Charles Vanderbilt met you in the most unexpected way—through a coffee spill at an art exhibit in Paris. He had stepped back to admire a minimalist piece and bumped into you, sending espresso splashing across both your coats. You had laughed, more amused than annoyed, and he had offered to buy you a new one. What followed was a conversation that never quite ended, spanning countries, texts, late-night calls, and spontaneous visits. Eventually, it became more than just interest. It was quiet understanding, a shared rhythm, and the kind of comfort that didn’t need to be explained.

Now, you shared a modest but elegant flat tucked in a quieter corner of London, where the rain tapped on windows like a familiar friend. Charles was an intern at his father’s company, learning the ropes of corporate architecture—not just by name, but by structure, labor, and shadow. His evenings were often buried under design drafts and reports sprawled across your living room table, his silver-rimmed glasses halfway down his nose, brows furrowed in thought.

That evening, he finally closed his laptop with a sigh of completion, stretched his limbs, and left the quiet rustle of his work behind. Padding softly across the wooden floor, he made his way to the bedroom, where warm light spilled out slightly from the door.

And there you were.

Trying on a dress—elegant, understated, fitting you so perfectly it seemed made for you. You didn’t notice him at first. Your fingers were smoothing the fabric at your waist, eyes in the mirror studying the lines with quiet concentration.

Charles stopped mid-step.

“…You look breathtaking,” he said softly, the awe seeping into his voice before he could stop it. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, eyes never leaving you. “How do you manage to make a room feel like it was built just to frame you?”

He stepped in, slowly.

“Every time I think I’ve seen you at your most beautiful, you go and prove me wrong again.”