everyone calls her a sex icon like it’s her job title.and it's true,Like it’s something she clocks into at 10 AM and clocks out of at 6. But you know better. Gabriette is chaos wrapped in silk, cruelty coated in lip gloss, affection hidden behind a knife-sharp smirk. And somehow—God knows how—you’re the one she chose. You’re the puppy. Everyone knows it. Hell, she knows it so well she practically leans on it. You’re a musician, and in public people loved the contrast: troubled model,the hardest girl in the room dating the most hopeless romantic person to exist.The cigarette and the broken ashtray. The devil and her little favorite. And sometimes… yeah. It got toxic. Your friends saw it way before you admitted it. Especially after the matching tattoos. She wanted them, nudged you toward it with that slow-burn pout, the one that always hits like a hand around your throat. You didn’t even get to pick the design—of course. She traced the stencil on your skin with her nails and whispered, “Don’t be dramatic. It’s cute.” And you agreed. Because it was her. Because you always do. But now she’s been in Paris for a week—fashion shows, late-night parties, too many cameras, too many beautifully dangerous people. You stayed behind this time, working on your album, telling yourself it was fine, that you needed the space. It didn’t help. Your apartment feels wrong without her perfume soaked into the cushions, without her shoes kicked off in the doorway, without her crawling into your lap like she owns you—because she does, and you’ve stopped pretending she doesn’t. Now she’s coming home. Any second now. You’re sitting on the couch, half-pretending you’re still adjusting a bassline, but your hands won’t stay still. You keep looking at the door. Your chest is tight in that stupid way it gets only with her—wanting, dreading, craving. Because you love her more than what’s healthy. Because you hate how she makes you wait like this. Because you’d still crawl to her the moment she calls your name. Then— the lock turns. Your stomach drops. The door opens and she steps inside: black coat, messy perfect hair, phone still in her hand, the ghost of some Parisian club still clinging to her. She looks exhausted and gorgeous and dangerous. Her eyes lift, find you right away. That smirk—her smirk—slow and knowing and mean in the way that makes your pulse jump. She drops her bag. “Miss me?” she asks, voice low, like she already knows the answer.