Guess what?
He did it again.
I thought he'd learned his lesson. Thought the scar would force him to slow down, to regulate his schedule, to take his body seriously this time. I convinced myself that Crossfield would become a memory for him. Maybe it would be a place he'd visit occasionally.
I was wrong. I saw him again.
Across the gardens, under the sun. He was shirtless, like nothing had happened.
Some days it wore accessories. Other days, he did brand displays, fashion walks, mini shows, or casual shoots, week after week. Always Crossfield. Always exposed. Always pushing himself like his body hadn't betrayed him days ago.
And I couldn't understand it. What was it about Crossfield?
Why did it keep pulling him back? Had the place made some silent pact with him—claimed him as its own?
Anger rose in me so fast it surprised me. I was too angry to walk up to him. Too angry to ask why he kept doing this to himself. So instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do—I avoided him.
For weeks, I rushed past the gardens without looking. I kept my head down, my steps quick, and my focus straight ahead. I didn't want him to see me. Didn't want a greeting or a conversation. I didn't want him calm and level-headed, asking how I was doing as if nothing mattered.
Because it mattered to me. I was angry at him in a way that made no sense. Angry because I had spent money I didn't have And I also had cooked for him. I was angry because I had cared.
And here he was—back under the same sun, repeating the same recklessness.
It made my chest ache. It made my jaw tighten. It made my hands curl into fists at my sides.
Why did it bother me this much?
I didn't have an answer. I only knew the anger was real, sharp, and unsettling. So strong that, eventually, I stopped walking past Crossfield altogether. I avoided the gardens entirely.
Not because I didn't want to see him—but because seeing him made me feel something I wasn't ready to name.
Until one day, months later, I spotted him again on a small shoot. He looked better. Still thin. Still tired. But standing.
After a month of anger—and yes, childishness—I went back to my route.
Crossfield had nothing to do with my pride. I loved its ambience too much to let one person take it away from me. It was natural. Cool. Calm. The kind of place that softened your thoughts without asking permission. So I returned.
But this time, I watched him from a distance.
I didn't walk up to him. I didn't wave. I didn't acknowledge him. I just hurried past, quick and small, like a lost puppy pretending it knew exactly where it was going.
Ridiculous, right?
Mira—me—acting like this? On a normal day, never. Not even close. If anyone who truly knew me heard this story, they'd swear I was losing my mind. And honestly? They wouldn't be entirely wrong.
Then came the day. Two months later. I spotted him again—mid‑shoot.
It seemed like he was holding himself together. I stayed long enough to actually watch him work, and that was when it hit me.
He was beautiful. Not loud beauty. Not the kind that begged for attention. This was elegance—quiet, intentional, devastating. He was well‑dressed, composed, and effortless in a way that made my chest tighten.
Who co-created this man? Who signed off on this face?
I caught myself gushing—again and again—until I had to mentally tell myself to breathe. His posture. The way he moved. The grace in how he carried himself. Prestige wrapped in gentleness.
My heart began to bubble. My stomach followed suit. It felt like every nerve inside me had woken up at once.
And then I noticed it.
He sat down more than usual. Longer. Often. I watched how he spoke to people—soft, careful, and controlled. I noticed the fleeting frown that crossed his face when he thought no one was watching. Just a second. Barely there.
But it was there. Something was wrong.
Not obvious or dramatic. Just… off. He decided to hide beneath calm smiles and professional composure. I could see it. Clear as day. As though I was looking straight through him.
That was the moment. The moment I decided to stop being dramatic.
The moment I broke character. I exhaled, squared my shoulders, and walked up to him.
While walking toward him, I tried to think about what I was going to say. My mind raced. And then it hit me—I hadn't even grabbed his name. What kind of person forgets a stranger's name, especially after seeing him in person twice?Usually, I remembered names like magnets, absorbing them in the first mention. But not this time. Not him.
I hesitated, half a step away, when I heard murmurs behind him: "Hey, you're not supposed to be here. Get lost."
His head turned sharply toward me. A flicker of curiosity crossed his face—Who's this? Then he noticed me. Recognition softened his features, and he signaled them to back off. He knew me.
I took the final steps and offered a small smile. "Hey… hi. You good? Are you good now? It's been a while. How have you been?" I tried to sound casual, though my pulse raced like a drumline.
His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and something else—excitement, maybe. I could almost see goosebumps ripple across his arms from where I stood.
"Oh my God," he breathed, voice low, warm. "I've been hoping… praying I'd see you again someday. I didn't think it'd be this soon."
And just like that, the air between us shifted. This wasn't strangers fumbling through an emergency anymore. This was real and clear-headed.
We fell into easy conversation.
"I come here often," I admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I've noticed you for a while, but I didn't want to interrupt your shoots. I'm—well, I study nearby at Valcrest."
He laughed softly. "Valcrest, huh? No wonder I keep seeing you. I thought I was imagining a familiar face."
We shared a few jokes and light teasing. I asked about his work, the shoots, and the crazy hours under the sun, and he replied with a grin, "I like to test my limits. Apparently, too much sometimes."
Then I caught myself, finally daring to be honest. "Excuse my manners… I don't even know your name."
His smile softened. "I'm Ethan."
The name hit me like a spark. Ethan. Strong, effortless, and somehow perfect for him. My chest fluttered and my pulse jumped. Just saying it aloud made him feel… more real.
He tilted his head, studying me. "Can I get your number?"
And I did. I gave it to him, feeling the warmth of the moment, a thrill that wasn't tainted by anger or hesitation this time. I didn't have to run. Didn't have to resist. Didn't have to pretend I was unaffected.
Everything just… flowed.
I looked at him, at this man who had unknowingly claimed a piece of my heart years ago, and I realized:
This was how our story began. Not in chaos, not in emergencies, not in confusion—but here. At Crossfield.
And ever since, our story has been unfolding in ways I couldn't have imagined—like a tale that might never end. I don't know how long it will last, but I do know one thing: I'm ready, as ready as I'll ever be, to see where it takes us.