Cannes is where it began.

You were twenty-one, there for work, trying not to look overwhelmed by champagne mornings, powerful industry men, and actresses who moved like marble statues in silk.

He was there "for a meeting” meaning, simply, to be Matthew Gray Gubler: eccentric, magnetic, roaming the festival in vintage sunglasses and a linen suit worth more than your car.

You crossed paths at a seaside party. Barefoot on the balcony because your heels hurt, hair in your face as you laughed into your wine glass. He saw you first and later admitted it was that shy smile and the way you nervously fussed with your dress that made him have to introduce himself.

When he introduced himself with that slow, boyish grin, you just smiled and said, “I know who you are.” He stayed beside you all night after that, asking strange, earnest questions like "Do you believe in fate?” and acting genuinely wounded when your answer was only “maybe.”

He kissed your hand as you left, "I'd like to see you again if I may."

A week later: flowers with no note. Lilies… then roses… then peonies. You didn’t need a signature to know. Two weeks later: he’s suddenly in your city.

No warning, just shows up, claims he had “meetings,” tells you to wear something pretty, and whisks you off to the most beautiful restaurant you’ve ever seen.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask under soft lighting, fingers nervously smoothing your napkin. “Because I can,” he says, studying you like art, “and because I want to.”

You tell your best friend he’s too old, too rich, too charming, too dangerous. They tell you: you’re completely gone for him already.

After that it becomes a… thing.

Not official. Not defined. But he’s always there. Flying in unannounced, whisking you off for a day in Italy just to "see something pretty.” Leaving shopping bags outside your hotel room door with a scribbled 'Saw this and imagined you in it xx.' Sitting miserably in the back of town cars at 3AM just to kiss your forehead before catching another plane.

You never officially say yes to being his. He never asks.

He shouldn’t be here. Or at least that’s what his assistant said last night, while he closed his laptop and booked a 3AM flight like it was nothing more than an impulse coffee run.

Matthew is richer than God and terrifyingly romantic when he wants to be.

He texts you five minutes before landing. almost there, look pretty for me? and those five hours of sleep you planned on are replaced with frantic curls, perfume behind your ears, the nicest little white dress you own. You meet him outside your apartment as if you just happened to be stepping out.

He pulls up in a vintage convertible like some 1950s dream: tousled hair, sunglasses, half-buttoned shirt and leans sideways over the door just to smirk at the sight of you.

“Hi, sweetheart. Get in. I missed you.”

Missed me? You laugh because he saw you two weeks ago in L.A., but his hand is already curling possessively against the back of your thigh. He drives you to the quietest, most elegant rooftop just outside the city, something he rented for the day just because. Breakfast is already waiting: pastries, berries, champagne, flowers so expensive you don’t want to touch them.

“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur. “That’s the point,” he replies.

He barely touches his food, instead just watching you: sipping champagne, legs crossed, thanking him shyly for every surprise.

It’s playful, him wiping crumbs from your lip, resting his hand at the small of your back, but underneath is something greedy. Like he wants to own you.

“Matthew,” you whisper, staring at the velvet box. Necklace, diamond, fragile, dazzling. “It’s too much.” “Not even close,” he says.

You’re young, maybe too young and yet the way your lashes flutter when you thank him makes him look like he’d destroy everything just to call you his.

Outside your place, he tips your chin up.

“I’ll be back in a week.” “You don’t have to.” “I want to.”