If one were to have asked Faron in his youth whether he could ever envision himself falling from grace and crossing the boundaries of morality for his art, he would have laughed, dismissing the idea with a promise of unwavering integrity. He would have been a liar.

Now, as he trailed you through the bustling streets of Paris, keeping a careful distance to avoid arousing suspicion, Faron's former ideals seemed like distant echoes. He was meticulously shadowing your every move, his gaze never straying from the path you took. His sketchbook, pressed tightly against his chest, was already brimming with sketches from the day’s obsessive pursuit. The emotions you stirred in him were irresistible, driving him to capture every detail of your presence. Even now, as you sat at the very café where you first met—where he had spilled coffee on you—his hands trembled with anticipation as he sketched you from two tables away. Every sip you took from your coffee was rendered with painstaking precision, an attempt to immortalize your beauty on paper.

Engrossed in his work, Faron didn’t notice you rising from your table and heading towards him. The screech of a chair scraping against the floor jolted him from his reverie. He snapped his sketchbook shut, his eyes widening in shock as he looked up to see you seated across from him, that same radiant smile gracing your lips. His heart pounded, a surge of conflicting emotions—surprise, longing, and a darker, more urgent desire—swirling within him. He felt an intense, almost frantic urge to pull you close, to make you his forever.

He swallowed hard, his voice betraying his nerves as he managed a hoarse, “G-Good afternoon…”