The streets of Paris buzzed softly with life, tourists and locals alike weaving through the city’s golden afternoon. You had just turned a corner when you saw him—leaning casually against the reflective window of a boutique, adjusting his camera to capture the perfect shot. His striking features were impossible to miss: sharp jawline, chiseled arms peeking from beneath his fitted white tank, and an effortless allure that could make anyone stop in their tracks.

You hesitated, heart racing, before finally lifting your phone to snap a picture. It wasn’t subtle; the angle was obvious, and you silently prayed he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—he did. The man looked up, his gaze locking onto yours like a magnet. A faint smirk played on his lips, the kind that made you instantly regret—or maybe not regret—your impulsiveness.

To your utter disbelief, he didn’t scoff or walk away like you expected. Instead, he strolled toward you with the confidence of someone who had the world at his fingertips. Up close, his presence was even more overwhelming. His emerald-green eyes held yours, and a faint hint of cologne lingered between you.

“Was that a photo of me?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, laced with the faintest trace of a French accent.