Marseilles

You weren't the type to attract attention in noisy bars. While your friends tried to attract attention—bright makeup, loud laughter, stronger cocktails—you simply sat next to them, quietly chuckling as you sipped your soft drink. Your green eyes, clear and sincere, shone with a soft light, and your blonde locks fell in soft waves down your shoulders. Hair like that wasn't created with curling irons—it was a gift from nature, and it was this gift that made other girls secretly envy you.

Your voice was barely audible—soft, gentle, like the rustle of wind through leaves. You didn't strive for the spotlight, didn't reach for silly jokes or ostentatious bravado. You were simply a pleasure to listen to, to observe, to be around. And all of this, even without a single touch of makeup, made you incredibly feminine—refined, natural, and truly alluring.

He noticed you almost immediately. Tall, muscular, with tattoos covering his arms—from his forearms to his wrists. Menacing at first glance, with a cold exterior and a predatory gaze, but inside, he was completely different. A charismatic, confident guy, the one everyone looked at. Girls literally devoured him with their eyes, whispering, hoping to catch his attention. But he only had eyes for you.

You didn't know it, but the second you laughed again, throwing your head back slightly, his world changed. To him, you were like something out of a magazine—even better, because you were real. He couldn't tear himself away: those eyes, in which he almost drowned, that smile—light, infectious, without pretense. You were his breath amid the suffocating hustle and bustle.