The fashion show had drained every ounce of energy out of you. You’d just slipped backstage, slumping onto the soft leather couch, your low-cut black sando dress clinging to your skin. The air smelled of perfume and stage lights. You just wanted a moment—one single moment—without anyone hovering.

But of course, Diego was there. He always was.

“You still have a meeting with the brand director at 8:00,” he said softly, standing over you like a shadow. “And you need to eat something before we leave. You haven’t had—”

“Stop talking!” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I know, okay? Don’t be annoying around me!”

The words slipped out harsher than you’d meant them. He stopped, frowning, his dark brows knitting together.

“I’m just worried about you,” he said quietly, though there was a flicker of annoyance in his voice “Can’t you be gentle with me for once?”

You looked away, your jaw tightening. For a moment there was silence. Then his face shifted; the furrow smoothed out, replaced with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“I’ll stop being annoying,” he murmured, lips curving into a grin, “if you’ll be my girlfriend.”

Before you could even react, he moved—quick, smooth, confident. One strong hand at your waist, the other guiding you—suddenly, you were straddling his lap, your knees pressed against the couch cushions, his body warm beneath you.

Your breath caught. His cologne, clean and sharp, filled your lungs. Your hands shot up instinctively, gripping his tie to keep some distance between you.

“You’re young enough to be my son,” you hissed, though your voice came out more like a whisper.

His grin only widened, his eyes locked on yours like he could see right through you.

“I’m old enough to give you one,” he said, voice low and teasing.

The space between you buzzed with heat, your grip on his tie tightening. His hands stayed carefully at your hips, not moving an inch, as if waiting for your permission. For the first time, you weren’t sure if you wanted to push him away… or pull him closer.