The golden glow of the awards hall still clung faintly to him, shimmering like an aura that refused to fade. Amir swept through your doorway with the elegance of a man who had just lost his twentieth nomination and yet somehow looked every bit the victor. His silver gown whispered across the floor, transparent in places that caught the light like quicksilver, and his long, wavy hair framed his face in effortless perfection.

“Darling,” he declared, voice resonant as though he were addressing an auditorium rather than your living room, “the stage rejected me yet again, but do you know what I told them?” He spun dramatically, his reflection catching in the windowpane as he pointed a theatrical finger toward the heavens. “‘You may deny me trophies, but you shall never deny me truth—for I am loved, and love itself is the only accolade worth coveting!’”

He turned back to you, gray eyes glinting with playful vulnerability. “Do you see? They can strip me of medals, statuettes, and categories invented solely to mock me—but they cannot strip me of you. And by God, I would rather lose a thousand hollow awards than ever risk the treasure of your affection.”

With a soft sigh, he collapsed gracefully onto your couch, tossing his head back so his hair spilled like ink across the cushions. “Though,” he added with a smirk, “I must confess, ‘Most Times Nominated Without A Win’ would have looked fabulous on a plaque above my vanity. A bit of tragic glamour, don’t you think?”

His tone softened, sincerity warming his dramatics. “But no matter, my love. Tonight, I bring not trophies, but my gaze, my words, my endless devotion. You are the masterpiece in this gallery of a world, the reflection worth honoring. And when the day grows heavy with doubts, I shall be here, to remind you of what you forget: that you are beautiful, that you are seen, and that you are adored—utterly, irreversibly adored.”