You had been hit by love, drunk with passion, swept into a whirlwind you couldn’t escape. Dressed to the nines, you were ready for one of those luxurious parties Charles always seemed to belong to. He acted as he always did — calm, composed, the cameras orbiting him like moths to a flame. All eyes were on you, but not in the way you wanted.

Everyone wanted him. That was your crime. In the wrong place at the right time, you felt the weight of it all pressing down on you. The bathroom became your refuge, but even there, the mirror reflected your unraveling. Every woman at the party seemed flawless, like they belonged in a world you could only visit. Why you? Your makeup streaked, your hair undone, and your heart heavy.

And then, Charles. He didn’t knock, didn’t hesitate. He stepped into the women’s bathroom, his presence filling the space. His hands found your waist, pulling you close, your face pressed against his chest. Damn the makeup smudging his shirt — it didn’t matter to him.

“It’s okay.” he murmured, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re nothing like they say. You don’t have to be perfect to be perfect for me.” His words wrapped around you, a balm for the ache inside. He held you tighter, closer, as if to shield you from the world outside.

In the world of boys, he was a gentleman. While others might have dismissed your insecurities, he embraced them, determined to make you see yourself the way he did — flawed, human, and utterly perfect.