"Love doesn't knock politely. It crashes through the door, drunk on moonlight and madness."
Doris Date had always believed in signs.
The way the wind shifted before a storm.
The flicker of a streetlamp before fate intervened.
She stood at the edge of the train platform, her sketchpad tucked under one arm, the other wrapped tightly around herself against the cold bite of London's autumn night.
This was it.
A new start.
---
New City, New Life
The train doors hissed open.
She stepped inside, taking the last available seat.
Across from her sat an older man reading a newspaper with bold headlines:
"Dante Dangerwaker Returns to Studio?"
Doris barely glanced at it.
Names like that were for people who lived fast lives—lives she'd only ever drawn.
As the train lurched forward, she opened her sketchpad to a blank page and began drawing the reflections of the city flashing past the window.
Lines formed into buildings.
Shadows became stories.
Her fingers moved instinctively, translating the rhythm of the city into ink.
London was alive tonight.
And so was she.
---
Meet Doris Date
Doris had never been what you'd call lucky in love.
Or in life, really.
Born and raised in New York, she grew up in a cramped apartment above her grandmother's tailoring shop, surrounded by fabric scraps, vintage patterns, and the scent of lavender soap.
Her mother left when she was six.
Her father—a jazz musician who played gigs at dive bars—wasn't exactly the dependable type.
He loved her, sure.
But he loved the road more.
Art became her escape.
By twelve, she could draw silhouettes faster than most girls could text.
By sixteen, she was designing clothes for local indie bands.
By twenty-two, she graduated top of her class from the Fashion Institute of Technology, earning a reputation as a prodigy in fashion illustration.
But success came with a price.
Her last internship ended in disaster—not because of her talent, but because of a manipulative boss who tried to steal credit for her work.
The fallout left her disillusioned, broken, and desperate for change.
So, when Marlowe & Co.—one of the most prestigious fashion houses in London—offered her a three-month design intern position, she didn't hesitate.
London called.
And Doris answered.
Now, standing outside the towering brick building that housed Marlowe & Co., she adjusted her scarf and took a deep breath.
The sky was a soft gray, the kind that made everything look like it belonged in a painting.
She stepped inside.
The receptionist smiled warmly.
"Welcome, Miss Date. We've been expecting you."
Doris returned the smile, trying not to let the nerves show.
"I'm ready."
She wasn't entirely sure if that was true.
But she would be.
---
First Day Jitters
Marlowe & Co. was everything she imagined—and more.
The studio buzzed with creative energy.
Designers hunched over their desks, fabric swatches scattered like confetti.
Models strutted through the halls in half-finished gowns.
The scent of fresh ink and coffee lingered in the air.
Her supervisor, Clara Whitmore , greeted her with a firm handshake and a sharp gaze.
"You're here to observe, learn, and contribute," Clara said. "No room for ego. No room for mistakes."
"I understand," Doris replied. "You won't regret this."
Clara gave a small nod before handing her a folder.
"Your desk is over there. Start with the sketches for the spring collection. I expect something original by tomorrow morning."
Original.
That word stuck with her as she settled into her chair.
Original.
Not safe.
Not predictable.
Something bold.
She flipped through the mood board pinned to the wall behind her desk.
Pastel colors.
Floral prints.
Soft textures.
Beautiful—but expected.
She wanted to create something unexpected.
Something that screamed.
She grabbed her pencil and began to draw.
Lines flowed easily.
Curves.
Angles.
Layers.
A dress that looked like it had been stitched together from midnight and rebellion.
She added high slits.
Asymmetrical cuts.
A bold red color that reminded her of danger.
When Clara passed by later, she paused.
"This… isn't what I asked for."
Doris swallowed hard.
"It's different. I thought we could push boundaries."
Clara studied the sketch for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
"Good. You're hired—for now."
---
Friday Night Out
Friday evening rolled around faster than she expected.
Exhausted but exhilarated, Doris changed out of her work clothes into a sleek black dress and ankle boots.
She packed her sketchpad just in case inspiration struck.
The city pulsed with life.
Neon lights blinked across Soho like promises waiting to be fulfilled.
Street performers played instruments.
Couples laughed under umbrellas.
Somewhere nearby, a saxophone cried into the night.
She wandered aimlessly at first, letting the city guide her.
She passed boutiques.
Theaters.
Dimly lit bars.
One caught her eye:
The Velvet Note
It looked like the kind of place where secrets were whispered over whiskey and jazz.
Without thinking, she pushed open the door.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with warmth and sound.
A live band played in the corner.
Candles flickered on tables.
And at the bar, sitting alone, was a man with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that seemed to see straight through her.
He looked familiar.
Too familiar.
She shook off the feeling and found a seat at the bar.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
"A glass of red wine. Whatever's cheapest."
He nodded.
She pulled out her sketchpad and began drawing the man at the bar.
His posture.
His hands gripping the glass.
The way his jaw tensed slightly, as though holding back something painful.
She hadn't even finished the sketch when he spoke.
"You draw well."
She looked up.
He was staring at her, his voice low and smooth like velvet.
"Thanks," she said, closing the sketchpad. "Do I know you?"
His lips curved slightly.
"Not yet."
She arched an eyebrow.
"Cryptic."
He leaned closer.
"I prefer mysterious."
She felt her pulse quicken.
There was something about him—dangerous.
Magnetic.
Unreadable.
He held out a hand.
"Dante."
She hesitated before shaking it.
"Doris."
He tilted his head.
"Doris Date."
"How do you know my name?"
He gestured toward the studio behind them.
"You were sketching in front of Marlowe & Co. This morning."
She blinked.
"I did?"
He smirked.
"You introduced yourself earlier today."
She frowned.
"I did?"
He gestured again.
"You were sketching. Talking to yourself. Something about 'lines needing chaos.'"
She blushed.
"I don't remember that."
He grinned.
"Most people don't."
She exhaled slowly.
He was unlike anyone she'd met before.
And somehow…
He knew her name.
Before she knew his.
---
Midnight Conversation
They talked.
For hours.
About art.
Music.
Dreams.
Regrets.
Dante was quiet at first, but once he opened up, he spoke like poetry.
He told her about growing up in Manchester.
How he started playing piano at five.
How he lost his mother young.
How he once wrote songs for artists who no longer remembered his name.
"I used to believe music could heal," he said, swirling his drink. "Now I think it just hides the pain better than anything else."
Doris listened intently, sketching bits of him between sips of wine.
"What about you?" he asked. "What's your story?"
She hesitated.
"My story?"
He nodded.
She exhaled slowly.
"I grew up believing that if I worked hard enough, I could make my own world. A beautiful one. But reality kept crashing in."
He studied her carefully.
"What happened?"
She shrugged.
"People lied. People left. People took things that weren't theirs."
He didn't press further.
Instead, he reached out and gently touched the side of her face.
"You're real," he said softly. "That's rare."
She smiled faintly.
"You say the strangest things."
"And you listen to them."
Their conversation drifted into silence, filled only by the soft notes of a saxophone in the background.
Outside, the rain began to fall.
He stood.
"Come with me."
She hesitated.
"Where?"
"Anywhere."
She looked at the sketchpad beside her.
Then at him.
"Yes."
---
The Night They Shared
They walked through the rain-soaked streets of Soho, shoulders touching, steps in sync.
He led her down alleyways lined with graffiti, past shuttered shops and glowing windows.
At one point, they stopped beneath a flickering lamppost and kissed.
It was slow.
Uncertain at first.
Then deep.
Hungry.
He tasted like whiskey and longing.
They ended up in a small flat above a bookstore.
Cluttered with vinyl records.
Old sheet music.
Mismatched furniture.
He lit a candle.
The room glowed like a dream.
They didn't talk much after that.
Just touches.
Kisses.
Whispers.
Later, as they lay tangled in sheets, she traced the lines of his chest with her fingertips.
"Why did you kiss me?" she asked.
He was quiet for a long time.
"Because I needed to feel something real."
She lifted her head.
"Did you?"
He kissed her forehead.
"For the first time in years."
---
Morning After
Doris woke to sunlight filtering through dusty curtains.
She stretched, expecting to find him beside her.
But the bed was empty.
She sat up, heart pounding.
His clothes were gone.
She searched the room, panic rising.
Nothing.
Just a note on the pillow.
"Last night was real. I meant every word. But I can't stay. I'm sorry."
She read it twice.
Then a third time.
She clenched the paper in her fist.
He was gone.
Just like that.
---
Back to Reality
Monday morning arrived too soon.
Doris forced herself to focus.
She buried herself in work.
Pretended nothing had changed.
She sketched obsessively.
Filling pages with dresses inspired by the night she spent with Dante.
Dark colors.
Sharp lines.
Passionate chaos.
Clara approved her designs for the next presentation.
Still, Doris couldn't shake the emptiness.
He'd vanished without a trace.
Until Wednesday.
She walked into the studio, and there he was.
Sitting at her desk.
Looking like he belonged.
He stood when she entered.
"Hello, Doris."
She stared at him, speechless.
"What are you doing here?"
He smiled.
"I work here now."