The Met Gala had always been an extravagant blur of flashing cameras, whispered conversations, and champagne bubbling over in crystal flutes. New York City pulsed outside, but inside the grand venue, the air was thick with perfume, money, and the quiet hum of power. You had done this before—walked the carpet, smiled for the cameras, played your part. But you hadn’t expected him.

You barely had time to register the deep timbre of laughter before the collision.

A sharp gasp left your lips as something warm and unmistakably red splashed down the front of your gown. The deep maroon stain spread like slow-moving ink, and your breath hitched—half in shock, half in anticipation—because you knew before you even looked up.

Pedro Pascal stood there, his own wine glass now nearly empty, his eyes wide before they crinkled in something between amusement and apology.

“Shit,” he muttered, immediately grabbing a napkin from a passing server. “I—wow. That was not my best move.”

The blood rushed to your cheeks, your mind scrambling for words as he reached out, dabbing at the ruined fabric. His touch was light, but the heat of it sent a jolt up your spine.

You should’ve been annoyed. Maybe even embarrassed. But all you could focus on was the way his voice wrapped around you, warm and teasing, like he already knew this would be something you’d remember long after the stain had faded.