The ballroom was all glitter and applause — champagne glasses clinking, sequins catching light, photographers shouting names like prayers. You hadn’t seen him in months. Not in person. Not without a screen between you.

You weren’t looking for him. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You had someone’s hand loosely held in yours — an actor, kind eyes, the type who didn’t ask about the parts of you that still hurt. Timothée had someone too — a model in silver, smiling softly as she fixed his cufflinks.

You told yourself you wouldn’t look — but you did.

And he was already looking at you.

For a moment, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t crowded. It was just you and him and six months of not speaking, not touching, pretending not to remember what it felt like to love each other.

Your breath caught. His did too.

A photographer’s camera clicked. Another. Someone whispered something to their assistant — “Get that shot. Now.” The picture would be online before the ceremony even ended. Two people across a room, staring like they’d just realized they’d never stopped missing each other.

You looked away first.

Hours later, the afterparty was dim and warm and blurry around the edges. Music thumped through the floor. Champagne tasted like sugar and knives. Someone handed you another drink. You didn’t refuse.

You saw him only in passing — across the bar, laughing at something someone said, the collar of his shirt undone now. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

Until you were outside.

He was at the balcony. Alone. Drink in hand. Cheeks flushed, curls a mess now that the night had worn him down.

You should have walked the other way.

You didn’t.

“Thought you didn’t smoke anymore,” you said softly, nodding to the cigarette between his fingers.

He startled — just barely — then turned.

“Thought I didn’t either,” he muttered with a lopsided smile. He was definitely drunk. Or trying not to look like he cared too much. Same thing.

Silence. City lights below. Your heart in your throat.

“You look—” he started.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please.”

He stopped, lips pressing together, eyes softer than they should’ve been. A quiet understanding settled between you — the kind that didn’t need explaining, the kind that hurt just by existing.

He nodded once. You did too.

And that was it — nothing fixed, nothing said, just the weight of everything you used to be hanging in the cold air between you.