Milan feels louder than usual tonight. Music spilling from the venue, cameras flashing non-stop, stylists tugging at sleeves and collars like the whole place is a runway. You’re in the middle of it all, moving easily through the chaos, waving back at fans who shout your name, laughing at things that don’t even need to be funny. That’s just you.

You’re halfway through greeting someone when you notice him across the room. Rudy Pankow. It’s strange — not because he’s here, but because in all these years, your paths never crossed until now. You’ve seen his interviews, fan edits with both your names tagged, the usual Hollywood overlaps. But standing a few steps away? That’s new.

He’s not doing anything dramatic, just leaning back against the wall near the metallic backdrop, sharp in his suit, glasses catching the lights. For a second his gaze locks with yours, and neither of you looks away.

When you finally drift closer through the crowd, he tilts his head slightly, almost amused, and says: “Guess it took Milan Fashion Week for us to finally be in the same place.”