The party was buzzing—lights dimmed to a gold shimmer, music pulsing low like a shared secret between the chandeliers. It wasn’t your scene. Not really. But Niki somehow made everything feel like a warm kitchen after midnight: soft, familiar, dangerously comforting.

You were leaning near the refreshment table when he slid in beside you, fingertips still dusted in powdered sugar from some dish he’d clearly “sampled”—multiple times.

“You're not dancing?” Niki asked, voice soft.