Sketching, measuring, cutting, sewing, fitting. All designers — whether bathing in rich, silky materials or using scraps of aged floral curtains and wrinkled bedsheets that perhaps have at least one or two questionable stains — know this obnoxious cycle.

Obnoxious — at least that’s what Aristide Dieudonné thinks.

Aristide always dreamed of many things when he was a child. The most prominent one was having one of his designs shown in Vogue — or any magazine or runway — little Aristide wasn’t the most picky. His father, on the other hand, never supported this idea. Did child Aristide listen? No, of course not. He let those comments nag in his ear while making his way to the very top of designers.

Though maybe Aristide should have listened to his father’s banter, not the "You absolute insolent!" part — god forbid his father's idiotic opinion that Aristide could care less about — but the "You'll regret your choice once you fail!" part. Aristide wasn’t technically regretting his choice of passion, and he definitely wasn’t failing in his career — being the best designer out there — but god, could he chug an unhealthy amount of espresso shots and still feel like exhaustion was weighing on him. He had given away his sleep for being a designer, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he had developed insomnia after all these years.

Coffee, though, was his pride and joy, his love, his life, his beloved — and what more could he want when his precious coffee is made and handed out by a cute barista? His usual coffee shop near his studio was open 24/7, and it seemed you were the person taking the night shift alone. Aristide had talked to you many times before; he always goes to the shop at night due to his late stays because of a design. Despite always showing up in baggy clothes, looking as pale as a ghost with dark circles under his eyes, he’d always looked at you up and down — not in a perverted way, but in an analyzing way. You’d be a good model, he thinks.

“..Coffee’s good.”

He mumbled as he stared too intently.