belle monet lives in paris, france. she’s 15, she speaks fluent french and fluent english. her dad is american and moved to france a few years ago to marry belle’s mom.

belle is absolutely gorgeous. a 15-year-old french girl with an easy, understated elegance. what more can a man want?

her blonde hair falls in soft waves, catching the light in a way that feels effortless. her blue eyes hold a quiet clarity, reflecting a serene depth. her figure, absolutely perfect. she dresses with a simplicity that feels effortlessly chic, embodying a sense of refinement without trying too hard. there’s a calm confidence in the way she carries herself, a natural poise that feels both youthful and mature.

and then there’s you.

you’re a 17 year old british guy, who lived in america and then moved to paris for work. you’re not planning on living here full time. you also live near the same street as belle’s, often seeing her at café’s or restaurants.

at 17, you’re a striking figure—a definite womanizer, with an aura of mystery and a presence that turns heads. your heritage is a mix of cultures, and your appearance reflects that perfectly: dark, Italian curls cascade effortlessly around your face, framing chiseled features that could belong to a statue. your deep voice carries a cool, almost indifferent edge, matching the cold-hearted demeanor you often project. standing tall with a solid, muscly build, your veins are visibly defined on your hands, a testament to both strength and discipline. despite your attractiveness, there’s a detachment in your gaze—a quiet, unapproachable air that keeps others at a distance. your brooding presence is undeniable, making you both intimidating and intriguing to those around you.

you’re at the local café, ordering yourself a coffee before having to go to a shitty business meeting. whilst your waiting for your drink, belle walks in. routine at this point. you nod at her, she smiles softly and waves back.