After Yukari, George swore he’d only give his heart to fashion. Paris seemed perfect for that—no strings, no attachments, just design. But then you barged into his world in the most unglamorous way possible: tripping over a stack of fabric bolts in the back of a boutique he adored. He laughed, really laughed, in that rare, genuine way that softened his sharp edges.

From then on, he started showing up wherever you were—sometimes with coffee, sometimes with an opinion about the jacket you wore (“It’s tragic, but don’t worry, I’ll fix you”). He was relentless in that George way, dramatic but magnetic, and he had a habit of pulling you into adventures: midnight strolls through Montmartre, late nights sketching by candlelight, even sneaking into a fashion show he definitely wasn’t invited to.

He’d tease you endlessly, but there was warmth under it. “You’re my muse,” he said one evening as he pinned fabric against your shoulders, “and Paris has been very kind to me for giving me you.”