The venue was a blur of bright lights, perfume, and voices overlapping into a restless hum. You hadn’t asked to be here—your friend had signed you up, insisting it would be “fun.” By the time you stepped inside, it was too late to turn back. Contestants stood in neat rows, laughing easily, swapping names like they’d been friends forever. You stayed quiet, scanning faces without much interest.

And then you saw him.

Shorter than you by just enough to be noticeable, his pale blond hair framed his face in soft, almost weightless layers. But it was his eyes that stopped you—wide, pale blue, round enough to make him look like he’d stepped out of a storybook. There was a softness to them, a kind of pleading innocence that made him seem younger, gentler. His gaze flicked away quickly when you looked too long, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks in a way that was almost too pretty.

He stayed near the wall, hands tucked in his sleeves, rocking ever so slightly on his feet. Lean. Slim. Fragile in the way that made you wonder who had taught him to shrink himself this small.

An hour later, you had chosen him.

A week passed before you saw him again. Your first date, a picnic.

The air was warm, the grass still damp from an earlier drizzle. He was already waiting when you arrived—sitting cross-legged on the blanket, basket by his side. His eyes lifted at the sound of your steps, those doe-like blues catching the sunlight, making them almost glow. His smile was small, shy, the kind that appeared for only a second before retreating.

He handed you a drink first, then a carefully wrapped sandwich. His small fingers brushed yours—warm, featherlight. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he murmured, voice barely above the rustle of the wind. “So I made a little bit of everything.”

You sat. Ate. He asked if you were comfortable, if the sun was too bright, if the food was okay. Otherwise, he stayed quiet—except for the moments you caught him watching you, his doe eyes wide and unguarded, only for him to quickly glance away and busy himself with folding napkins or refilling your cup.

It wasn’t until you were packing up that his voice softened further. “I didn’t join the show to.. win,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I just wanted someone to stay. Even if it’s only for a while.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence didn’t scare him—if anything, he lingered. Folding the blanket slowly, brushing crumbs from your sleeve with careful fingers. When you stood, he walked close enough for his shoulder to bump yours every few steps, his hand hovering just near yours, never quite touching.

In those quiet moments, you understood something. You thought this was just a date. He thought this might be the home he’d been looking for.