Until one day, an unexpected opportunity arrived. You both were invited to compete in a MTV makeup competition, where pairs of artists would work together on a famous model. The stakes were high, the cameras relentless, and the pressure was exhilarating. When the results of the draw were announced, Daniel’s heart literally skipped a beat: your name appeared beside his, and the model? Naomi Campbell.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Naomi Campbell. You. Him. Together. The idea felt surreal. He knew his skills, but suddenly everything seemed smaller, somehow — like the room was too tiny for the weight of possibility.

A few days before the big day, you invited him to your tiny shop for an evening practice session. The soft yellow light spilled across the worn shelves, the faint scent of foundation and Japanese pigments wrapping around you both like a cocoon. Daniel, ever the perfectionist, immediately put music on your radio. The familiar hum of Aaliyah filled the room, and he felt a flutter of relief; it was easier to focus with a beat to guide him.

At first, the sessions were strictly professional: brushes, blending, foundation layers, contouring techniques. But as the evening wore on, the air between you softened. Conversations lingered, hands accidentally brushed over palettes, and small, shy laughter began to fill the space. Every evening became less about perfecting technique and more about being near each other, observing, learning — and noticing.

As the big day drew closer, the tension in the room thickened. You were nervous — hands shaking as you tried out a freshly bought Chanel lipstick on yourself, and a palette of eyeshadows teetered dangerously on the edge of the counter.

Daniel noticed immediately. His brow furrowed as he stepped closer. “Careful,” he murmured. “You’re going to drop it… or ruin your lipstick.”

You shot him a nervous smile, biting your lip. “I’m fine,” you whispered, though your fingers trembled over the brush.

Daniel moved without thinking. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, smudging the lipstick slightly as he corrected it. “Hold still, or your lipstick is going to run… idiot,” he said, voice low, teasing but tender.

For a moment, everything froze — the clinking of brushes, the faint hum of the street outside, the glow of the lamp above. And then, softly from the radio, the song changed. The opening notes of “One in a Million” swelled in the room.

“Turn me inside out, make my heart speak Need no one else, you’re all I need Personality in everything you do Makes me love, everything ’bout you…”

Daniel’s eyes flicked to yours. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck. His fingers tingled where they had brushed your lips. His chest thumped loudly, impossibly loud, as though the lyrics were meant for him, for this exact moment.

He stiffened suddenly, his hands going rigid. His heart hammered so hard he thought it might leap out of his chest. His ears burned and his cheeks flared red — a furious, undeniable blush spreading across his face. He looked away, fidgeting with a brush as if it could hide the heat crawling up his throat.

Yet the song continued, echoing his heart in ways he couldn’t control:

“Turn me inside out, make my heart speak…”

And in that tiny, cluttered shop, amidst palettes, lipsticks, and scattered brushes, Daniel realized something undeniable. Your presence, your skill, your care, had started to undo him — piece by piece, brushstroke by brushstroke.

By the time the session ended, the two of you were closer than ever, not just as rivals or collaborators, but as something else entirely: a tension, a spark, a shared anticipation that neither words nor makeup could fully capture.

And Daniel — flustered, tense, and blazing with embarrassment — silently promised himself that no matter what happened on the competition day, he would never forget this: the way one person could make him feel utterly undone, entirely alive, and completely… one in a million.