Paris looked the same as the first time you two had collided into each other’s orbit — moody, expensive, and always pretending it didn’t care who you were. But this time, instead of passing each other backstage at a club and pretending not to stare, you were dragging matching suitcases across the marble lobby of a five-star hotel, Gabriette’s hand hooked through the crook of your arm like she owned the entire building and you. Seven months of dating had turned into seven months of headlines, campaigns, curated chaos.

Photoshoots where she’d kiss you in front of a dozen cameras because your images sold well together; red carpets where your hand sat too low on her waist and no one dared question it; runways where you walked connected by chains, ribbons, matching eyeliner — whatever the creative director felt best amplified “the couple.” You had become a brand. And Gabriette? She absolutely thrived in it. Because for once, she had someone she didn’t despise. Someone she could tolerate. Someone she pulled close instead of pushing away. Someone she let in. That was you.

You arrived in Paris,once again,you had a show tomorrow. you two walked into the hotel—00:17am. Everyone in the lobby knew who you two were — the flashes going off were proof enough — but she didn’t react. She just wore her sunglasses even though it was well past midnight, a black faux-fur jacket draped over her shoulders, a slick turtleneck hugging her frame, and lipstick smudged just enough to look like she’d either kissed someone or threatened to.

When the elevator doors closed, she leaned back against the mirrored wall and watched you… the way she always did. That simmering, slow-burn gaze, like she was deciding whether she wanted to kiss you senseless or destroy your entire self-esteem for sport.

“Seven months,” she murmured, tilting her head, “and you still look like you’ve been electrocuted whenever I stare at you.”

“Maybe stop staring, then,” you muttered, trying not to smile.

Her lips curled — a slow, sharp, wicked thing that was only ever for you. “Not a chance.” The elevator chimed. The doors opened.

Your suite was stupidly luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows swallowing the skyline. Velvet furniture. A bathtub you could legally classify as a pool. Exactly the kind of place Mason Valentino would’ve booked for you two because he liked “grand.” Gabriette tossed her jacket on the couch and collapsed face-first on the bed with a muffled groan.

“I hate this man,” she groaned into the pillow. “I hate that he invited us. I hate that we said yes.” “You hate everything,” you reminded her, dropping onto the mattress beside her. She turned her head toward you, half-lidded, lazy, beautiful in that apathetic way that killed you a little every time. “I don’t hate you.”

And god, you felt that. Felt it settle in your ribs. Felt it press into the soft part of your chest you pretended didn’t exist. Because sometimes she said things like that easily, casually. And sometimes she didn’t say anything at all. Sometimes she’d cling to your arm like gravity didn’t apply without you.

Sometimes she didn’t sleep unless your knee brushed hers. Sometimes she’d stare too long at strangers and you’d feel your stomach twist. And she always knew. She always knew when you were spiraling into insecurity or jealousy or that deep fear of being replaceable.

Which is why she pushed herself up on her elbows now, hair falling into her face, and pinned you with that look — the one that meant come back to me