching London blur by under the cover of its own late hour. A closed café with chairs stacked upside down on tables. A Tesco Express still open,  with last minute shoppers stepping out, a couple of figures huddled outside in thin jackets, hands wrapped around steaming paper bags. A bus lumbering through an intersection, full of scattered silhouettes staring down at their phones.

The tint on the windows made everything look slightly removed, like you were watching a film of a city you recognised instead of the real thing. Your own reflection hovered faintly over it all, superimposed against the night; the line of your jaw, the fall of your hair, the glitter of your bracelet every time the car passed under a streetlight.

Up ahead, colour flared brighter.

A block long electronic billboard washed the buildings opposite in shifting shades of electric blue and white. The car turned, bringing the image into full view; small blocks of hundreds of faces filling the screen, before fading behind the large logo that sat right in the middle.

Your heart lurched in your chest with a jolt that felt both too sudden and too familiar, like a bruise pressed again after you’d almost forgotten it was there. The tagline crawled along the bottom edge in clean, clinical font, similar to the one you’d seen in Paris.

Find The One.

The irony burned itself across your skin. You swallowed, your tongue suddenly dry. There it was again, ten storeys tall, painted across the city you were driving through.

You didn’t dare look sideways, but you didn’t need to. You could feel Lewis there, his presence spread along the seat beside you, the heat of his body a quiet constant in the small space, his cologne faint under the neutral leather. In the corner of your vision, you caught the suggestion of his profile, neat braids tied back, his gaze fixed somewhere out beyond his own window.

For the first time all night, you let the full truth thread through your mind without cutting it off halfway. You were sitting in the back of a car, in the middle of the city you called home, right next to the man an algorithm had already told you was your match, and you were on your way home to someone else.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, as if you could find anything safer there to look at than giant billboards, and the outline of the man beside you.

The texture of your clutch pressed under your fingertips, grain fine and familiar. You traced the edge with your thumb, following the line of stitching all the way around, then back again, a small, looping motion that didn’t really go anywhere. Your shoulders tucked inward by a fraction, as if you were trying to fold yourself smaller in the corner of the seat, to occupy less space in a moment that already felt too big.

This should’ve felt wrong, every reasonable part of you knew that. You should’ve been sitting here with a stone in your stomach, rehearsing explanations for why you were late, why you’d stayed so long, why your phone had stayed face down in your bag instead of in your hand.

But the wrongness…didn’t come.

What came instead was a strange, quiet rightness that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with how your body had settled the second you’d sat down. The warmth in your chest that hadn’t been there in weeks. The way the city outside softened at the edges when Lewis was near, as though someone had turned the saturation up on the parts that mattered and dialled everything else down.

You told yourself it was just because of the match. Because he’d been kind. Because he’d listened when you gave your opinions, when you talked about dogs, and the stupid little details no one else asked about. Because on that rooftop in Paris, he’d told you he wasn’t looking for anything right now, that things with Sienna were “complicated,” that he didn’t want distractions, and yet he’d still messaged you that same evening, and the morning after that, then another, until it became a habit, enough that you’d started expecting his name on your screen. And tonight, he’d spent the whole evening at your side, walked you through glass cases and grief, put you in his car to make sure you got home safely.

A soft rustle beside you pulled you back up from your thoughts.

“You warm enough?” Lewis’ voice gently slipped into the quiet, like he didn’t want to startle you if you’d drifted too far inside your own head. He shifted slightly in his seat, the fabric of his trousers brushing against the leather. 

You realised then that you’d been sitting very still, hands anchored around your clutch, knees pressed neatly together. You flexed your fingers once, easing the clamp of them, and glanced sideways.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, your voice soft in the small space. “It’s…nice in here, actually.” You gave the faintest shrug, mouth tipping at the corner. 

His eyes eased at that with a small nod, like he’d needed to hear you say it.

The car rolled on, swallowed briefly by a wider road. The low murmur of the engine and the faint rush of air through the vents filled the silence again, steady, unobtrusive.

Soon after though, a new sound cut through the insulated quiet of the cabin with muffled bass, insistent and slightly off beat, pulsing from the street up ahead. The driver slowed fractionally as he approached a traffic light, and the source of the noise came into view on the pavement to your side.

A street performer had claimed a patch of concrete outside a closed retail store, a small portable speaker blaring out a pop remix that vibrated faintly through the glass. He was dressed head to toe in metallic gold, jacket, trousers, even his face and hair sprayed to match, moving in exaggerated, robotic pops and locks, hat on the ground in front of him with a lonely scattering of coins winking under the streetlamp.

He did a stiff little body roll, then froze mid-move in a ridiculous pose just as the car eased up alongside. For a beat, he held perfectly still, then broke into a wild, over the top shimmy that had no business being as committed as it was at this hour of the night.

A surprised huff of laughter escaped Lewis before he could stop it, low and genuine. “Man,” he chuckled, shaking his head slightly as he watched through his window. “He’s really going for it.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the expression loosening the tension in your cheeks that you hadn’t realised had gone tight. “He’s there every weekend,” you replied, the fondness colouring your voice before you could strip it out. “Rain, wind, literally anything.”

Lewis’ mouth curved further, eyes still following the performer as he executed a dramatic spin and nearly lost his hat. “Wow, that’s commitment. Gotta respect it,” he commented.

The traffic light flicked back to green, and the car began to move again. The music thumped once more against the glass, then started to fade as the distance opened up. You both watched for a second longer than you needed to, your smiles lingering even after the gold figure shrank to a blur in the side mirror.

The laugh that slipped out of you this time was small but real, loosening the knot in your chest by another notch. For a brief, fleeting moment, it was just you, him and a ridiculous street act you’d both witnessed, nothing more complicated than that.

Then the city swallowed the noise, and the quiet wrapped back around you, softer now, threaded through with shared amusement and the steady awareness of the man sitting inches away, ferrying you home through the same streets where billboards told you who you were supposed to love.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty anymore; it felt padded with that small shared laugh, with the ridiculous gold shimmer of the man you’d left behind on the pavement. Still, in the close dark of the car, every sound seemed louder than it should’ve been, in the whisper of leather when Lewis shifted his leg, the soft click of the indicator as the driver changed lanes, the faint rasp of your own breath when you tried to keep it even.

Lewis cleared his throat quietly, like he was easing something in his chest. “How long have you been living here?” he asked, voice low, an easy question on the surface.

“Couple of years,” you answered, eyes following the wash of a passing shopfront on your side. You hesitated, combing quickly through anything to add, but it all involved rent, convenience, Andre. None of them felt quite right. “It just…made sense, I guess.”

He hummed softly, a small sound of understanding.

It was harmless conversation, nothing either of you hadn’t said to other people in other cars on other nights. But here, in this small, dark, private strip of leather and air between you, even the simple act of telling him how long you’d lived somewhere felt too intimate, like handing over a map with a little red X that said you are here.

“Do you…” you started, then faltered, realising midway you had no idea which of the hundred questions in your chest you’d meant to pick. You pivoted clumsily to the safest one. “Do you have much on after this?”

“Yeah, I have a call to take care of when I get back to the hotel,” he said, exhaling through his nose with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his voice. “Got media in the morning. Then flight. It never really stops.”

“Right. Sounds really busy,” you murmured, fingers worrying lightly at the edge of your clutch again.

“Yeah.” He gave a tiny breath of a laugh. “Good busy, though. Most of the time.”

The words themselves were small talk; hotel, work, flights, things he’d probably said to a thousand people, but in here, they landed differently, expanded in the quiet, stretching to fill all the space you weren’t letting anything more dangerous occupy. 

You could feel the weight of all the other questions sitting behind your teeth, about Paris, about all your messages over the last few weeks, about Sienna, but the car felt too small for them. Saying any of it out loud would’ve changed the shape of the night entirely, and you weren’t ready to see what it would become.

So you let them stay where they were, unsaid, and watched the city instead.

Outside, the streets began to look more familiar. The buildings shifted from the polished facades near central to the quieter, more lived in stretches you recognised. A curry house with its fluorescent sign humming defiantly against the late hour. The little newsagent on the corner with its metal shutter half down, the inside still lit enough to show the racks of magazines and crisps. A row of terraced houses whose upper windows glowed soft and yellow, rectangles of other people’s evenings.

“Almost there?” Lewis checked gently, his brown eyes flicking to you, and then to the road ahead again.

You blinked, reorienting, then nodded. “Yeah. Couple more streets.” pointing vaguely ahead. “If you turn left at the next light, it’s just off that main road.”

The driver’s indicator clicked on, the car gliding toward a quieter, wider lane you knew almost by heart now. Your chest tightened as familiarity began to gather outside your window, smart townhouse facades with freshly painted doors, tall plane trees lining the boulevard, the soft glow of discreet brass plaques instead of shopfronts. A private club you and Andre had been invited to once flickered past, its entrance marked only by a single doorman and a velvet rope. A row of parked cars followed; low, sleek silhouettes you recognised by shape alone, with polished metal and expensive badges.

Another minute, another turn past a manicured corner of hedging and uplighting, and then your building came into view, glass and stone rising clean from the pavement, the recessed entrance framed by soft downlights. The kind of place with a lobby instead of a hallway, with a concierge desk you’d walked past countless times, familiar and carefully curated in a way that suddenly felt anything but, your front door getting closer with every soft roll of the tyres.

The car moved toward the curb outside your building, and your stomach did a slow, disorienting roll, as if your body had only just realised you were actually about to arrive home.

The vehicle eased to a stop, and for a short moment, no one moved.

Then, the driver’s door opened with a dull thunk, letting in a slice of cold night air and the distant hush of the street. His shape passed your window, a brief shadow, as he stepped around, leaving the two of you alone in the back.

The car felt different immediately.

Quieter, smaller, as though the air had thickened the second you were unchaperoned, sound dropping to a soft, padded silence. Streetlights slid in through the tinted glass in long, lazy strips, drifting across Lewis’ face and carving it into planes of shadow and gold.

The night still clung to your skin. You could still smell the ghost of the fragrance you’d tried earlier, now melted warm into your pulse points, mingling with the rich, clean leather of the seats and the faint, woody thread of Lewis’ cologne, resinous and dark underneath, familiar now in a way that made your chest ache. Expensive, intimate. Him.

Your heart began to thud too loudly in your ears.

You turned toward him before you’d fully decided to, your breath shallow. He was already watching you, his body turned slightly in your direction, his hand settled on his thigh. The ambient light traced the curve of his jaw, caught on the tiny glint of his nose stud, and softened the fullness of his mouth.

“Thank you,” you started quietly, the words feeling too small for everything they were trying to carry. “For the ride…and for bringing my bracelet back.”

Your voice barely rose above the low hum of the engine, but in the insulated quiet of the cabin, it felt loud enough to rearrange the air. You faltered for a second, suddenly aware of how close his knee was to yours, how your dress shifted when you breathed.

Lewis glanced at you, and a half smile tugged at the corner of his lips softly. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but still warmed them. “It looks better on you anyway.”

The simple certainty in it made your stomach flip, a slow, helpless somersault that knocked your heart loose behind your ribs. Heat prickled up the back of your neck; you were ridiculously grateful for the dim lighting.

You dropped your gaze for a moment, letting it snag on your wrist where the bracelet sat neatly against your skin, diamonds shimmering under the streetlight. It had felt like a chain earlier, sitting there between you. Now it felt like a marker, a point you both knew you’d crossed.

“And now I guess…” Lewis exhaled softly through his nose, eyes tracking the line of your wrist before lifting back up to your face. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted lower, edges roughened like he wasn’t sure he should say it. “Guess that means I don’t have an excuse to message you anymore.”

He said it with a slight smirk, as though it was a joke, just a throwaway comment. But the words themselves didn’t feel light, instead they set off a tiny, panicked flare in your chest.

The idea of your phone going back to what it had been before, no teasing messages from him, no photos dropped in the middle of your day, no more of that back and forth game you’d both been playing, under the guise of logistics, hit you harder than you’d expected. It felt as if you were suddenly standing at the edge of a cliff you hadn’t realised you’d climbed.

Your fingers clenched around the fabric of your dress without meaning to.

“You never needed one,” you heard yourself whisper, the words slipping out before you’d had the chance to file them down into something safer. Your throat felt tight, your heart racing at your own boldness.

There it was. The truth, laid out naked between you in the low lit backseat, with the front door of your building less than thirty metres away, and Andre’s face still sitting quietly on your locked phone screen if you dared to look.

Lewis’ gaze stilled on you, his expression shifting, all that careful composure faltering by a fraction with what looked like disbelief. It was too much, too direct, and you could feel your own nerves catch up to what your mouth had just done.

Heat rushed through your veins. You let out a small, shaky breath that you wanted to be a laugh, but didn’t quite make it, eyes dropping to your hands instead.

“Anyway,” you murmured, the word catching on the turn of your tongue as you fumbled for the nearest exit from what you’d just admitted. “I should probably…”

You didn’t finish though, because you didn’t reach for the door handle. You didn’t move at all. You just sat there with your fingers clinging too tightly around your clutch and dress, pulse beating against the bracelet at your wrist, every part of you flooding with a reluctance you couldn’t dress up as anything else.

Lewis watched you intently, not just the words you’d offered but the ones you’d swallowed. His eyes tracked the way your thumb traced the fabric between your fingers, the way your shoulders had tucked in on themselves like you were trying to fold the confession back up and put it away.

“Hey,” he breathed softly.

When you looked up, his gaze was already waiting, warm in a way that made it difficult to breathe.

His hand moved carefully, fingers reaching across the narrow gap. His knuckles brushed your knee first, barely there, as though he was checking if you’d flinch. When you didn’t, his palm settled lightly on your thigh for a heartbeat, warm through your dress, and his eyes held yours like a question you could answer without words.

“Come here,” he said under his breath, so softly it almost disappeared into the engine hum.

You could’ve pulled back. You could’ve pushed his hand away and stepped out of the car. You could’ve rushed upstairs to your home, to your boyfriend.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in as if the invisible thread between you had tugged you forward. Your clutch slid from your fingers to the seat, forgotten, and your arms lifted, circling his shoulders. Warmth met you in a rush as the space between you disappeared, his chest solid against yours, the fabric of his jacket firm against your palms.

Lewis’ embrace came a half second later, firm and sure, like his body had just been waiting for your permission. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other curling higher across your back, drawing you in. His hand found the bare skin between your shoulderblades, the pads of his fingers spreading in a careful, steady press, brushing delicately.

Heat rippled out from that one point of contact, his skin warm on yours. Being this close to him felt unnervingly natural, like stepping into a shape your body already knew, as if some part of you had always been meant to fit exactly here, in his arms. He didn’t move his fingers, didn’t trace or pull, just held you there, as if he’d chosen that exact place and hadn’t realised until now how right it would feel.

You closed your eyes without meaning to. His cologne wrapped around you, softened now by his own skin, by the warmth of the car. Your heart hammered against your ribs in an uneven rhythm, each beat matching the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands.

His breath tickled against your temple, a careful exhale that feathered across your hairline. You could feel the restraint in it, the way he was holding every part of himself in tight lines, as though if he let one thing slip, all of it would.

You pulled back first, but only just.

Your arms loosened, sliding down to rest lightly against his chest instead of around his shoulders, but your body stayed close. Close enough that your knees still brushed, that you could feel the heat of him along your front. Your faces hovered in that small, suspended space where intention hadn’t yet become action, where you could, in theory, still pretend this was just a hug between friends, if either of you decided to lie about it later.

You didn’t move away though, and neither did he.

The world narrowed to the square of the backseat, to the low purr of the idling engine, to the seconds beating out between your mouths and your choices.

Lewis lifted one hand, slow enough that you felt every millimetre of it, as though he was giving you time to change your mind. His knuckles brushed the edge of your cheek first, barely there, a ghost of a touch that managed to send a line of electricity down your spine.

Your eyelashes fluttered at the contact, breath snagging at the back of your throat.

His fingers shifted, the backs of them gliding down to the corner of your jaw in a line that was so gentle it almost hurt. His thumb followed, tracing the soft curve beneath your eye, then drifting to the hollow of your cheek as if he was learning the shape of you by touch alone.

You felt your body tilt toward him in tiny increments, like you were succumbing to gravity rather than making an active decision, as though this was what you were built to do.

You could feel his breath fan across your mouth now, warm and just a little uneven. For a fraction of a second, everything held, your pulse, the night, the hum of the car outside the building that held your life.

You couldn’t tell who leaned in first, but there was no hesitation, no wobble. Just the inevitability of two things finally meeting where they’d been headed all along.

His lips met yours in the barest first touch. Soft, warm, testing, and the whole world tilted.

Your stomach dropped and soared in the same instant, as if you’d missed a step off a ledge you hadn’t seen and discovered there was something waiting to catch you anyway. The brush of his lips was impossibly gentle at first, almost like he was afraid if he pressed harder, you might vanish or the spell would break and you’d find yourself sitting upright, with polite distance reinstated, this whole thing a figment of your imagination.

His lips were softer than you’d imagined, warm with the taste of mint. You inhaled without thinking, your head spinning a little at the rush of it, at the sheer rightness of having his mouth on yours after so many weeks of pretending you didn’t wonder what it’d feel like.

Your hand slid up, fingers finding the firm line of his shoulder, clutching lightly at the fabric of his jacket just to have something solid to hold onto while the rest of you became weightless.

His mouth parted slightly, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t though. Instead, you felt your lips answer his, tilting, pressing closer. Your breath trembled, and he caught it, exhaling softly through his nose, the sound betraying the way it hit him too.

There was a faint, intimate sound when your mouths met again, the quiet slick of lips moving in tandem. His thumb at your cheek pressed in a fraction more, anchoring you, while his fingers slid along your jaw, curving to cup it.

His mouth moved like he knew you, in that unnerving, intimate way that felt like his lips had been waiting for yours and simply…found their place. The kiss deepened slowly, as if he was testing the shape of you with patience, letting you adjust to the weight of him, to the reality of this.

And the sensation of it…

The soft drag of his lips against yours, every gentle suck on your bottom lip, every slow, lingering brush, carried weeks’ worth of things you weren’t sure you could ever say out loud. Every touch from earlier in the night, every message, every moment you’d pretended his name on your screen didn’t make your heart skip, poured itself into the way his lips moved against yours now.

The kiss stayed slow at first, but under the surface there was a hunger, a quiet urgency of need. Your body tilted forward without your permission, chest brushing his. His other hand left your back to curve around your back, fingers resting there, holding you like you belonged exactly where you were.

Your free hand drifted up almost blindly, fingers brushing the nape of his neck before finding the texture of his braids. You felt the tiniest shiver go through him at the contact, the way his mouth pressed a fraction closer to yours, like your touch had just pushed him a breath past whatever line he’d been clinging to.

Heat surged through you in a slow, consuming wave. The world outside the tinted windows blurred, sound narrowing to the hushed wet press of your mouths and the faint hitch of his breath when you leaned in that fraction closer.

You couldn’t tell who had wanted it more. Maybe it was you, chasing the shape of his mouth. Maybe it was him, angling his head to deepen the contact, nose brushing yours as he slid his hand from your jaw to cup the side of your neck, fingers splayed along the warmed skin there. His thumb rested just under your ear, the pad of it catching your pulse, feeling it race beneath his touch.

He kissed you deeper.

His lips parted against yours, slow and coaxing, and you followed without thinking, opening up to him like you’d been waiting for the invitation. Your breath stuttered, a soft sound tumbling into his mouth. He caught it, and the quiet, rough sound he made in the back of his throat went straight through you.

Your body tilted toward him helplessly, like the angle of the seat had ceased to matter. Your knees brushed his, and your free hand slid up, fingers splaying over the front of his chest, right where the steady thud of his heart raced beneath the fabric. 

Lewis responded like your touch had flipped an internal switch. The arm around your back tightened, then shifted, his hand leaving only to travel up, covering the hand you had pressed to his chest. His fingers wrapped around yours, holding them there, pinning your palm over his heartbeat like he wanted you to feel exactly what you were doing to him. The solid warmth of his body, the way he fit against you, felt disturbingly right, like sliding into a shape your bones already knew, like your body had been slightly out of alignment for months and had just clicked back into place.

The kiss shifted from cautious to hungry in increments. His mouth moved over yours with growing confidence, a gentle pull at your bottom lip that made heat flare low in your stomach. 

The car may as well have disappeared. The street, the building, the city you could’ve been anywhere, as long as his hands held you close, and his mouth stayed on yours like this. Your heart pounded in your ears, too loud, too fast, syncing up with the slow drag of his lips, the faint brush of his tongue when the kiss tipped over.

With every beat of your heart, the same thought rose up, unstoppable.

This. This is what it was supposed to feel like.

It wasn’t perfect or choreographed, every part of it felt like recognition, like walking into a room in the dark and knowing where the furniture was without reaching for the light switch. 

Because it was him. Your match, your one.

It was inevitable.

From the moment he’d caught you on that yacht. Every conversation, every message, every boundary you’d both tested, every almost that had left you breathless, had been leading here, to the quiet backseat of a car outside your building, to his mouth on yours like it belonged.

And that was the problem.

Because somewhere, behind the tilt of your head and the slip of your breath and the way his lips kept finding yours with devastating ease, your mind finally caught up.

Your building, your street, your front door, right there, just beyond the tinted glass.

Andre was inside, waiting.

The thought hit you like ice cold water rushing through your veins.

Your stomach dropped, and your lungs seized. The kiss didn’t stop immediately, your mouths brushed once more, softer now, like your body was reluctant to admit the interruption, but suddenly you were aware of everything outside it. The faint outline of the pavement just beyond your door. The possibility of the driver, of any of your neighbours stepping outside, seeing this. The stark, unchangeable truth that this was not some dream on a romantic rooftop where you could pretend nothing had consequences.

This was your life, and you were kissing another man outside the place you shared with your boyfriend.

Panic snapped through you so fast it felt physical, your skin tightened around you, and it felt like your ribs had cinched inward. A wave of nausea rolled low in your gut, colliding with the aftershocks of heat still thrumming through your veins.

You broke away, and the space between you tore open, air rushing in too sharp, too cold. Your lips tingled, warm and swollen, your breath stumbling out in ragged bursts you couldn’t quite catch. For a split second, you just stared at him, dazed, as if seeing him clearly would somehow steady you.

He was still close, too close.

His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the ring of brown, his lips parted as though he’d been in the middle of a word or a breath when you pulled back. His chest rose and fell a touch faster than before, shoulders held carefully still, like he was trying not to reach for you again by sheer force of will.

His hand hadn’t moved yet.

It still hovered at the line of your jaw, suspended there, not chasing, not insisting, just…stuck, as if he didn’t know where to put himself now that you’d yanked the world back into place.

Your throat burned.

“I’m-” The word cracked in half on your tongue. You shook your head quickly, and your hands slipped out of his braids and away from his chest, flying down to smooth your dress as if friction and fabric could erase what had just happened, could press the moment back into something flat and unremarkable. “I’m so sorry.”

It spilled out in a rush, breathless and messy, the apology tumbling over itself before you could decide if you meant it, before you could stop it from sounding like fear instead of regret.

“I shouldn’t-” you whispered, voice trembling, your palms rising briefly to your cheeks as if you could cool them, as if you could wipe his heat off your skin, his taste off your mouth. “I shouldn’t have-”

The rest of the sentence dissolved in your chest.

Your gaze flicked to the window, to the familiar silhouette of your building looming just outside, the dark rectangle of the entrance like a waiting mouth you were about to step back into. Your home, routine, the life you were already bound to.

You swallowed hard, forcing air into lungs that didn’t want to cooperate, forcing your shoulders to square by a fraction, forcing your hands to stop shaking even as your pulse thudded wildly on in your throat, caught between the door you were supposed to walk through, and the man you’d just kissed like he was always meant to be yours.

You stared at the entrance until your eyes stung, like if you looked hard enough you could make the next second choose itself for you.

Your fingers found the door handle.

The lock clicked.

And as the seal broke and the cold night air slipped in, your phone lit up in your bag, bright and sudden, vibrating sharply against your palm.

Andre.