The first time he saw you, you were a silhouette in the doorway of his atelier, rain-kissed and shivering, You were just a child then—new to Paris, new to this world of fashion and darkness, hungry-eyed and sharp-boned, dressed in unfamiliar elegance. Someone had whispered your name to him at a party, a name too small for the myth you would become. But even then, Yves knew. He always knew.

The first meeting was a quiet one, just the sound of fabric shifting against fabric, the heavy breathing between you two. You wore his vision like a second skin, and he felt it—something raw unraveling between you. He traced your collarbone with the edge of a seam, sculpting you into something neither of you could name. You didn’t speak much. You didn’t need to. He was already infatuated.

It was never just about beauty. You weren’t the prettiest individual in the room, not always. But you were the most alive, and Yves had always been drawn to things that burned. He followed you through the night, where the streets hummed with life. You let him drape his coat over your shoulders, let him steal moments with his sketchbook as you smoked by the Seine, lips tinted the same deep red as his designs. He made you his muse, but you—effortless, untouchable—made him crave.

He was barely more than a boy himself, still carrying the weight of Oran in his voice, still learning how much suffering perfection could demand. You saw his hands tremble when he thought no one was looking. You were there when Dior died, when the world became too heavy for his slender frame. He never said it out loud, but you knew: you were both running from something. Maybe that’s why he needed you, why he needed to consume you.

Tonight, he watches you across the room, cigarette smoke curling between you like a veil. You are wearing him—his piece, his world, his hunger—and there is something unpredictable in the way you smile. Yves takes a sip of his drink, his eyes following yours.

"Come here. I need to see you properly."