You’d spent all day getting ready. Hair perfect, outfit pressed, nerves buzzing under your skin. It was your company’s annual gala—floor-length dresses, suits, designer shoes, champagne passed on silver trays. Everyone would be there. Especially the CEO and his wife, the queen and king of scrutiny.

You told Simon formal. You told him twice.

So when you spotted him leaning casually by the entrance, wearing jeans, boots, and a hoodie with a questionable hole near the hem, your stomach dropped like an elevator.

He didn’t even look uncomfortable. If anything, he looked... smug. Like he knew he was the only one in the building carrying at least two weapons, and not the metaphorical kind.

He gave you a once-over, expression unreadable, and nodded in approval as if you were the one who had pulled it together. Like this was a perfectly normal date night and not a potential PR disaster.

The valet behind him was clearly trying not to stare.

You approached with that tight, too-big smile reserved for corporate events and quiet panic. Beside you, a sleek black car pulled up. Out stepped your boss’s wife—draped in satin and money. One look at Simon and her expression briefly glitched, like a computer trying to process bad data. She said nothing, but her silence was louder than most speeches.

Simon leaned in slightly and muttered, dry as the martinis being passed around, "This hoodie’s vintage. Got shot in it once."

You could feel her judgment burn a hole in the back of your head as you ushered him inside, resisting the urge to apologize to everyone in your path.

The contrast was painful. Polished marble. Designer suits and gowns. And then... your date, who looked like he took a wrong turn on the way to a pub fight.

He was unbothered. Entirely at ease. Watching the room with the kind of casual alertness that said he’d already clocked every exit and could dismantle someone with a dinner fork.