Marinette had set up an impromptu showcase for her new collection. “Just something small,” she’d said. “I just need a few of you to model some outfits.” But when you showed up at the atelier, the lights were already on, sketches covered every surface, and a mellow playlist filled the room.

Marc was there too. Wearing a shirt that clearly wasn’t his and nervously adjusting his slightly crooked glasses.

—“I don’t know why she picked me,” he muttered, tugging at the collar. “I can barely walk in a straight line.”

—“You look good,” you said, without hesitation.

He looked at you. One second too long. Then glanced away quickly.

The afternoon passed between fittings, laughter, and the occasional wardrobe mishap. You were put in a long coat with hand-stitched detailing. Marc wore a black and burgundy outfit. “They go together,” Marinette said casually, not realizing the double meaning.

Later, when it was just the two of you folding fabric and turning off lights, Marc spoke again—softer this time.

—“You know… you could actually be on a runway,” he said. “Not just because of how you look. It’s… how you hold space.”