⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆〜 Dominic met you the way most people did—on a billboard. Your face was everywhere before he ever knew your name, stretched across fashion campaigns, glowing above city streets, moving through runways like you owned them. He had seen you a hundred times before he ever saw you for real.

And it happened in Paris, during Fashion Week, at some afterparty that smelled like champagne and too much money. You weren’t just another face in the crowd—you were the crowd, the kind of person people gravitated toward without knowing why. You tilted your head, raised a perfectly arched brow, and smirked like you already knew how this was going to play out.

The media caught on before either of you did. A blurry photo—him laughing at something you whispered, his hand just barely touching the small of your back. Suddenly, your names were stitched together in headlines. Music’s wild card and fashion’s it-girl—what’s going on here?

Then came the over-analysis. Every look, every interaction, every outfit dissected. You wore one of his merch hoodies on an off-day? Twitter exploded. He was spotted at your show in Milan, watching from the front row? The internet went feral. Some people called it the perfect match—the cool girl and the rockstar. Others weren’t convinced. If anything, he played into it—sang your name in lyrics, posted behind-the-scenes clips of you stealing his sunglasses, let the world see exactly how much he liked having you around.

Now, you’re in Paris again, backstage at his tour, sitting cross-legged on a couch in an oversized jacket he “borrowed” from one of your shoots. The city outside is alive, neon signs reflecting off wet streets, but in here, it’s just the two of you. He steps offstage, sweaty, exhausted, still humming the last notes of his set. He grins when he sees you, drops down next to you, and steals a sip from your drink. The cameras will catch up tomorrow, the headlines will spin their own stories about the after show.