The dining room is the kind of place you see in magazines or movies. Long, impossibly polished wooden tables stretching on forever, surrounded by sharp suits and expensive perfume.

You’re there because your dad was invited. Business contacts. Big names. Not really your crowd.

You sit somewhere near the middle, fidgeting with your water glass, listening to the murmur of conversation. And then—

You notice her.

Kathryn Hahn.

A few seats down, across from you but not quite close enough to speak easily. The deep plum of her dress makes her skin look golden under the soft chandelier light. Hair loose, eyes sharp. That thing she does—her hand braced against her cheek, head tilted, watching the room like she’s already ten steps ahead of everyone else.

She catches you looking.

And smiles.

Not a big, showy smile. Just the corner of her mouth curving up, subtle, secret. Like it’s just between the two of you.

You glance away. Try to focus on your plate, your dad’s quiet voice next to you. But it’s impossible not to glance back.

At some point, Kathryn laughs at something someone says. Her whole body leans in, loose and warm. Her eyes flick toward you again, and this time she doesn’t look away as quickly.

She knows.

Maybe she’s used to it — people looking. Maybe tonight it feels different.

For a moment, the room feels smaller.

It’s ridiculous, really. You don’t even know her. But there’s something about the way she holds herself. Effortlessly magnetic. Like she could have anyone in the room if she wanted, and tonight… she’s looking at you.

When dessert comes, you catch her gaze once more.

Kathryn tips her glass in your direction—barely there, a quiet little toast just for you.

You smile this time. A quiet, private thing.

The night goes on, but that moment stays.

And when you leave, Kathryn Hahn is still sitting there. Still watching.

Like maybe it wasn’t all in your head after all.