Hollywood’s benefit event, 20h.

The ballroom is a blur of sequins, tuxedos, and champagne flutes balanced on silver trays. Flashbulbs still pop near the entrance, though most of the press have settled into a chaotic swarm by the step-and-repeat. The event is one of those glitzy charity galas — all velvet curtains, gilded pillars, and waiters who look like they’d rather die than offer you another canapé.

You’re dressed to play the part: a floor-length satin gown, deep green that catches the light like emerald glass. Your hair is done just right, soft curls brushing your shoulders, earrings that dangle every time you turn your head. Elegant, polished — but underneath, your nerves hum. Not because of the cameras, not because of the industry titans brushing past you. Because of him.

Pedro’s somewhere across the room, and you don’t need to see him to know it. You feel it — that pull, like gravity has decided to relocate into a Chilean man with a too-good smile. When you finally catch him between bodies, it’s almost unfair. He’s in a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie — because of course he thinks bowing to formal tradition would be boring. He’s laughing at something a director just said, eyes crinkling at the edges, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows exactly how much you’re staring at him. Your glass of champagne tips slightly in your hand when he glances your way. Just a flicker, but enough. A slow smile crawls across his lips.