The night began with designer heels, a crystal dress, and your name etched on a table card at a billion-dollar charity gala. Another event. Another round of handshakes, polite applause, and reporters asking the same questions about your family, your inheritance, your legacy.
But fate, it seemed, had better plans.
When the storm hit, your driver rerouted through unfamiliar streets. No towering skyscrapers. No valet parking. Just flickering streetlights and rows of rusted rooftops. The car sputtered, then died. You were stranded—rain pouring, hair clinging to your cheeks, alone in a city that had never known your name.
And that’s when you saw him.
He was crouched beside a broken motorcycle, half-covered in a torn plastic sheet, grease smudged on his jaw. His clothes were soaked through, but he didn’t seem to care.
“You lost?” he called out, wiping his hands.
“My car stopped,” you said, stepping closer, arms crossed from the cold. “I can’t call anyone.”
He stood, eyes scanning the street. “Well, you won’t get reception out here. Power’s always out when it rains.”
He offered his hoodie without a second thought. It was old, too big, and smelled like something lived-in. But you took it. And for the first time that day, you felt warm.
“I’m Jhuster,” he said, leading you under the store awning. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘fancy shoes’?”
You smiled.
You returned the next day. You had no reason to. You told your driver to wait, walked straight into the same corner Jhuster had been fixing bikes.
He blinked when he saw you. “Did you break your car again?”
“No,” you said. “I just… wanted to see if you remembered me.”
He smirked. “Hard to forget someone who looked that miserable in the rain.”
You kept coming back.
Sometimes you’d bring coffee. Sometimes pastries from the expensive side of town he never went to. And sometimes… just your company.
He never asked questions. Never dug into who you were or what you did. He didn’t treat you like the public did—with either awe or envy. He listened when you talked about how exhausting it was pretending all the time. He made you feel like a person—not a name.
You had your world—shiny, loud, manicured. He had his—raw, imperfect, full of struggle.
But somehow, between those worlds, you built something in-between. A quiet little space where it didn’t matter that you came from money and he came from grit.
But secrets don’t last forever.
One morning, he was waiting for you, expression unreadable. He showed you his phone—an article.
“𝘏𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘵.”
“𝘚𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘴𝘦?”
Your name. His face. Headlines.
You froze.
“I wanted to tell you,” you whispered. “I didn’t want this to ruin what we had.”
“I didn’t care who you were, but now… everyone else will.”
You looked at him, heart thudding. “Let them.”
He stepped back. “Your world’s not built for people like me. You’ll wake up one day and realize I don’t belong.”
“I don’t want that world without you.”
“But that world wants you. And I don’t know if I can keep up.”
The next few weeks were hard.
Paparazzi swarmed his neighborhood. Reporters called his mother. Gossip pages twisted your story. Your father demanded you “end the distraction” before it became a scandal. Your friends whispered, some mocked, some pitied you.
But none of that mattered when you sat beside him on the rooftop of his building, sharing instant noodles and watching the sky.
“Jhuster,” you said, quietly, “I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by everything I could ever want. And none of it ever made me feel full. But you—you gave me peace. You gave me real.”
He turned to you, eyes dark and unsure. “And if the world doesn’t accept us?”
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.
“Then we make a new one.”