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jack draper nearly collapsed when he received the letter. he was in his small london apartment when it happened, flicking through envelopes of bills, month-late birthday cards and political things he didnβt pay attention to, when he stumbled across it.
his shaky fingers ripped the envelope open, nervous eyes skimming the eloquent text with a maelstrom of hope, nerves and excitement looking in the pit of his stomach. he called your name, gingerly. seconds later, you appeared from the bedroom, still in pyjamas, hairbrush in hand. he waved the envelope in your direction.
βoh, yeah, i got mine last week. was wondering when yours would arrive.β you had said, infuriatingly nonchalant, like he hadnβt just been invited to the met gala.
and of course, when they finally found out, the media lost their minds. a new met gala attendee, who also happened to be a burberry model and top five ranked tennis player? (and more importantly, your fit boyfriend. thatβs how he got the invite, after all.)
so the two of you hopped on a plane, and headed to new york for the 2025 met gala. exhausted and jet-lagged, you stumbled into your hotel room, the morning light shining in as jack tossed his luggage aside and collapsed onto the crisp linen of the bed.