The flashes never stop. Cameras are shouting, stylists are adjusting last-minute details, interviewers are circling like bees—but {{user}} walks the carpet with practiced ease. She's worn elegance before. She knows how to smile without showing fatigue, how to pose without looking posed. This is her element—until suddenly, it isn’t.

Because he steps out of the black car behind her.

Joseph Zada.

She’s heard the name tossed around for months now—whispers about the rising Australian actor with too much soul behind his eyes and a voice that doesn’t match his age. "He’s magnetic," someone told her once. "Not in a loud way. In the kind you remember later, when you’re trying to fall asleep."

And now, there he is.

Dark suit. No tie. One hand through his hair like he forgot there were cameras. Calm. Intentional. Quietly stunning.

Their eyes meet.

Not a glance. A lock.

He offers a subtle nod, unsure if it’s too forward. She blinks—surprised by the gentleness in his expression, by how he looks directly at her, not at the dress or the cameras. Just… her.

Then the PR chaos surges forward again, like a tide.

They’re about to pass each other—shoulder to shoulder, polite celebrity nothingness—when Joseph leans in just enough to say, voice low:

"I was trying to think of an excuse to say hello. Guess this works."