He'd gotten dressed up for this. It's not that he wasn't normally dressed well, this was just...different. Because he had no idea who he'd run into (he knew who he hoped would be there, though). So if he double-checked that his black button-up sat on his fit body better than normal, sue him.

He knew the slacks he was wearing showcased his ass well. He knew his cologne was good, and he knew he had good arms. He knew he looked far better than just 'nice'. And yet, somehow, he had never been more self-conscious in his life.

His ringed fingers coil around the stem of his wine glass. He shuffles in-between conversations of exceptionally-talented chefs, only half-listening. Only half-listening, in case the person who'd plagued his dreams for years show up.