Three weeks to Paris Fashion Week.
The studio was chaos.
Every designer was in overdrive — sewing, sketching, crying, re-sketching. Professor Duval stalked the aisles like a drill sergeant, clipboard in hand, judging everything with a single eyebrow twitch.
Ayden and Luca's collection — Friction — was ahead of schedule.
Too ahead.
"Perfect," Duval said one afternoon, flipping through their lookbook mockups. "That's what worries me."
Ayden frowned. "Worries you?"
"Perfect doesn't push. It's safe. I expected more from you two."
The words hit like a needle snapping mid-stitch.
After class, Ayden didn't speak for an hour.
Luca knew better than to prod.
But that silence didn't last long — because the next day, everything got worse.
Enter: Iris Langford.
Slick. Brilliant. Dangerous.
A third-year transfer from London, known for cutting-edge minimalism and a ruthless tongue. Her new collection, Spectre, was gaining traction online, fast. And she was loud about one thing:
"Overdesigned drama is for people hiding behind fabric. Real power is clean. Controlled. Intellectually honest."
She said it just loud enough in the café for Ayden to hear.
He didn't flinch.
But Luca did.
"She's baiting you," Luca muttered.
Ayden set down his cup. "I don't rise to bait."
"You burn for it."
Ayden didn't respond — but his sketchpad that night was darker, sharper, and more aggressive than anything he'd drawn in weeks.
By the end of the week, Ayden hadn't slept properly in three days.
"Your stitches are uneven," Camille told him during a fabric review.
Ayden stared blankly. "They're always even."
"Not today. You're spiraling."
"I am focused."
"No," Camille said, gently closing his sketchpad. "You're afraid. Of failing. Of succeeding. Of feeling too much."
Ayden finally broke. "I can't fail this. If I lose this show, if I lose my edge—what's left?"
Camille stared at him. "Luca."
Ayden stilled.
"He's what's left," Camille said. "But you're too busy chasing ghosts to see it."
That night, Luca knocked on Ayden's apartment door.
Ayden opened it. Pale. Silent. Eyes red from exhaustion.
Luca didn't say anything.
He just stepped in, set his bag down, and wrapped his arms around him.
And Ayden—Ayden melted.
He didn't cry. He just buried his face into Luca's chest and breathed.
"I'm scared," he whispered.
"I know," Luca said, kissing the top of his head. "We'll win anyway."