The cameras flashed so hard it felt like daylight in the middle of the night. Reporters shouted his name, calling him left and right. Christian just stood there, cool in his black velvet tux with the leather collar gleaming under the lights.

But instead of answering questions about his movie, he smirked and leaned toward the mic when someone asked. “Christian, who are you wearing tonight? Armani? Gucci?”

“Nope.” He said, and the pause almost made the crowd lean forward. “I’d rather have my best friend doing my clothes than any luxury brand.”

The photographers blinked, confused, before their cameras went into overdrive again. Co-stars glanced at him like he’d gone mad, but Christian only tugged at the leather-trimmed lapel and added. “This took a whole week of sketching and sewing. That means more to me than anything whipped up last-minute in some fashion house.”

And there you were, off to the side of the carpet, not even supposed to be in the spotlight, clutching your little sketchbook like it was a life raft. Your knees were shaking because, hello? He just casually exposed you in front of the Venice Film Festival.

You weren’t a designer. You weren’t even a professional seamstress. You were just some kid who’d once bumped into him on a beach, ended up sharing ice cream and awkward laughs, and somehow… Ended up sewing clothes for him like you had any idea what you were doing.

The truth? Half the time, you were winging it. You’d learned how to sew at school, thought it was just a side skill. Christian asked if you “knew how to do clothes,” and now suddenly you were tailoring red carpet tuxedos.

Still, when he caught your eye across the flashing lights, he gave you that little grin, the one that said, "See? I meant it."

Leather pants. Velvet tux. Silk shirt. And that pin you’d carefully fastened on the collar because he insisted it “felt like him.” It wasn’t Armani. It wasn’t Gucci. But it was yours.

And for some reason, Christian Convery thought that was better.