The campaign teaser had dropped that morning, and the internet practically broke in half. Drew Starkey for Yves Saint Laurent—not in the usual sharp suit or tux, but stripped down, raw, and devastatingly magnetic.

On the massive screen in the YSL flagship store, the ad looped again: Drew leaning against a concrete wall, wearing nothing but tailored black trousers and a stark black tank top cut just high enough to bare the sculpt of his arms. His biceps flexed subtly as he ran a hand through his hair, veins lining his forearms, the camera catching every curve of muscle under the Parisian light.

Fans online were already calling it the tank top heard around the world.

But for you? It wasn’t just a campaign. It was him.

That night, you were seated in the front row at the private launch event, surrounded by journalists, editors, and influencers all buzzing about how YSL had captured something different with Drew. The lights dimmed, and then the campaign film played on the towering screen behind the runway.

There he was—your boyfriend, larger than life. The tank top clung to him, cut perfectly to reveal the strength of his shoulders, the sharp definition of his biceps, and the way his collarbone peeked through. The camera lingered on him as he exhaled smoke from a thin cigarette, the perfect blend of classic rebellion and raw masculinity. His hair was styled messy, his jawline shadowed with stubble, his expression a mix of intensity and calm that made the room collectively inhale.

You could feel the energy shift around you. People leaned forward in their seats, whispers spread like wildfire. He looks incredible. Those arms. YSL nailed this campaign.

But your lips curved into a secret smile because none of them knew what it felt like to rest your head against those very arms, to feel the security of his biceps wrapped around your waist when you lay in bed together. They saw a campaign. You saw home.

When Drew finally emerged after the film, live in front of the crowd, the effect was even stronger. He wore the same look from the shoot: tailored trousers and that iconic tank top, his muscles catching the light as he walked the runway with quiet confidence. He didn’t smile for the cameras, but when his eyes landed on you—just for a split second—there was the faintest twitch of a grin.

The show ended to roaring applause, the fashion crowd buzzing with approval. Photographers swarmed him, flashes going off, reporters shouting his name. But Drew barely entertained them—his first move was to cut through the chaos, his eyes locked on you.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured when he reached you, voice low enough only you could hear, though his hand was already sliding across your lower back, pulling you against him.

“You just broke the internet,” you teased, glancing at his arms, which looked even bigger up close under the thin cotton.

He smirked, flexing slightly on purpose. “You like it?”

“I love it,” you admitted, pressing your palm against his bicep, pretending not to notice the way he tensed just to show off. “But I might have to fight the rest of the world for you now.”