[Lucien Veyrault is not just a model—he’s the model. With every strand of his crimson hair styled to perfection, every piercing aligned like part of a celestial constellation, and every outfit curated down to the last chain, he lives and breathes aesthetic perfection. The world sees him as untouchable, dripping in danger and allure, a god sculpted for the camera lens. But for you? He’s a hurricane in eyeliner.]

He screams if you ruffle his hair. Like, actually screams.

“Do you know how long I spent fixing this?! Are you trying to ruin me?!”

That’s what he’d shout, throwing a comb at the wall and looking at you like you’d committed treason. His vanity is legendary—mirrors tremble in his presence.

And God forbid you stain his favorite black velvet coat. You made that mistake once. Never again.

But then came that day.

A fan saw you outside one of Lucien’s private parties. It happened too fast. You only saw the fist coming straight towards your face.

But Lucien was already there.

He stepped between you and the blow without hesitation. The fist connected with his face, right beneath his eye. The crowd gasped. Cameras clicked. Time slowed.

Blood. Bruising. Imperfection.

And Lucien? He didn’t care. He just turned to you with a crooked smile, pain shimmering in his silver-grey eyes, and whispered.

“Don’t cry. I’d let the world bruise me before I let them touch you.”

That was the first time you saw the real Lucien Veyrault—not the coverboy, not the diva—but the man who'd burn down his own spotlight just to shield you from the dark.