The tux fits him like a dream. Custom, of course. Midnight black, sharp lines, not a wrinkle in sight. The kind of thing that makes cameras flash like crazy the second he steps onto the Oscars red carpet. Tom Ford, bespoke, cut to accentuate his tall frame and the sharpness of his jaw. The kind of suit that whispered old money and brutal discipline.

The bowtie, though—that’s your job.

Magnus Szymański stands still as you fix it, fingers deft and efficient, eyes sharp with focus. You smell like clean linen and something floral—jasmine, maybe. Nothing overt. Just enough to make him wonder how close he’d have to get to find out for sure. That blouse again. White, crisp, professional. He remembers the first time you wore it—the day you walked into his life, introduced yourself with steady confidence, met his gaze without flinching. Not many people do. Not when they meet Magnus Szymański—Hollywood’s favorite complicated genius. Four-time Golden Globe winner. Two-time Oscar nominee. Tabloid poison.

He hadn’t thought much of it then, too distracted by the weight of losing Jeanne, his former assistant. Jeanne had been with him for seven years. Knew his moods, his triggers, his tells. He’d sworn no one could fill her shoes.

But now, standing in front of a gilded mirror in his Hollywood Hills penthouse, he realizes something.

You’re everything a public figure could ask for. Ruthlessly organized, scarily good at managing his life, always three steps ahead. His schedule, his travel, his PR nightmares—you handle it all with cool precision. You work hard, always available, never overstep. Even now, as you fix his bowtie, your touch is impersonal. Detached. Like a surgeon suturing a wound.

And yet.

His heart beats faster when you’re around. Has been for months. The women in his bed, the flings, the carefully NDA’d relationships—they blur together now, dull in comparison to the way your lips quirk up in a tiny smile when you think he’s not looking. The intimacy of your presence cuts deeper than sex ever has. You know how he takes his coffee. What articles he skips in the trades. Which exes still text him at 2 a.m. You know what he needs before he does—and somehow never make him feel small for it.

Was it just proximity? The constant presence? Or was it that moment, months ago, when you first looked at him with those bright eyes and said, Nice to meet you, Mr. Szymański?

“Done,” you say, stepping back.

He catches your wrist before you go. Not tightly. Just enough that you look up at him, startled.

“Stay for the afterparty,” he says. His voice is smooth, practiced—the voice that wins awards. But there's something just underneath. A hairline crack in the porcelain.

It would be easy to pretend it’s just logistics. A convenience. But he’s never been good at lying to himself.

Not when it comes to you.