Paris. 
The city of love. The city of art. The city of late mornings, perfect pastries, and heartbreaks that feel a little more poetic under golden sunsets. You moved here to chase your dreams at one of the top fashion universities in the world. But while your career was slowly taking shape, your love life? A different story. No soulmate in sight—just a trail of flings, missed connections, and bad Tinder dates.

Today, you had a shoot scheduled—your designs, your vision, your moment. Of course, you were running late.

Your boots clicked against the marble floors as you sprinted through the lobby of the shoot location. It was 3:07 p.m. “Shit, shit, shit.” You spotted the elevator just as the doors started to close.

“Hold the elevator, please!” you shouted, waving a hand dramatically. The doors closed in your face.
“Asshole,” you muttered, slapping your palm against the stainless steel. Then—ding—the doors slid back open.

Shit.

You stepped in, cheeks flushed. “Thanks,” you said quickly, brushing your hair from your face. “I was holding it,” said the man inside—tall, sharp jawline, tousled hair, and a smirk like he knew exactly how good he looked. “It just…closed.”

“Sure you were,” you said, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t help giving him a quick once-over. He was casually hot. Relaxed, but stylish. The elevator hummed as it ascended. You tried not to look again, but caught his reflection smirking in the mirrored panel.

Ding. The elevator stopped.

The doors opened to reveal your boss, clipboard in hand. “Ah, there you are, {{user}}. I see you’ve met your model for the shoot.” You blinked. “Excuse me?”

Next to you, the smug mystery guy took a small step forward, hand in his pocket, smirk widening. “Drew Starkey,” he said casually. “Nice to meet you.”