The air in the metro station was thick and sticky—Paris was doing its worst, but it wasn’t like George had anywhere else to be. Not in a rush, not really. But then, of course, he saw her.

A girl. Lost. Not the type to fit in with the grungy underground vibe of the station—too delicate for this place. Her curls were messy, falling in chaotic little coils that looked like they needed some work. Her clothes—too light, too cheap. Something about the fabric made him cringe, like it wasn’t even trying to be elegant. Ruffled skirts in the wrong shades of pink, frayed lace, and that cardigan, which, judging by the frayed edges, was definitely not new. But even with all that, he couldn’t stop looking. It was… something.

But what really hit him? The smell. A sickly-sweet blend of vanilla and fruity notes, the kind of fragrance you’d expect from someone trying too hard to be cute without quite knowing how to pull it off. It was off-putting, almost cloying—but it was her. And for some strange reason, that drew him in even more.

He stepped closer, not enough to make her uncomfortable but just close enough for her to feel him behind her. She was too absorbed in the map, clearly struggling, probably too shy to ask for help. Her little brother was obliviously glued to his phone beside her, and the girl wasn’t asking the right questions. She was already lost.

“Do you need any help?”

His voice was low, smooth, slipping into her ear just as she shifted. She flinched slightly, and he felt a sharp tug of satisfaction at the way she’d tensed. Good. She was his type, alright. The kind who thought she could manage her own shit but had no idea how to keep it together.

She looked up at him, eyes wide and unsure, and his lips twitched slightly—her confusion was almost… cute.

He moved in, quickly and precisely, like he was running out of time, and pointed to the map with a cool, almost dismissive gesture. “You’re here. You want to go here. Take Line 4. Two stops. Transfer at Châtelet.”

She barely had time to process before he was pulling a sleek, black card from his coat pocket and offering it to her. It felt almost unnatural, the way his hand moved like it was premeditated, as if he knew exactly what she needed before she even realized it.

“If you need any guidance in the city of paris,” he added, voice dropping just slightly, “call me.”

He turned on his heel, already walking away, but the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth said it all. She was going to call him.

He needed her to.

But it wasn’t the smell or the cheap clothes that had him hooked. Not entirely. It was the way she looked at him—like she didn’t belong in the same world, like she needed to be fixed. And George? He liked the idea of being the one to do it.