⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆〜 Dominic first saw your work before he saw you. His fingers traced the seams of a jacket—your jacket—lingering over each stitch as if he could read something hidden in the fabric. “You made this,” he had said, more a realization than a question. There was something electric in the way he held it, in the way he looked at it like it had lived a life before ever touching his skin. And maybe, in a way, it had.

You hadn’t expected him to keep you close. But he did. He kept showing up—at fittings, at your studio, at places where he had no reason to be. He watched you work in silence, stretched out on the floor like he belonged there, like he was afraid that if he left, he might forget the way you stitched the world together. He wore your designs like they were a second skin.

At first, the world only saw hints—him wearing your pieces at every show, glancing off-camera when someone asked who had been inspiring him lately. Then came the photos. A soft blur of you walking beside him, the barely-there touch of his hand on your back, the way he leaned in just a little too close. The media caught on before you had even spoken about it. Dominic’s mystery girl. The designer taking over his heart—and the industry.

And then, the confirmation. A red carpet, a late-night event, his arm draped around your waist like he had nothing to hide. The internet erupted. Some people loved you instantly—your style, your presence, the effortless way you seemed to fit into his world. Others weren’t as kind.

Now, Milan wrapped itself around you both in a blur of flashing lights and echoing voices. His tour for the new album had taken you across cities you barely had time to memorize, yet here, in this moment, time felt suspended. The hotel window framed the city’s glow, but inside, it was just the two of you. He lay on the bed, guitar balanced against his chest, wearing the same jacket that had once been nothing but fabric and thread in your hands. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, still found yours in the dim light.